‘Would you like a childminder for free?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I know I have no experience but my mum always said I should get a job and your children are the first children that I’ve met that I liked. I could feed them, and I’ve done a first-aid course so they’d be perfectly safe, and I was a good student so perhaps I could help them with their homework.’
All the words rushed out of me and I looked into her face to see if she understood me.
‘And I’ve stocked up on chocolate biscuits and I promise I won’t tell them not to go to school. I would do exactly what you tell me. You could write it down for me. I’m excellent with instructions. I could collect them and drive them home, as often as you like.’
She was grinning. This was a good sign. We sat on two chairs while she drank a plastic glass of water.
‘I’m so glad you like my children.’
‘So, about the childminding?’
‘Look, no offence, Sally, but I’m not sure you’re the right … fit for that kind of job. Besides, I only work part-time, I can be home when school finishes. We don’t need a childminder.’
I was annoyed. ‘Why do you think I’m not the right fit?’
‘Sally, you have no proper qualifications. I’m glad you like my kids but the fact that they are the only kids you like is … weird. What if they misbehaved with you? I don’t know how you would handle discipline if you were angry with them.’
‘Usually, when I am angry or depressed, I pull my hair out,’ I said.
‘Oh my God! Don’t you see how that would upset them?’
‘I wouldn’t pull their hair out, and sometimes I play the piano to calm myself.’
‘I’m sorry, Sally. If you’re looking for a job, I don’t think childminding is right for you. But, you know, I honestly think yoga might help you to cope with stress. Think about it. First two classes for free. What do you say?’
She was smiling again. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said and turned to leave. ‘Will you tell Abebi that I’m not coming to the nativity play? Children are usually terrible actors.’
She laughed. I guess she thought I was joking. ‘I understand. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be missing much.’
I went towards the door.
‘Hey, happy Christmas, Sally!’ she said.
‘Happy Christmas, especially to the children,’ I said.
14
On Friday 22nd December, in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was the postman, with a parcel delivery, a small enough box, but too big to fit into the letter box. I put it with all the cards and letters. Later that evening, it occurred to me that I should open them all. What was I waiting for? Waiting to open envelopes had already caused me enough trouble. There were ten or twelve cards addressed to Dad – some were postmarked before his death – and a few were addressed to me.
3rd December
Christmas greetings to you and Sally, love from Christine and Donald! X
P.S. I hope another year doesn’t go by before we get to see you. Please visit us soon, and bring Sally. I bet she hardly remembers us but we’d love to see her again. She should know she has other family.
Christine was Mum’s sister, the glamorous lady who looked like a film star. I remembered Mum used to go on foreign holidays with her and visit her in Dublin, and their long phone conversations. There was a phone number and an address in Donnybrook, Dublin 4.
Then another card addressed to me in the same handwriting:
16th December
Dear Sally,
We were so sorry to hear of Tom’s death. I have tried phoning you many times, but perhaps you have changed your number. We last saw you when you were a teenager, you may not remember. I am your mother’s sister. Jean and I were close but your dad seemed to withdraw from the world after Jean died and, although I tried to keep in touch, he was reluctant to maintain contact.
We often thought of you both but respected your father’s wish for privacy. Unfortunately, Donald is not in good health, and we cannot make it to the funeral, but he is convalescing at home now. We would love to come and see you and help in any way we can.
I saw from the newspaper coverage that you must have been confused at the time of Tom’s death. We were in touch with the guards to explain that you have a condition and were so relieved that the matter was resolved. I also spoke to Dr Angela Caffrey and I was happy that you had a loyal and trusted friend of Jean’s to speak on your behalf. PLEASE do call. We would love to see you as soon as possible. You might consider joining us for Christmas?
She signed off with love and her phone number.
There was a letter, handwritten, one page, ripped out of a copybook. The handwriting was terrible. The address was incomplete too, but the letter had found me.
Saly Dimond
You are the spawn of the devil and you wil get your punishmen. How dere you burn the good man like that after he tuk you in and saved you from hell. Hell is were you belong. Im prayin to the Virgin Mary that you go there soon, you bich. Its to late for repentesne. The appel dusnt fall far frum the tree.
No signature and the paper was almost torn in places where the biro had been dug into the page. Dad and I had agreed long ago that hell didn’t exist but the writer obviously hated me and that made me feel anxious. The next card took my anxiety away.
Dear Sally,
You might not remember me but we were in school together in Roscommon from 1st Year to 6th Year and we often sat beside each other in class （because nobody else wanted to sit with us!）。
I am terribly sorry to hear what happened with your dad. Because I remember how you were, I can totally understand how you made such a mistake and I want you to know that most people would feel the same way as me, if they knew you like I did.
We never spoke much in school but I tried not to speak to anyone because my stutter was so bad. I am much improved since then. Shortly after I graduated from college, my grandmother died and my mum inherited some money and she spent a small fortune on private speech and language therapy for me. I won’t ever be making public speeches, but I can hold a conversation now without getting totally stuck and I guess that with age and the love of a husband and two great kids, I have grown in confidence.
I often thought about you over the years and was surprised that you didn’t go on to study music. You were the most incredible pianist. I used to sit outside the music room sometimes to listen to you play, and I wasn’t the only one. But I’m guessing that perhaps you were afraid of leaving your parents, or maybe social anxiety kept you home? I don’t blame you. I was terrified to go, but it was so much better than school. We were both targeted by bullies there.
In college, I found friends for the first time who were much more understanding. I got involved in social justice societies and I now work as a fundraiser for homeless services. It’s tough now, the campaigning is endless.
I don’t want to bring you down by revisiting your early memories. I had no idea that all that shit had happened to you before we met in school. I mean, it’s no surprise that you are the way you are, but I never saw any harm or malice in you – you were a bit unusual, that’s all. If you ever want to get in touch, my deets are below. I guess I wanted you to know that there are plenty of people like me, who admire you, firstly for surviving such horrific adversity as a child, and secondly, for living your life on your own terms. I came to your dad’s funeral and I thought the red hat was a classy touch – a bit unusual for a funeral, but that’s you! I remembered you well enough not to try to approach you or shake hands. You were looking at the ground the whole time, like in school. I just want you to know I was there, I guess.