The Last Little Blue Envelope (14 page)

The woman buried there was a poet. She lived with her sister, who was a sculptor. When her sister died of a “fever” (or so said the parish register, which he showed me—it’s a huge book, each birth and death handwritten in ink—the same book is still in use), the sculptor spent the next two years working on that monument to her.

Sculpting used to be considered a very manly art, Gin. Rock, chisel, breaking marble with your bare hands . . . A female sculptor working in 1887 would have been a pretty rare thing. Her hands would have been rough; her arms would have been well-muscled. She would have spent a lot of time alone in hard labor, putting her tools against the rock. That was not the Victorian ideal. It took a lot of women like that, a lot of women who said, “I’m not going to do what you expect me to do, because you have no idea what I’m capable of. I’m going to get dirty and use tools and live the way I want” to move the world forward. And this woman? She made her sister into a goddess and gave her a seat on the hilltop where she could dance in the wind.

When I saw that, I knew I wanted to dance in the wind here too. I wanted to join her. This is why I asked Richard to scatter my ashes here. By the time you read this, I am sure this will have been done. I am here. Now, let’s do this together. The container you got in London, you have it, right? Get it. Open it.

Ginny’s hand started to shake. She knelt down, her knees sinking into the ground, then set her bag down and retrieved the box. She cracked open the sticker seal and slid out the contents. She put these carefully on her bag and continued reading, not caring that her knees were soaking and probably filthy.

You are going to make the final part of this. This is a joint work. You need to let your fears go here. Don’t worry that it won’t be good enough. Don’t worry that you aren’t going to do it right. Take the paper and tape it to the monument. Then get out the pastels. Just rip the paper covers off, because you’ll need to turn them sideways. Do a rubbing of the image, using whatever colors you like. Just one. All of them. Whatever you want to do.

The picture is now complete. I leave it to you to assemble it.

The paper fought against the wind, but Ginny held it firm and taped it down. She opened the bag with the pastels. She reached first for the green, because that was the color around her. She started very lightly. Then she grabbed the gray. She rubbed harder, alternating the colors diagonally, even doing a few strips in white, leaving only ghostly traces.

This was really and truly the end. Aunt Peg could never know that she would show up here on New Year’s Eve, with the moon hanging low and spreading a bright white glow over the hilltop . . . but she would have approved. The ashes had been put here months ago, been blown around and soaked in the rain and pressed into the earth. They were a part of the landscape now, part of the dirt on her clothes, part of everything. It really was like Aunt Peg would forever dance on the top of this hill, a place she only ever visited once in life.

She rolled up the paper and put it back in its box. She took her phone out of her pocket and was happy to find that she had at least a partial signal.

“I’m here,” she said, when Richard answered. “On the hill.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said, looking around. “Yeah. I am.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“It’s a good place,” he said. “She said she liked it because she could be between England and America, keep an eye on everyone.”

Ginny laughed, and wiped a tear from her eye. She hadn’t realized she was crying a little. Richard laughed as well.

“Are you up there by yourself?” he asked. “It must be dark.”

“They’re waiting for me at the bottom. We’re driving back to Dublin now. We’ll get the early ferry back in the morning.”

“Well, be careful. And I’m here . . . if you want to call. I think I’m having a quiet night in. Maybe go round to the pub later, so . . .”

“Thanks.”

“Happy New Year, Ginny.”

“Happy New Year,” she said.

Ginny took one last look around, to say good-bye to this place, good-bye to the year. She felt like she was leaving something behind here—she wasn’t sure what, she just had the sensation that something she no longer needed had come loose and fallen away. Down below, she could hear Keith heckling Oliver. Their voices carried on the wind. She checked one last time to make sure the paper was secure in her bag, then climbed back down the hill in the dark. Keith was bouncing around Oliver, doing some kind of strange step dance. Oliver stood patiently, smoking and ignoring him.

“What was it?” Keith asked, as Ginny appeared.

“Just some stones,” she said quickly. “I had to do a rubbing.”

She wasn’t quite sure why she lied—maybe it was just too much to drop on people on New Year’s Eve. Keith continued his strange kick dancing, and Ellis chided him. Oliver, however, knew exactly what was up there, and he was looking right at her.

“Come on,” she said, brushing past him. “We have to get to Dublin.”

A Death in Ireland

They had dinner at a small, empty café—the lone business on a street of rainbow-colored houses. The café was white and starkly lit by fluorescent bulbs. There were three metal tables with green Formica tops. The menu was painted on a large green board and stuck to the wall. The main choices were “butties.” Bacon butties. Chip butties. Batter burgers. Curry chips. Drink choices were tea or Coke.

“I have no idea what any of these things are,” Ginny said quietly. “Except for the tea and the Coke.”

“They are all very healthy,” Keith said. “I suggest the chip butty. I feel it’s something you need to experience.”

A few minutes later, Ginny was facing down a french fry sandwich on white bread, the insides covered in ketchup. Considering where she had just been, she was feeling surprisingly upbeat. She wanted to eat. She wanted to drive fast across Ireland. She wanted to get to Dublin. She wanted to do everything, right now.

“Right,” Keith said, working his way through a plate of fries and curry sauce. “If we drive like hell to Dublin, we can celebrate New Year’s Eve in proper style.”

“What’s proper style?” Ginny asked.

“Well, we can find a pub and do things the classic way—drinking ourselves into a stupor, vomiting in the street, and passing out behind some rubbish bins in an alley—an approach I have advocated many times in the past.”

“What’s the other option?” Ellis asked.

“Option two: We just sort of walk around until we find somewhere good, and then we stand there and see what happens to us. We have the mad one here. Strange things seem to find her. She’s like a party in your pocket.”

“That’s me,” Ginny said. She took a timid bite of her sandwich. The fries were thick and crisp and hot with fat, which soaked through the white bread, making it go limp and squishy. It was both horrifying and delicious.

“I think,” Keith said, “that we should go for the second one, while keeping our hearts and minds open to the first. I, of course, don’t drink and can’t drink, as I am driving the car. But you are welcome to do as you like.”

“I have to make a call,” Oliver said, picking up his bacon sandwich and going outside.

“You know,” Keith said, “since we have everything now, we could just leave him and go to Dublin. Nothing’s stopping us.”

“Are you goin’ to Dublin?” the owner asked.

“We are, yeah,” Keith said. “What’s good to do on New Year’s?”

“You’ll want to go to Christchurch. That’s where people go.”

Ginny was chomping away as they talked and soon polished off the French fry sandwich. She instantly felt ill.

“Do you have any ginger ale?” she asked.

“No, I don’t, but the shop across the road does.”

“I’ll be right back,” Ginny said.

She noticed, as she stepped out, that Oliver wasn’t in front of the café. There weren’t too many options for places he could be, though. It was a small road, with just a handful of two-story houses. There were some cars, and a milk van, and two boys wandering down the street with a soccer ball. All else was quiet.

The store across the street was locked, though the lights were on. There was a sign in the window that said
BACK IN 15 MINUTES.
Ginny got the feeling it had been up a lot longer than that. There was a little walkway at the side of the shop, and Ginny heard Oliver talking in a low voice. She peered around the corner. He was leaning against the wall and speaking intently into his phone.

“It’s fine, Mum,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise. I’ll sort it then.”

A pause. Oliver kicked at the ground as he listened.

“No, they can’t do that. I’ll fix it. Just leave it for now. . . . No, don’t call the counsel. There’s no one there anyway. Just leave it.”

Keith and Ellis emerged from the café, Keith chomping away on an ice cream bar. Ginny quickly snapped her head back.

“Mad One!” he called. “Into the sexmobile! Where’s Sneaky Beaky? I’m telling you, we should leave. . . .”

“Right here.” Oliver came down the alley, shoving his phone in his pocket. He gave Ginny a quick nod as he walked past, but she had no idea why.

The rain came down harder, pounding down on the roof with such force that it sounded like nails were being dumped on the top of the car. Keith took the swervy roads at a good speed, slowing down when one of the Gardaí (as it seemed the police were called here) cars or motorcycles was nearby. Signs in English and italicized Irish pointed the way back to the M7 into Dublin.

It happened fast—a boom, a black cloud blowing out of the back of the car, and then a general feeling of looseness, like nothing was powering the car anymore and they were simply adrift. A free-flowing river of expletives came out of Keith’s mouth as he gripped the wheel, steering the car off the road, where it eventually slowed more and more and then hit a large rock and bounced to a halt.

No one said anything for a moment. The lights remained on, but there was no sound from the engine.

“I’m going to count slowly to ten,” Keith said. “I’m not entirely sure what that will accomplish, but it seems like the right thing to do.”

Oliver was already getting out of the car and heading for the hood. When Ginny opened her door, she almost fell into a deep ditch that ran along the side, possibly to keep the sheep from wandering into the road. A few inches farther, and the car would have gone right into it. Ellis screeched as she made the same discovery.

“Gin, careful!”

“I see it.”

They both made their way over to the other side of the car to climb out—Ginny sliding and Ellis crawling over the gear stick and slipping under the steering wheel. A few sheep wandered over to see what was going on, staring over the ditch at them. The car was belching a terrible, burning smell. Ginny stepped on something hard and sharp as she walked around behind the car. She reached down to touch it, and almost burned herself on a scorching-hot piece of something.

“It looks like you’ve thrown a rod,” Oliver said. “I told you this car would never make it.”

“Thrown a rod?”

“Do you see the large metal rod sticking out of your engine? Don’t you know anything about cars?”

“No,
actually
, I don’t.”

“Maybe we can get it to a garage?” Ellis said.

“That’s fatal,” Oliver said, shaking his head. He moved away from the smoking car, put up his umbrella, and lit a cigarette.

Ginny looked up and down the stretch of road they had come to stop on. It wasn’t very promising. They were between a field and an even bigger field. The streetlights were fairly far apart. The predominant noise was the gentle mockery of the sheep.
Baaaaaaaa.
She pulled out her phone, but the signal was so weak as to be nonexistent.

“Does anyone have a phone signal?” she asked.

Phones were checked. No one did. She pulled out the paper map and walked over to the closest streetlight. It was difficult to manage her umbrella and the map at the same time, but she didn’t want to get back in the car while it was still steaming and hovering on the edge of the ditch.

“I think we’re on the edge of the Curragh,” she said.

“And what’s that?” Keith asked.

“About twenty kilometers of open grazing land,” she said.

“I don’t think we’re going to see the police anytime soon,” Oliver said. “I suggest we walk back to the pub we saw about five minutes ago.”

“And leave my car?”

“There’s nothing we can do for it standing here.”

“That does look pretty bad,” Ellis said.

Keith was experiencing what appeared to be an entire rainbow of emotions—laughing, swearing, back to laughing again, before bending over at the waist in defeat.

“The battery still works,” Oliver said. “We can keep the lights on so no one will hit it. We walk back that way. We can’t stand here. That is not going to restart, and who knows when anyone will pass on this road. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“He’s right,” Ellis said, wiping the rain out of her eyes.

After a few minutes, Keith scratched his head hard and nodded a few times.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. Let’s . . . fine.”

The bags were removed from the car, including the bag that contained the final piece. It wasn’t pouring anymore, but it was still raining fairly steadily. The air itself was thick with a cool mist that got to all the places the rain couldn’t hit, soaking Ginny all the way to the skin. There was an earthy, smoky smell—somebody, somewhere around here was burning something to keep warm.

The rain and the cold weren’t the real problems though—the problem was that the road had no shoulder at all. The walking choices were the road itself or the sliver of marshy grass that lined it. This was pitted and dotted with rocks, and it was so dark that it was very easy to slide right down into the ditch. So the road was the only real choice. But the road was entirely comprised of curves, and when the occasional car did come along, it would race at them blindly. They’d get about three seconds’ notice to dive for the side of the road, where they would slide and trip and almost fall into the ditch.

So it took about half an hour to walk. The pub was fairly dark inside, illuminated by one yellow-shaded light. Three old men sat at the bar, all with their eyes glued to a rugby match on a television mounted on the wall. They all turned slowly to see who had joined them. The woman behind the bar greeted them all warmly, and there was considerable sympathy when they described their plight.

“Sit down there,” she said, pointing at a table with a fistful of dishcloth. “Sit down there and have a drink. We’ll get Donal.”

“Donal’s the man,” one of the others said.

“He’ll sort you. Have a drink.”

“You know what?” Keith said. “I think I will. I normally don’t, but I feel tonight it may be necessary.”

The woman came over and switched on a light, illuminating their corner. A round of pints of something was ordered, as well as a few bags of crisps. Keith sat, quietly smiling and shaking his head.

“I’m really sorry,” Ginny said, as the pints were set down in front of them.

“It’s not your fault. It could have happened anywhere.”

He drank the entire pint in three long gulps, then returned to the bar for another.

“It really would have,” Ellis said quietly. “It’s good that it happened now. At least it died doing something useful.”

A few minutes later, a plain white van pulled up to the pub. Keith pushed back the white lace curtain and stared at it.

“Donal’s here!” the barmaid called.

“Are we really about to get into this unmarked white van?” Keith said in a low voice. “Don’t they only sell these to child molesters?”

“Exactly how much
Crimestoppers
do you watch?” Oliver asked.

“You’re a div,” Keith replied, tipping a bag of crisps over his open mouth and letting all the fine particles fall in.

Donal was a much younger guy—probably in his thirties—who didn’t look at all surprised that he had been summoned. He was dressed in some fancy rainproof gear, like all-weather athletes wear. It appeared that he had just been running a marathon in the rain on New Year’s Eve and heard the cry for help.

“Donal can help you,” one of the men said. “He’s an engineer. He makes fridges.”

“What’s happened?” he asked, accepting a whiskey that was handed to him.

“They’ve had a problem. Their car is stranded up the road.”

“Ah, well, we’ll fix it,” Donal said. He took only a sip of the whiskey before setting it down. “Come on, then.”

“You won’t,” Oliver said, mostly to himself. “It’s a blown rod.”

They all piled into the van, which was filled with all kinds of bungee cord and climbing gear. Keith pointed to this silently and drew his finger across his throat. The men from the bar followed in a smaller blue car and took their pints. It was like a little group vacation. They retraced their route, the van making easy time around the curves of the dark road. The car was now the object of interest for a large group of sheep who had perhaps mistaken it for a larger, metal sheep. The men with the pints stood back and Donal came forward and shone a light under the hood.

“You’ve blown a rod,” he said in the same matter-of-fact tone Oliver had used earlier.

“Which is . . . bad?” Keith asked.

“You can’t fix that.”

A small chorus of “no, no, no, you can’t, no.”

“Best to leave it,” Donal said. “They’ll be no one around tonight to get it.”

“Just . . . leave it?”

“Nothing else to do. You’d best come back to the pub for the night.”

“But we need to get to Dublin,” Ginny said.

“You might be able to get the last bus. It’ll take you about two hours, though, at the rate they go.”

Keith stepped forward and put his hand on the car.

“I think I need to say a few words,” he said. “This car . . . well . . . to call her a car doesn’t do justice to her spirit, her sense of adventure. I will always remember the horrible clanging noise she made when I tried to start her. . . .”

Under normal circumstances, Ginny would have been amused. But considering that she’d just seen where Aunt Peg’s ashes were . . . and that got no eulogy, no moment of silence from the group. . . . This irritated her. Keith didn’t know, of course. He couldn’t be blamed. Still . . .

“. . . and though I know she were bound to fail her next MOT inspection and sent off to the scrapyard to be crushed into a cube, I feel she was taken from us too soon. You lived fast, my friend . . . well, not that fast, but fastish . . .”

Oliver rolled his eyes and wandered toward the van. Their new Irish friends drank their beers and allowed Keith to go on as he liked.

“. . . and if there is a car heaven, I know you’ll be there, leaking fluids all over the place. . . .”

“Can we go?” Ginny asked.

Keith looked a bit surprised that she was stopping his routine, but he nodded.

“Okay,” he said, giving the car one final look.

They got back into the van and were taken to a spot farther up the road. There wasn’t even a bus shelter or even a sidewalk—just a worn-away strip in the grass where people obviously walked along, and a single sign with some bus numbers and a loose, nonbinding promise that something that came here went to Dublin. They had been left with the instructions: “When the bus comes, get on.”