Delivery by Lorcan Byrne

Delivery by Lorcan Byrne

Mrs. Kennedy is sitting at the table and making entries in her diary. She is in a cozy country house, but she does not feel this comfort. A box of products appears at the door every week, but the woman does not open the door. A year has passed since the accident. Charlie delivered food. After he delivered food to Mrs. Kennedy, he could leave the car for the night and use it on his own. He usually drove home to his mother at the wheel of a bright yellow van. They would have dinner together, and then the guy could take the mother to the city. Charlie’s mother was sure that the owner of the grocery store was a good person. After all, he allowed her son to take a van for the whole night – and Charlie would drive his mother to a card game. That evening, Charlie was carrying another box of products. The weather was bad. It started raining.

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Delivery by Lorcan Byrne

In her house outside the town, Mrs Kennedy writes her diary, paints the views from her windows, and finds no comfort in the world.

Every week Charlie Blue delivers a box of groceries to her door, but she never appears. It is now one year since the accident…

Delivery by Lorcan Byrne

On Thursdays, after the last delivery of the long day, which was to the mad Kennedy woman, Charlie Blue was allowed to keep the van for the night. He could drive home to his mother, proud behind the wheel of the yellow van, waving to any of the boys from his schooldays he might happen to see in their long gardens, playing with their children or cutting their midsummer grass. The arrangement suited his mother. She would have the dinner ready for him and then, after watching their favourite TV programme Coronation Street together, he would drive her into town to Horan’s Hotel for her weekly game of cards. Tommy Horan also owned the grocery store and she thought he was a great man, a generous man to let her son have the van so that she could get to her game of cards. Charlie said nothing, but knew Tommy Horan to be a bit of a bollocks, selling his tired vegetables and soft tomatoes and eggs that were no longer fresh. He said nothing because his mother could become as nasty as her twelve-year-old dog, which she allowed to sit on her knees while she fed it with the better bits of meat from her dinner plate.

There was a light shower of rain as Charlie was driving to Mrs Kennedy’s. The sun appeared strongly again from behind the clouds, the road shone blackly, and the smells of fresh-cut grass and warm earth rose from the fields and came in through the open window of the van. With one hand, Charlie took out a cigarette from a packet and lit it with his Horan’s Hotel cigarette lighter. He felt lucky. Lucky to have his driver’s licence, lucky to have his mother still alive, lucky to be working for Tommy Horan, even if he was an old bollocks…

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