Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘I’m really enjoying it,’ she confesses. ‘I’d forgotten how much I like crochet and knitting. I’m thinking that maybe I should do some other things too. Jackie could sell them.’

  Jackie is another of Mum’s friends. She’s very much into art and design and brings her stuff to craft fairs all around the country. I don’t know if she makes a living out of it, but she always seems to be busy.

  ‘Great idea,’ I say as I pick up one of the octopussies. It’s so cute, with its curling tentacles for the babies to grasp. I think that maybe I should get involved with this too, but I’ve never been much for knitting or crochet.

  ‘You’d pick it up,’ Mum assures me when I say this to her. ‘And it would be good for you to have something restful to do. I’m worried you’re burning the candle at both ends.’

  ‘How can I be?’ I wrap one of the tentacles around my own finger. It’s actually quite comforting, even for an adult. ‘The last time I went out, it was to the football fund-raiser! And that was ages ago.’

  ‘Mount Juliet and back and then Kildare and back all in the one day,’ she says. ‘That’s a lot of driving.’

  ‘Not really,’ I object. ‘It’s an easy run and it’s less than five hundred kilometres altogether.’

  ‘How many hours behind the wheel?’

  ‘Probably six,’ I admit. ‘But think about it, Mum. People spend eight hours at a stretch in an office. And Dave’s days can be twelve hours long depending on his jobs. So I’m not doing that much by comparison.’

  ‘But you won’t be home when he gets home.’

  ‘I’m not a little housewife in a pinny waiting for him all day,’ I say. Although in some ways that’s what I have been until recently. Without the pinny, of course.

  ‘Well, no,’ she admits. ‘But it’s a bit of a turnaround all the same.’

  ‘He’ll get used to it.’

  ‘For how long?’ asks Mum.

  ‘For as long as it takes.’

  She concentrates on her crochet for a minute and then swears under her breath.

  ‘I’m making a mess of this.’ She shakes her head and confirms my suspicions of a glass of wine at lunch.

  ‘Where did you go?’ I ask.

  ‘Bay.’

  It’s one of her favourite restaurants when she goes out with the girls, because it’s buzzy and fun and over-looks the coast. She used to go there a lot before Dad became ill, but this is the first time she’s been since he died. I’m pleased that she went, and pleased that she had wine, too.

  ‘Who were you with? June and Jackie?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  My phone beeps and I take it out of my bag. It’s an alert about Ivo Lehane’s flight, which now looks like it’s going to be delayed by half an hour.

  ‘You’ll get stuck in traffic,’ says Mum when I tell her.

  ‘The scourge of all drivers.’ I drain my coffee and stand up. ‘I’ll go home, say hello to the kids, then head out again to meet him.’

  ‘Take care.’ She’s pulling the wool from her hook. I’m betting there won’t be any more crocheting today.

  Fifteen minutes before Ivo’s flight is due to land, I’m in the airport café. I’ve substituted a smoothie for my usual coffee and take a picture that I filter and upload to Instagram with the caption ‘Driver in Waiting’. It gets a couple of likes straight away.

  Another alert tells me the flight has landed, so I forget social media, text him that I’m in the arrivals hall, and wait. Twenty minutes later, he emerges, tall and confident as he strides through the crowds.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry about the delay. It’s meant you having to hang around here again.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  We walk together to the car park and he gets into the front seat. Clearly he’s decided that he’s not going to be a back-seat passenger any more. I ease the car out of its space and head yet again for the M50. Ivo sits silently beside me. He’s not bothering with his phone, just gazing into the distance. It could be uncomfortable, this silence, yet it’s not. And despite his presence in the front seat, I honestly don’t feel that he’s invading my space.

  I realise that I’m more relaxed in Ivo’s company than with anyone else I’ve ever driven, even my other regular clients. I think it’s because, although he sometimes talks to me, he doesn’t bother with idle conversation.

  The traffic has built up over the past hour or so and it’s moving more slowly than usual. It’s more like a wet weekend in winter than a summer’s evening. But at least we’re moving.

  ‘It’s like the M25,’ Ivo says suddenly.

  He has a point. I’ve driven on London’s orbital route too and there are definite similarities. Mainly that the speed limits can be aspirational rather than achievable at certain times of the day.

  ‘Have you lived in London?’ I ask.

  ‘For a year,’ he says. ‘My company had a research facility there. After that, I went to Paris and then Brussels.’

  ‘You get around,’ I say.

  ‘So do you.’ He grins. ‘Maybe not as much as me, but you obviously do a lot of travelling in your car.’

  ‘Definitely not as much as you.’ I move lanes to overtake a tanker.

  ‘Is this a good job for a working mother?’ he asks. ‘Can you be flexible?’

  ‘You should really be asking if it’s a job for parents who need to be flexible.’ I astonish myself with my reply. ‘It shouldn’t matter whether you’re talking to a working mother or a working father.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You’re right.’

  Clearly I’ve been influenced by driving Thea Ryan, Gina Hayes and Leona Lynch, and have become a card-carrying feminist after all.

  ‘It can be flexible,’ I say into the silence that has descended between us. ‘But you need to have good support mechanisms.’

  ‘And you have, obviously.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I shrug. ‘My mum helps out. And – oh crap!’ The slow-moving traffic finally stops after Junction 6, Blanchardstown. In the far distance I can see the flashing blue lights of a police car. And I know there’s been an accident. I groan.

  Ivo sees the lights too and glances at his watch.

  ‘Hopefully it’ll clear soon.’ My voice betrays the fact that I don’t actually believe what I’m saying.

  ‘Can we exit?’ asks Ivo.

  I shake my head. ‘The next junction is after the accident,’ I tell him. ‘It’s three or four kilometres away. There’s nothing we can do but hope that they clear the road quickly. And pray that nobody is badly injured, of course.’

  I hate seeing accidents on the motorway. To be honest, I’m always surprised there aren’t more of them. An astonishing number of people haven’t a clue about motorway driving. They switch between lanes, undertaking and overtaking in a ridiculous attempt to shave a couple of seconds off their journey, and . . . I smile to myself. I sound like my dad. He was forever complaining about fools on the road.

  ‘Music?’ I glance at Ivo.

  ‘It might help,’ he replies.

  ‘You can pair your phone with the system if you like,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh, I’ll go with whatever you’ve got,’ he says. ‘Unless you’re into heavy metal.’

  I switch on the sound system but I can’t imagine my country music station is Ivo Lehane’s thing. Instead I select a popular classics playlist. I’m not what you’d call a classical-music buff or anything, but I recognised a lot of these when I first heard them. They’ve been used in ads. So what I see in my head as the music fills the car is people buying bread, or using computers or spending money on credit cards or driving fast cars. Still, it’s soothing, and we need to be soothed as we’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes without moving. I can feel Ivo’s agitation coming off him in waves. I’m agitated too, but it’s not like I have anything else to do. Ivo has paid for the car and I’m here for as long as it takes. I don’t bother trying to cross the lanes of traffic to gain a couple of inch
es as some other cars are doing. It’s futile.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Ivo takes his phone out and makes a call, which I obviously try not to listen to but which is basically him saying that we’ve been on the motorway for ages and his lateness isn’t deliberate and he’ll do his best to get there as soon as possible and that he’ll ring back when we’re moving again.

  But ten minutes later we’re still sitting here and his phone buzzes.

  ‘We haven’t budged,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There’s silence while he listens to a tirade from the other end. Even though I can’t hear the words, I can make out the tone of the woman’s voice and she’s not one bit happy.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to talk to my driver?’ he suggests. ‘Would that help?’

  Thankfully the irate woman doesn’t want to talk to me, and Ivo puts his phone back in his pocket.

  Finally, after almost forty minutes of inaction, the police open the road again. I put the Mercedes into drive and we inch forward, slowly building up speed. Ivo takes his phone from his pocket, but it rings before he has a chance to dial out. He listens to what’s being said and then interjects to say that the road has been cleared.

  ‘I can be there in . . .’ He glances at me and I suggest a little over half an hour. That’s probably being optimistic, but I think we need a little optimism right now. He relays this information to the woman he’s talking to. ‘Oh for crying out loud!’ he says in exasperation. ‘After all this! I’m on the way . . .’ Another pause, and then he says, ‘Fine,’ in a way that’s definitely putting an end to the conversation.

  ‘Take the next exit,’ he tells me.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. And head back to the city.’

  I don’t argue. Unsurprisingly, there’s a bit of a tailback at Junction 7, but I say nothing. Ivo is making another call. He’s reserving a room for the night somewhere.

  ‘The Crowne Plaza,’ he tells me.

  I know it well. It runs a shuttle service to the airport and I’ve often picked up clients from there.

  ‘I’m sorry your plans have been messed up,’ I say as we finally reach the top of the exit ramp.

  ‘Oh, something was bound to go wrong sooner or later,’ he says. ‘Giving in to my sister’s demands was a mistake from the start.’

  So it’s a family matter like I always thought. I never get into conversation with people about their families if I can help it. I have enough to worry about with my own without hearing their problems too.

  I rejoin the motorway travelling in the opposite direction and it’s not long before I’m pulling into the car park of the hotel. Truthfully, Ivo could’ve got to Banville Terrace quickly enough once we’d started moving. But there’s a part of me that thinks he’s just as happy not to have had to bother.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asks when I stop outside the main entrance. ‘You must be as tired and fed up as me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s all in a day’s work.’

  ‘Please.’ He turns to me. ‘I feel bad about . . . Well, you had to listen to me and Lizzy and it’d make me feel better if you’d . . . I’m sure you could do with something.’

  Actually, I’m dying for a cup of coffee. And maybe accepting it would make him feel less uncomfortable about our non-journey. But it’s not very professional. At the same time, I’d quite like to use the loo. So I say yes and tell him I’ll join him after I park the car.

  He goes into the hotel and I find a parking space. He’s already checked in by the time I walk into the reception area. I indicate that I’m going to the ladies’ and he nods.

  After I’ve washed my hands, I look at myself in the mirror. I take my hairbrush out of my bag, and even though it’s perfectly fine, I redo my ponytail. I also reapply my lipstick and spritz myself with Happy. I’m suddenly afraid that Ivo Lehane will think I’ve done this for his benefit, but then decide he won’t even notice. Because the thing is, no matter how nice the client is, they know they’re the client. And they don’t really see you as an individual. You’re the driver. You’re part of the furniture.

  He’s still standing in reception when I return.

  ‘There’s a bar over there,’ he says.

  The bar is like hotel bars everywhere and is mainly occupied by men and women in suits.

  ‘Coffee?’ asks Ivo when we’ve found somewhere to sit. ‘Or would you prefer something else?’

  ‘Coffee’s fine, thanks,’ I reply.

  He goes to the bar and returns empty-handed. ‘They’ll bring it to us,’ he says.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m sorry about today,’ he says.

  ‘Not your fault.’ I shrug. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘But such a waste of time for you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I smile at him as a waiter arrives with the coffees. ‘You hired the car. Whether it’s moving or not is irrelevant.’

  He laughs, which is nice to see. Because ever since we got stuck in traffic, his face has been like thunder.

  ‘I guess I wasn’t thinking like that,’ he says. ‘I was working on the assumption that you prefer to actually be driving.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I tell him. ‘But when you drive for a living, you have to accept that there will be days like this. What I’m sorry about is that you didn’t get to Kildare and that your entire trip has been a waste.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ The thundercloud crosses his face again for a moment as he rubs his stubbled chin. ‘It was a mistake to come in the first place. But I was strong-armed into it and . . .’ He suddenly gives me an apologetic look. ‘And I’m just as bad – I sort of forced you into this coffee too, which I shouldn’t have done. You said no and I insisted. I’m sorry. You probably want to get home.’

  I glance at my watch. ‘I wouldn’t be home from Kildare yet anyway,’ I assure him. ‘And I’m always happy to knock back a coffee or three. It’s a sad addiction. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Absolutely.’ The coffee is great – strong and aromatic – and even though I wasn’t feeling at all tired, it revives me.

  ‘What made you choose driving for a living?’ asks Ivo, after we’ve sat in silence for a moment.

  As he’s asked, I give him a quick résumé – leaving out the more intimate aspects such as Dave’s night with Julie Halpin, which, after all, has been a major catalyst in my continuing role as a chauffeur.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad,’ says Ivo. ‘He sounds like a great man.’

  ‘We were close,’ I admit. ‘I miss him terribly.’ I feel a sudden lump in my throat, and for the first time in ages, my eyes well up with tears. I blink them away, hoping he hasn’t noticed, even though he’s looking straight at me.

  He doesn’t say anything. It’s peaceful. I can’t think of the last time I sat in a bar in peace. I could sit here forever.

  I’m completely lost in the moment when he asks me about Mica and Tom. After I drag myself back, I tell him a little about them and realise that, in a complete turnaround from what usually happens with my clients, I’m doing all the talking and he’s listening to rubbish mum conversation, so I stop.

  ‘You’re lucky to have such a lovely family,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ And then I add that I’m sure he’ll resolve his differences with his sister.

  An entire kaleidoscope of emotions pass across his face.

  ‘I never should have listened to Lizzy in the first place,’ he says. ‘I allowed myself to be manipulated, and as I’m usually the one doing the manipulating, it’s a new experience for me.’

  I’m not sure what to say to this. Eventually I murmur that I didn’t mean to upset him.

  He gives me a brief smile. ‘I’m not upset,’ he assures me. ‘I’ve learned how to deal with being upset. I was just thinking how different our two family experiences were.’

  And still are, I suppose. Him with his high-powered job and high-maintenan
ce girlfriend. Me with the driving and Dave and the kids.

  ‘Ah, look, everyone has family trouble at some point,’ I say as brightly as I can. ‘I’m sure it’ll pass.’

  Ivo is unaware that he’s tapping his spoon against his saucer when he remarks that his family issues have kept his therapist in business for years. I know it’s common enough, but I’ve never known anyone who’s had therapy for family issues. Debs and Mick went for counselling after she had a miscarriage a number of years ago, and it helped both of them. But that was a kind of specific thing. Most of the people I know opt for the ‘just get on with it’ approach, same as me. And yet I wonder now if I should have had therapy after seeing Dave and Julie Halpin together. Although I’m not sure if it would have made any difference.

  I wonder, too, if the therapy has helped Ivo Lehane. After all, he clearly still has problems with his family. He accused his sister of manipulating him even though he said he can be manipulative himself. And all this cloak-and-dagger stuff about not being picked up outside the house in Banville Terrace is definitely weird.

  I say to him that I hope he’s getting over whatever it was that necessitated the therapy.

  ‘My father and I are – were – estranged,’ he says, and I can’t help thinking that ‘estranged’ is a very old-fashioned word for ‘had a big row and don’t speak any more’. Which happens all the time in families. ‘I left home when I went to college and until now I never went back.’

  That’s a long time not to be speaking. Maybe he’s carrying guilt for the row.

  ‘I won’t go into the boring details,’ he continues. (Which is a bit of a disappointment, because the boring details of other people’s problems are often the juiciest bits.) ‘But he had a stroke earlier this year and was in hospital for a couple of months. Eventually he came home and my sister took special leave to look after him. Obviously it’s very demanding and she needs a break from time to time. I offered to pay for him to go into a nursing home for a week or two while she went on holiday. But that’s not the sort of break she wanted. She wanted a night off every week.’

  ‘So that’s why you come to Kildare?’ I say. ‘To give her a night out?’