Fallen Fruit
written by: Steven Lemprière
I struggle to imagine your thoughts as you fell to your death. Did you think of me? Had you any lasting regrets? Perhaps a memory of your three children distracted you from your fate. But if I’m honest, it would be an ease if I knew you’d given me at least a passing thought, however fleeting. I’m desperate to know, but of course, it’s a question you can never answer.
***
A June evening in Dún Laoghaire, and by chance, we’d chosen Bloomsday to first meet. For you, a venue close to home. For me, a suburb I thought of as one of the more desirable parts of the capital. Nestled on the southern reaches of Dublin Bay, its coastal location and small-town feel were the perfect backdrop to our first encounter.
I’d parked by the Yacht Club and spotted you when approaching the East Pier’s street-side entrance. I had formed a picture in my mind from the description given me by the mutual acquaintance who suggested the introduction, and knew it had to be you. A Gallic pearl from, as I was to discover, the massively duned majesty of La Rochelle. You later told me you left France for Ireland some ten years ago, but I was pleased to see you hadn’t lost the swagger and sophisticated air I associated with your fellow countrywomen, qualities setting you apart from the crowd.
I made my way up the pier’s stone steps toward street level; saw you wave, and sensed a level of excitement that echoed my own. We greeted each other in the French style, the almost contactless kiss, cheek to cheek, first to the right, followed by a second to the left — one less than the part of France I regularly frequented. Small things, that like the identity of the pastry accompanying your breakfast coffee, be it a Pain au Chocolat or a Choco, signal the region you call home.
There was no sign of awkwardness in that first encounter. Attractive, charismatic, your artistic manner put me at ease; and when I first heard your voice, your greeting and my name in an alluring French accent, one unscathed by the brogue of your surroundings, you had my undivided attention.
We strolled along the east pier’s length, deep in conversation, only briefly interrupted by a friend of yours as we approached the bandstand for a second time while retracing our footsteps back to where we met. You teased me about my attempts at your mother tongue, more so at my pronunciation than the chosen words, but I took it in the light-hearted manner you intended. Arriving, you suggested we visit a wine bar you knew. One not too far away in Dalkey, and rather than drive, we decided we’d make our way there on foot.
Walking beneath a moonlit sky, star-struck by its firmament, we met a spirited breeze. One fresh, with a salty, evocative fragrance, and an undertone of iodine, suggestive of distant oceans, as we ambled along the coast road, first passing through Sandycove, before arriving at our destination.
We sampled several reds that night as we talked and picked at small plates of food. Happy to be guided by you, the wines you chose reminded you of Bordeaux, your spiritual home. I listened with interest as you described each one — its composition, its terroir — fascinated by your knowledge, but also a little concerned that one day the choice of wine might be mine.
Leaving, we took a detour, briefly stopping at the Forty Foot — somewhere you swam each morning — before arriving back at Dún Laoghaire’s pier. You to collect your bike; me to begin the return journey home.
We said our goodbyes in much the same manner as we had greeted, and I knew I’d missed an opportunity as I watched you depart. I should have kissed you. I felt you wanted me to, but I hesitated. It had been so long since I’d experienced any form of intimacy, but you’d given me the hope of correcting my awkwardness when you suggested we meet again.
***
We next met the following weekend at the National Gallery, where you had earlier attended a lecture on the art of the Italian Renaissance. We made our way to Suffolk Street for lunch at a popular home-furnishings retailer that had an excellent bistro on its top floor. But that Saturday had been exceptionally busy. Everyone and their dogs were in town, and, like us, seeking a leisurely lunch. So rather than wait, we moved on to try our luck elsewhere. I suggested L’Gueuleton, nearby on Fade Street. An unusual French name, challenging to pronounce, and surprisingly, somewhere new to you.
The conversation had been stimulating; the food, disappointingly average — not as I recalled from previous visits — but you complimented me on my choice of wine.
Leaving the restaurant, we stood at a crowded street corner, oblivious to those around us as we embraced. Seconds shared that seemed longer, as our lips met for the first time. I remember the thrill of feeling your sensuous, perfumed body close to mine, and the spine-tingling shiver of pleasure as language and tongues mingled. What proved to be an all too brief liaison, as we both had other commitments during the day, was, in fact, a pivotal moment. Parting, I felt we had crossed a line.
***
Your strength of character greatly impressed me, and you soon demonstrated your directness by suggesting I include an overnight stay on my next visit to Dublin. You could arrange for your children to visit their father, you said, and it would be an opportunity to explore each other, away from the clinical environment of a hotel bedroom. But events don’t always go as intended; you received a call that sabotaged our plan. In flagrante delicto, your phone rang. Initially left unanswered, you picked up as your daughter left a message to say her father, your ex-husband, had been involved in an accident. There was little information about his condition or injuries. It wasn’t a tough decision on your part. I understood your need to support them both, so I returned home; although selfishly, it had felt as if the gods had conspired to punish us.
***
July soon arrived, and it was time for each of us to go our separate ways for the summer. You’d trek around south-east Asia, ending your trip in an unseasonably inclement Nepal; myself, two months at the farmhouse I own in France, an hour south of Toulouse. You planned to break your return journey home, visiting family in and around Bordeaux, and while there, suggested we spend some time together.
Over the next few weeks, you texted and sent the occasional e-mail with news and pictures from your trip. I hadn’t heard from you in a couple of days, unsurprising given the vagaries of the internet in that part of the world.
It was a hot Friday morning, the temperature already nudging the mid-thirties, and I was visiting a local market, relaxing on a café’s shaded, street-side terrace, overlooking the town square. The table’s previous occupant left behind a copy of Depeche, a regional newspaper. I glanced through its pages as I dunked torn pieces of a pastry into my coffee. A brief item in the foreign news section caught my attention. The article lacked detail, but it mentioned a fatal incident involving a tourist bus in Nepal. The dead included a French national.
I felt a sense of doom as I called your home in Dublin. Your daughter answered, sobbing uncontrollably as we spoke, confirming my worst fears.
She told me your minibus had been travelling along a mountain pass when a section of rock had sheared away from the cliff above the road. The resulting landslide had forced your vehicle over the edge, where it fell several hundred metres to the valley floor below.
Nobody survived. The driver, your tour guide, and seven fellow tourists had all perished along with you. It wasn’t yet clear how you died, whether from the trauma as the bus spiralled toward the valley below, the force of impact as it came to a sudden rest, or from the resulting fire as a severed fuel line caused the vehicle to erupt into an inferno. There was even the unlikely possibility that you survived the fall and drowned, as the wreckage partly rested in a river that meandered along the valley floor. For you, death in such a fashion would have been the supreme irony, given your love of water and the powerful swimmer you were. But it eventually helped to identify you by extinguishing the fire in the bus’s corner you occupied, leaving your flame-red hair intact.
***
I liken your loss to that of a vineyard; once firmly rooted, but unseasonably cut down by the randomness of nature’s cruelty. Fresh growth that bore the promise of a bountiful harvest litters the ground, fallen fruit destroyed by a senseless act of God.
The bathroom mirror sombrely reflects my mood as I shave. Milk-white tears reinforce a memory of how I first saw you, a Gallic pearl. I promised myself I’d hold it together as I prepare for one last trip on our brief journey together. The three-hour-plus drive north to the Gironde for our last assignation; your funeral, where, as well as celebrating your life, I’ll grieve the memories we had yet to create.
We had unfinished business, you and I.
- Fallen Fruit - May 24, 2026
