Книга - Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1

Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1
Cecelia Ahern


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POSTSCRIPT

Cecelia Ahern










Copyright (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Cecelia Ahern 2019

Jacket design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Jacket illustrations © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Cecelia Ahern asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008194871

Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008194895

Version: 2019-07-18




Dedication (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


For fans of PS, I Love You, all around the world, with heartfelt gratitude


Contents

Cover (#u30cdfd69-ecb6-52ce-a2b9-8b6dd0086c53)

Title Page (#ub3a137c0-26b1-5c19-83ab-d4671a113f7a)

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cecelia Ahern

About the Publisher




PROLOGUE (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


Shoot for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.



It’s engraved on my husband’s stone at the graveyard. It was a phrase he often used. His optimistic, cheery inflection oozed positive self-help phrases as though they were fuel for life. Positive words of reinforcement like that had no effect on me, not until he died. It was when he spoke them to me from his grave that I really heard them, I felt them, I believed them. I clung to them.

For a full year after his death, my husband Gerry continued his life by giving me the gift of his words in surprise monthly notes. His words were all I had; no more spoken words, but words, written from his thoughts, from his mind, from a brain that controlled a body with a beating heart. Words meant life. And I gripped them, hands clasped tightly around his letters until my knuckles went white and my nails dented my palms. I hung on to them like they were my lifeline.

It’s 7 p.m. on 1 April, and this fool is revelling in the new brightness. The evenings are stretching and the short, shocking, sharp sting of winter’s slap is being nursed by spring. I used to dread this time of year; I favoured winter when everywhere was a hiding place. The darkness made me feel that I was concealed behind gauze, that I was out of focus, almost invisible. I revelled in it, celebrating the shortness of the day, the length of the night; the darkening sky my countdown to acceptable hibernation. Now I face the light, I need it to prevent me from being sucked back.

My metamorphosis was similar to the instant shock the body experiences when dipped into cold water. On impact there’s the overwhelming urge to shriek and leap out, but the longer you remain submerged, the more you acclimatise. The cold, like the darkness, can become a deceptive comfort you never want to leave. But I did; feet kicking and arms sweeping, I pulled myself up to the surface. Emerging with blue lips and chattering teeth, I thawed and re-entered the world.

Transitioning day to night, in transitional winter to spring, in a transitional place. The graveyard, considered a final resting place, is less peaceful beneath the surface than above. Below the soil, hugged by wooden coffins, bodies are altering as nature earnestly breaks down the remains. Even when resting, the body is perpetually transforming. The giddy laughter of children nearby shatters the silence, unaware of or unaffected by the in-between world they stand on. Mourners are silent but their pain is not. The wound may be internal, but you can hear it, you can see it, you can feel it. Heartbreak is carried around bodies like an invisible cloak; it adds a load, it dims eyes, it slows strides.

In the days and months after my husband’s death, I searched for some elusive transcendental connection to him, desperate to feel whole again, like an insufferable thirst that needed to be quenched. On days when I was functioning, his presence would creep up behind me and tap me on the shoulder, and suddenly I’d feel an unbearable emptiness. A parched heart. Grief is endlessly uncontrollable.

He chose to be cremated. His ashes are in an urn slotted into a niche behind a Columbarium Wall. His parents reserved the space beside his. The empty space in the wall beside his urn is for me. I feel as though I’m staring death in the face, which is something I would have embraced when he died. Anything to join him. I would have gladly climbed into that niche, folded myself up like a contortionist and cradled my body around his ashes.

He’s in the wall. But he’s not there, he’s not here. He’s gone. Energy elsewhere. Dissolved, besprinkled particles of matter around me. If I could, I would deploy an army to hunt down his every atom and put him together again, but all the king’s horses and all the king’s men … we learn it from the beginning, we only realise what it all means in the end.

We were privileged to have not just one but two goodbyes; a long illness from cancer followed by a year of his letters. He let go secretly knowing that there would be more of him for me to cling to, more than memories; even after his death he found a way to make new memories together. Magic. Goodbye, my love, goodbye again. They should have been enough. I thought that they were. Maybe that’s why people come to graveyards. For more goodbyes. Maybe it’s not about hello at all – it’s the comfort of goodbye, a calm and peaceful, guilt-free parting. We don’t always remember how we met, we often remember how we parted.

It’s surprising to me that I’m back here, both in this location and in this frame of mind. Seven years since his death. Six years since I read his final letter. I had, have moved on, but recent events have unsettled everything, rattled my core. I should move forward, but there’s a hypnotic rhythmic tide, as though his hand is reaching for me and pulling me back.

I examine the stone and read his phrase again.

Shoot for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.

So this must be what it’s like then. Because we did, he and I. We shot straight for it. We missed. This right here, all that I have, and all that I am, this new life that I’ve built up over the past seven years, without Gerry, must be what it’s like to land among the stars.




1 (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


Three Months Earlier

‘Patient Penelope. The wife of the King of Ithaca, Odysseus. A serious and diligent character, a devoted wife and mother, some critics dismiss her as a symbol of marital fidelity, but Penelope is a complex woman who weaves her plots as deftly as she weaves a garment.’ The tour guide leaves a mysterious pause while his eyes run over his intrigued audience.

Gabriel and I are at an exhibition in the National Museum. We’re in the back row of the gathered crowd, standing slightly away from the others as though we don’t belong, or don’t want to be a part of their gang, but aren’t too cool to risk missing what’s being said. I’m listening to the tour guide while Gabriel leafs through the brochure beside me. He will be able to repeat what the guide has said later, word for word. He loves this stuff. I love that he loves this stuff more than the stuff itself. He’s somebody who knows how to fill time, and when I met him that was one of his most desirable traits because I had a date with destiny. In sixty years, max, I had a date with someone on the other side.

‘Penelope’s husband Odysseus goes to fight in the Trojan War, which is fought for ten years and it takes him a further ten years to return. Penelope is in a very dangerous situation when one hundred and eight suitors in total begin demanding her hand in marriage. Penelope is clever, and concocts ways to delay her suitors, leading on each man with the promise of possibility but never submitting to any one.’

I suddenly feel self-conscious. Gabriel’s arm draped loosely over my shoulder feels too heavy.

‘The story of Penelope’s loom, which we see here, symbolises one of the queen’s cunning tricks. Penelope worked at weaving a shroud for the eventual funeral of her father-in-law Laertes, claiming she would choose a husband as soon as the shroud was completed. By day, she worked on a great loom in the royal halls, at night she secretly unravelled what she had done. She persisted for three years, waiting for her husband to return, deceiving her suitors until they were reunited.’

It grates on me. ‘Did he wait for her?’ I call out.

‘Excuse me?’ the tour guide asks, eyes darting to find the owner of the voice. The crowd parts and turns to look at me.

‘Penelope is the epitome of conjugal fidelity, but what about her husband? Did he save himself for her, out there in the war, for twenty years?’

Gabriel chuckles.

The tour guide smiles and talks briefly about the nine other children Odysseus had with five other women, and his long journey to return to Ithaca from the Trojan War.

‘So, no then,’ I mumble to Gabriel as the group move on. ‘Silly Penelope.’

‘It was an excellent question,’ he says, and I hear the amusement in his voice.

I turn again to the painting of Penelope while Gabriel flicks through the brochure. Am I Patient Penelope? Am I weaving by day, unravelling by night, deceiving this loyal and beautiful suitor while I wait to be reunited with my husband? I look up at Gabriel. Gabriel’s blue eyes are playful, not reading into my thoughts. Amazingly deceived.

‘She could have just slept with them all while she was waiting,’ he says. ‘Not much fun, Prudish Penelope.’

I laugh, rest my head on his chest. He wraps his arm around me, holds me tight and kisses the top of my head. He’s built like a house and I could live inside his hug; big, broad and strong, he spends his days outdoors climbing trees as a tree surgeon, or arborist to use the title he prefers. He’s used to being up at a height, loves the wind and rain, all elements, an adventurer, an explorer, and if not at the top of a tree, he can be found beneath one, with his head in a book. In the evening after work, he smells of peppery watercress.

We met two years ago at a chicken wing festival in Bray, he was beside me at the counter, holding up the line behind him while he ordered a cheeseburger. He caught me at a good moment, I liked the humour, which was his intention; he’d been trying to get my attention. His chat-up line I suppose.

Me mate wants to know if you’ll go out with him.

I’ll have a cheeseburger, please.

I’m a sucker for a bad chat-up line, but I’ve good taste in men. Good men, great men.

He starts to move one way and I pull him in the opposite direction, away from Patient Penelope’s gaze. She’s been watching me and she thinks she recognises her type when she sees one. But I’m not her type, I’m not her and I don’t want to be her. I will not pause my life as she did to wait for an uncertain future.

‘Gabriel.’

‘Holly.’ He matches my serious tone.

‘About your proposition.’

‘To march on the government to prevent premature Christmas decorations? We’ve just taken them down, surely they’ll go up again soon.’

I have to arch my back and crane my neck to look up at him, he’s so tall. His eyes are smiling.

‘No, the other one. The moving in with you one.’

‘Ah.’

‘Let’s do it.’

He punches the air and makes a quiet stadium-sized-crowd-cheering sound.

‘If you promise me that we’ll get a TV, and that every day when I wake up you will look like this.’ I stand on tiptoe to get closer to his face. I place my hands on his cheeks, feel his smile beneath the Balbo beard he grows, trims and maintains like a pro; the tree man who cultivates his own face.

‘That is a prerequisite of being my flatmate.’

‘Fuck-mate,’ I say and we laugh, childishly.

‘Were you always so romantic?’ he asks, wrapping his arms around me.

I used to be. I used to be very different. Naïve, perhaps. But I’m not any more. I hug him tightly and rest my head on his chest. I catch Penelope’s judgemental eye. I lift my chin haughtily. She thinks she knows me. She doesn’t.




2 (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


‘Are you ready?’ my sister Ciara asks me quietly as we take our positions on bean bags at the head of the shop while the crowd hums, waiting for the show to begin. We’re sitting in the window of her vintage and second-hand shop, Magpie, where I’ve worked with Ciara for the past three years. Once again, we’ve transformed the shop to an event space where her podcast, How to Talk about …, will be recorded in front of an audience. Tonight, however, I’m not in my usual safe place, servicing the wine and cupcake table. Instead, I have given in to the persistent requests of my beleaguering yet adventurous and fearless little sister, to be a guest on this week’s episode, ‘How to Talk about Death’. I regretted my yes as soon as the word left my lips and that regret has reached astronomical intensity by the time I sit down and am faced by the small audience.

The rails and display stands of clothing and accessories have been pushed to the walls and five rows of six fold-up seats fill the shop floor. We cleared the front window so Ciara and I could sit at an elevated height while, outside, people racing home from work throw passing glances at the moving mannequins sitting on bean bags in the window.

‘Thanks for doing this.’ Ciara reaches out and squeezes my clammy hand.

I smile faintly, assessing the damage control of pulling out this minute, but I know it’s not worth it. I must honour my commitment.

She kicks off her shoes and pulls her bare feet up on to the bean bag, feeling perfectly at home in this space. I clear my throat and the sound reverberates around the shop through the speakers, where thirty expectant, curious faces stare back at me. I squeeze my sweaty hands together and look down at the notes I’ve been furiously compiling like a frazzled student before an exam ever since Ciara asked me to do this. Fragmented thoughts scribbled as inspiration seized me, but none of them make sense at the moment. I can’t see where one sentence begins and another one ends.

Mum is sitting in the front row, seats away from my friend Sharon who is in the aisle seat, where she has more space for her double buggy. A pair of little feet, one sock hanging on for dear life, one sock off, peeks out from beneath a blanket in the buggy, and Sharon holds her six-month-old baby in her arms. Her six-year-old son Gerard sits on one side of her, eyes on his iPad, ears covered by headphones, and her four-year-old son is dramatically declaring he’s bored and has slumped so low in the chair only his head rests against the base of the back of the chair. Four boys in six years; I appreciate her coming here today. I know that she’s been up since the crack of dawn. I know how long it took her to leave the house, before entering it again three more times for something she forgot. She’s here, my warrior friend. She smiles at me, her face a picture of exhaustion, but ever the supportive friend.

‘Welcome, everybody, to the fourth episode of the Magpie podcast,’ Ciara begins. ‘Some of you are regulars here – Betty, thank you for supplying us all with your delicious cupcakes; and thanks to Christian for the cheese and wine.’

I search the crowd for Gabriel. I’m quite sure he’s not here, I specifically ordered him not to attend, though that wasn’t necessary. As someone who keeps his private life to himself and has a firm check on his emotions, the idea of me discussing my private life with strangers boggled his mind. We may have strongly debated it but right now, I couldn’t agree with him more.

‘I’m Ciara Kennedy, owner of Magpie, and recently I decided it would be a good idea to do a series of podcasts titled ‘How to Talk about …’ featuring the charities that receive a percentage of the proceeds of this business. This week we’re talking about death – specifically grief and bereavement – and we have Claire Byrne from Bereave Ireland with us, and also some of those who benefit from the wonderful work that Bereave do. The proceeds of your ticket sales and generous donations will go directly to Bereave. Later, I’ll be talking to Claire about the important, tireless work they do in assisting those who have lost loved ones, but first I’d like to introduce my special guest, Holly Kennedy, who just so happens to be my sister. You’re finally here!’ Ciara exclaims excitedly, and the audience applaud.

‘I am,’ I laugh nervously.

‘Ever since I started the podcast last year, I’ve been pestering my sisterto take part. I’m so glad you’re doing this.’ She reaches across and takes my hand, holds it. ‘Your story has touched my life profoundly, and I’m sure that so many people will benefit from hearing about the journey you’ve been on.’

‘Thank you. I hope so.’

I notice my notes quivering in my hand and I let go of Ciara’s hand to still it.

‘“How to Talk about Death” – it’s not an easy topic. We are so comfortable with talking about our lives, about how we are living, about how to live better, that often the conversation about death is an awkward one, and not fully explored. I couldn’t think of anyone else that I would rather have this conversation about grief with. Holly, please tell us how death affected you.’

I clear my throat. ‘Seven years ago I lost my husband Gerry to cancer. He had a brain tumour. He was thirty years old.’

No matter how many times I say it, my throat tightens. That part of the story is still real, still burns inside me hot and bright. I look quickly to Sharon for support and she rolls her eyes dramatically and yawns. I smile. I can do this.

‘We’re here to talk about grief, so what can I tell you? I’m not unique, death affects all of us, and as many of you here today know, grief is a complex journey. You can’t control your grief, most of the time it feels like it’s in control of you. The only thing youcan control is how you deal with it.’

‘You say that you’re not unique,’ Ciara says, ‘but everybody’s personal experience is unique and we can learn from one another. No loss is easier than another, but do you think because you and Gerry grew up together that it made his loss more intense? Ever since I was a child, there was no Holly without Gerry.’

I nod and as I explain the story of how Gerry and I met, I avoid looking at the crowd, to make it easier, as if I’m talking to myself exactly as I rehearsed in the shower. ‘I met him in school when I was fourteen years old. From that day on I was Gerry and Holly. Gerry’s girlfriend. Gerry’s wife. We grew up together, we learned from each other. I was twenty-nine when I lost him and became Gerry’s widow. I didn’t just lose him and I didn’t just lose a part of me, I really felt like I lost me. I had no sense of who I was. I had to rebuild myself.’

A few heads nod. They know. They all know, and if they don’t know yet, they’re about to.

‘Poo poo,’ says a voice from the buggy, before giggling. Sharon hushes her toddler. She reaches into a giant bag and emerges with a strawberry-yoghurt-covered rice cake. The rice cake disappears into the buggy. The giggling stops.

‘How did you rebuild?’ Ciara asks.

It feels odd telling Ciara something she lived through with me and so I turn and focus on the audience, on the people who weren’t there. And when I see their faces, a switch is flicked inside me. This is not about me. Gerry did something special and I’m going to share it on his behalf, with people who are hungry to know. ‘Gerry helped me. Before he died he had a secret plan.’

‘Dun, dun, dun!’ Ciara announces to laughter. I smile and look at the expectant faces.

I feel excitement at the reveal, a renewed reminder of how utterly unique the year after his death was, yet over time its significance has faded in my memory. ‘He left me ten letters, to be opened in the months after his passing, and he signed off each note with “PS, I Love You”.’

The audience are visibly moved and surprised. They turn to each other and share looks and whispers, the silence has been broken. Sharon’s baby starts to cry. She hushes him and rocks him, tapping on his soother repetitively, a faraway look in her eyes.

Ciara speaks up over the baby’s grumbling. ‘When I asked you to do this podcast, you were very specific about the fact you didn’t want to concentrate on Gerry’s illness. You wanted to talk about the gift he gave you.’

I shake my head, firmly. ‘No. I don’t want to talk about his cancer, about what he had to go through. My advice, if you want it, is to try not to fixate on the dark. There is enough of that. I would rather talk to people about hope.’

Ciara’s eyes shine at me proudly. Mum clasps her hands together tightly.

‘The path that I took was to focus on the gift he gave me, and that was the gift that losing him gave me: finding myself. I don’t feel less of a person, nor am I ashamed to say that Gerry’s death broke me. His letters helped me to find myself again. It took losing him to make me discover a part of myself that I never knew existed.’ I’m lost in my words and I can’t stop. I need them to know. If I was sitting in the audience seven years ago, I would need to hear. ‘I found a new and surprising strength inside of me, I found it at the bottom of a dark and lonely place, but I found it. And unfortunately, that’s where we find most of life’s treasures. After digging, toiling in the darkness and dirt, we finally hit something concrete. I learned that rock bottom can actually be a springboard.’

Led by an enthusiastic Ciara, the audience applauds.

Sharon’s baby’s cries turn to screams, a high-pitched piercing sound as though his legs are being sawn off. The toddler throws his rice cake at the baby. Sharon stands and throws an apologetic look in our direction before setting off down the aisle, steering the double buggy with one hand while carrying the crying baby in the other, leaving the older two with my mum. As she clumsily manoeuvres the buggy to the exit, she bumps into a chair, mows down bags sticking out into the aisle, their straps and handles getting caught up in the wheels, muttering apologies as she goes.

Ciara is holding back her next question until Sharon has gone.

Sharon crashes the buggy into the exit door in an effort to push it open. Mathew, Ciara’s husband, rushes to assist her by holding the door open, but the double buggy is too wide. In her panic, Sharon crashes time and time again into the doorframe. The baby is screaming, the buggy is banging and Mathew tells her to stop while he unlocks the bottom of the door. Sharon looks up at us with a mortified expression. I mimic her earlier expression and roll my eyes and yawn. She smiles gratefully before fleeing.

‘We can edit that part out,’ Ciara jokes. ‘Holly, apart from Gerry leaving letters for you after his death, did you feel his presence in any other way?’

‘You mean, did I see his ghost?’

Some members of the audience chuckle, others are desperate for a yes.

‘His energy,’ Ciara says. ‘Whatever you want to call it.’

I pause to think, to summon the feeling. ‘Death, oddly, has a physical presence; death can feel like the other person in the room. The gaps that loved ones leave, the not being there, is visible, so sometimes there were moments when Gerry felt more alive than the people around me.’ I think back to those lonely days and nights when I was caught between the real world and trapped in my mind. ‘Memories can be very powerful. They can be the most blissful escape, and place to explore, because they summoned him again for me. But beware, they can be a prison too. I’m grateful that Gerry left me his letters, because he pulled me out of all those black holes and came alive again, allowing us to make new memories together.’

‘And now? Seven years on? Is Gerry still with you?’

I pause. Stare at her, eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I flounder. No words come to me. Is he?

‘I’m sure Gerry will always be a part of you,’ Ciara says softly, sensing my state. ‘He will always be with you,’ she says, seeming to reassure me, as if I’ve forgotten.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Dissolved, besprinkled particles of matter around me.

‘Absolutely.’ I smile tightly. ‘Gerry will always be with me.’

The body dies, the soul, the spirit lingers. Some days in the year following Gerry’s death, I felt as though Gerry’s energy was inside me, building me up, making me stronger, turning me into a fortress. I could do anything. I was untouchable. Other days I felt his energy and it shattered me to a million pieces. It was a reminder of what I’d lost. I can’t. I won’t. The universe took the greatest part of my life and because of that I was afraid it could take everything else too. And I realise that all those days were precious days because, seven years later, I don’t feel Gerry with me at all.

Lost in the lie I’ve just told, I wonder if it sounded as empty as it felt. Still, I’m almost done. Ciara invites the audience to ask questions and I relax a little, sensing the end is in sight. Third row, fifth person in, tissue squashed and rolled up in her hand, mascara smudged around her eyes.

‘Hi, Holly, my name is Joanna. I lost my husband a few months ago, and I wish he had left letters for me like your husband did. Could you tell us, what did his last letter say?’

‘I want to know what they all said,’ somebody speaks out, and there are murmurs of agreement.

‘We have time to hear them all, if Holly is comfortable with that,’ Ciara says, checking with me.

I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I haven’t thought about the letters for so long. As a concept I have, but not individually, not in order, not exactly. Where to start. A new bedside lamp, a new outfit, a karaoke night, sunflower seeds, a birthday trip away with friends … how could they understand how important all of those seemingly insignificant things were to me? But the last letter … I smile. That’s an easy one. ‘His final letter read: Don’t be afraid to fall in love again.’

They cling to that one, a beautiful one, a fine and valiant ending on Gerry’s part. Joanna isn’t as moved as the others. I see the disappointment and confusion in her eyes. The despair. So deep in her grief, it’s not what she wanted to hear. She’s still holding on to her husband, why would she consider letting go?

I know what she’s thinking. She couldn’t possibly love again. Not like that.




3 (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


Sharon reappears in the emptying shop, flustered, with the baby asleep in the stroller and Alex, her toddler, holding her hand, red cheeks and flushed.

‘Hello, buster.’ I lean towards him.

He ignores me.

‘Say hi to Holly,’ Sharon says gently.

He ignores her.

‘Alex, say hi to Holly,’ she growls, channelling the voice of Satan so suddenly that both Alex and I get a fright.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Good boy,’ she says ever so sweetly.

I look at her wide-eyed, always amazed and perturbed by the double personality that the mother role brings out in her.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a disaster.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m so happy you came. And you’re amazing. You always say the first year’s the hardest. A few more months and this little man will be one. You’ve almost made it.’

‘There’s another one on the way.’

‘What?’

She looks up, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m pregnant again. I know, I’m an idiot.’

She straightens up, trying to be strong, but she looks broken. She’s deflated, all wiped out. I feel nothing but sympathy for her, which is an emotion that has increased with each pregnancy reveal as the celebration levels have reduced.

As we hug we speak in unison. ‘Don’t tell Denise.’

I feel stressed just watching Sharon as she leaves with the four boys. I’m also exhausted after the nervous tension of today, the lack of sleep last night and from discussing a personal story in depth for an hour. It has wiped me out, but Ciara and I must wait until everybody has left to return the shop floor to the way it was and lock up.

‘That was nothing short of wonderful,’ Angela Carberry says, interrupting my thoughts. Angela, a great supporter of the shop who donates her designer clothes, bags and jewellery, is one of the main reasons Ciara can keep Magpie going. Ciara jokes that she thinks Angela buys things for the sole purpose of donating them. She’s dressed stylishly as always, a jet-black bob with a blunt fringe, a bird-like frame, and a set of pearls around her neck over the pussy bow tie on her silk dress.

‘Angela, so good of you to come.’ I’m taken aback when she reaches for me and hugs me.

Over her shoulder, Ciara’s eyes widen at the surprising display of intimacy from this usually austere woman. I feel Angela’s bones beneath her clothes as she hugs me tightly. Not one for impulsive behaviour or physical contact, she’s always seemed quite unapproachable on the occasions she personally delivered boxes of her clothes to the shop, shoes in their original boxes, bags in their original dust covers, telling us exactly where we should display them and how much we should sell them for without expecting a cent in return.

Her eyes are moist as she pulls away from me. ‘You must do this more often, you must tell this story to more people.’

‘Oh no,’ I laugh. ‘This was a one-off, more to silence my sister than anything else.’

‘But you don’t realise, do you?’ Angela asks, in surprise.

‘Realise what?’

‘The power of your story. What you have done to people, how you have reached in and touched every single heart in this room.’

Embarrassed, I look to the queue that has formed behind her, a queue of people who want to talk to me.

She grabs my arm and squeezes it, too tightly for my liking. ‘You must tell your story again.’

‘I appreciate your encouragement, Angela, but I’ve lived it once and told it once and I’m finished with it all.’

My words aren’t harsh but there’s a toughness to me that I didn’t expect. An edgy, prickly outer layer that springs into existence in an instant. As though my thorns have pierced her hand, she immediately loosens her grip on my arm. Then, remembering where she is and that there are others who want to speak with me, she reluctantly lets go.

Her hand is gone, my prickles disappear, but something of her pinching grip stays with me, like a bruise.

I crawl into bed beside Gabriel, the room spinning after drinking too much wine with Ciara and Mum in Ciara’s flat above the shop until far too late.

He stirs and opens his eyes, studies me for a moment and then grins at my state.

‘Good night?’

‘If I ever have any notions to do anything like that again … don’t let me,’ I murmur, eyes fluttering closed and trying to ignore the head spins.

‘Agreed. Well, you did it. You’re sister of the year, maybe you’ll get a pay rise.’

I snort.

‘It’s over now.’ He moves close and kisses me.




4 (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


‘Holly!’ Ciara shouts my name again. Her tone has gone from patience to concern to sheer shrill anger. ‘Where the hell are you?’

I’m in the stockroom behind boxes, perhaps crouched down behind them, perhaps with some clothes draped over the top like a little den. Perhaps hiding.

I look up and see Ciara’s face peering in.

‘What the fuck? Are you hiding?’

‘No. Don’t be ridiculous.’

She throws me a look; she doesn’t believe me. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages. Angela Carberry was looking for you, she was insistent that she speak to you. I told her I thought you’d stepped out for a coffee. She waited for fifteen minutes. You know what she’s like. What the hell, Holly? You made me look like I didn’t even know where my own staff member was, which I didn’t.’

‘Oh. Well now you do. I’m sorry I missed her.’ It’s been a month since we recorded the podcast and Angela Carberry’s advocacy for me sharing my story has developed into stalking, in my opinion. I stand up and stretch my legs with a groan.

‘What’s going on with you and Angela?’ Ciara asks, worried. ‘Is it something to do with the shop?’

‘No, not at all. Nothing to do with the shop, don’t worry. Didn’t she just deliver another bag full of clothes?’

‘Vintage Chanel,’ Ciara says, relaxing, relieved. Then she’s confused again. ‘So what is going on? Why are you hiding from her? Don’t think I haven’t noticed – you did the same thing when she came by last week.’

‘You’re better with her on the floor. I don’t know her. I find her very bossy.’

‘She is very bossy, she has a right to be: she’s giving us thousands of euro worth of stuff. I’d display her necklace on my own naked body on a mechanical bull, if that’s what she wanted.’

‘Nobody wants that.’ I push past her.

‘I’d like to see that,’ Mathew calls from the other room.

‘She asked me to give you this.’ She holds out an envelope.

There’s something about this that makes me uncomfortable. Me and envelopes have a history. It’s not the first time in six years that I’ve opened an envelope, but there is a sense of foreboding about this one. I expect it to be an invitation to speak about grief at a ladies’ lunch or something like it, organised by Angela. She has asked me several times if I’d continue my ‘talk’, or if I’d write a book. With each visit to the shop she has given me a phone number for a speaking events agent, or a contact number for a publishing agent. The first few times I politely thanked her, but on her last visit I shut her down so directly I wasn’t sure if she’d ever come back. I take the envelope from Ciara, fold it and shove it into my back pocket.

Ciara glares at me. We have a stand-off.

Mathew appears at the door. ‘Good news. Download statistics reveal ‘How to Talk about Death’ was the most successful episode to date! It had more downloads than all the others put together. Congratulations, sisters.’ He enthusiastically lifts his two hands for high-fives from both of us.

Ciara and I continue to glower at each other; me angry because her podcast has made me the target of Angela’s almost obsessive attention, her angry that I’m annoying her greatest donator for reasons unknown.

‘Ah, far out, don’t leave me hanging.’

Ciara slaps his raised palm half-heartedly.

‘Not what I was expecting,’ he says, looking at me with concern and lowering his hand. ‘I’m sorry, was that insensitive of me? I wasn’t high-fiving Gerry, you know—’

‘I know,’ I say and offer him a smile. ‘It’s not that.’

I can’t celebrate the podcast’s success; I wish nobody had listened to it, I wish I hadn’t done it. I never want to hear or speak of Gerry’s letters ever again.

Gabriel’s house in Glasnevin, a single-storey Victorian terraced cottage that he patiently and lovingly restored to life himself, is a cosy eclectic home that, unlike mine, oozes with character. We lie on the floor, on a monstrous velvet bean bag atop a comfortable shagpile rug, drinking red wine. The living room is an internal room and so light, albeit dull February light, streams down on us from the roof light. Gabriel’s furniture is a mixture of antique and contemporary, whatever he liked and collected along the way. Every item has a story, even if it’s not a moving one, or has any value, but everything’s come from somewhere. The fireplace is the focus of the room; he doesn’t have a TV, and instead entertains himself with obscure music on his record player, or reads from his copious book collection, the current read being the art book Twenty-Six Gasoline Stations, made up of black-and-white photographs of gasoline stations in the US. The music mood is Ali Farka Touré, a Malian singer and guitarist. I stare up at the evening sky through the skylight. It’s wonderful, it really is. He’s what I need, when I need it.

‘When is the first house viewing?’ he asks, growing impatient at how slowly things have been progressing since we made the decision well over a month ago. My distraction since the podcast has knocked me off course.

My house hasn’t officially gone on the market yet, but I can’t bring myself to own up to that, so instead I tell him, ‘I’m meeting the estate agent at the house tomorrow.’ I lift my head to sip my wine and then return to resting on his chest, as strenuous a duty as this day commands. ‘Then you will be mine, all mine,’ I laugh maniacally.

‘I am already. By the way, I found this.’ He puts his glass down and retrieves a crumpled envelope from between a messy pile of books by the fireplace.

‘Oh yes, thanks.’ I fold it over and squeeze it behind my back.

‘What is it?’

‘A guy heard me speak at the shop. Thinks I’m a sexy widow and gave me his number.’ I sip my wine, serious.

His frown makes me laugh.

‘A woman in the audience at the podcast recording wants me to continue telling my story. She keeps pestering me to do more events, or to write a book.’ I laugh again. ‘Anyway, she’s a pushy rich woman that I don’t know very well and I told her I’m not interested.’

He looks at me with interest. ‘I listened to it in the car the other day. You spoke very movingly. I’m sure your words helped a lot of people.’ This is the first time he’s spoken positively about the podcast. I suppose my words were nothing he didn’t already know – our early days and months were spent in respective intimate soul-digging as we got to know each other – but I want to leave it all behind me.

‘I was helping Ciara.’ I shut his compliment down. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to start talking about my ex-husband for a living.’

‘I’m not worried about you talking about him, it’s what constantly reliving it could do to you.’

‘Not going to happen.’

He squirms on the bean bag and wraps his arm around me, I think for a hug, but his hand goes down beneath me and he grabs the envelope instead. He pulls it free.

‘You haven’t opened it. Do you know what’s inside?’

‘No. Because I don’t care.’

He studies me. ‘You do care.’

‘I don’t. Otherwise I would have opened it.’

‘You do care. Otherwise you would have opened it.’

‘It can’t be important anyway, she delivered it to me weeks ago. I forgot I had it.’

‘Can I at least see?’ He rips the top.

I attempt to grab it from him and instead I spill my wine on the rug. I clamber up out of his arms, pull myself up from the bean bag on the floor with a groan and hurry to the kitchen to retrieve a damp towel. I can hear him ripping the envelope open while I run the cloth under the tap. My heart is pounding. The prickles are rising on my skin again.

‘Mrs Angela Carberry. The PS, I Love You Club,’ he reads aloud.

‘What?!’

He raises the card in the air and I move closer to him to read it, the damp cloth drips and trickles on his shoulder.

‘Holly,’ he moves, agitated.

I take the card from his hand. A small business card with elegant print. ‘The PS, I Love You Club,’ I read aloud, feeling curious and furious at once.

‘What does that mean?’ he asks, wiping the sloppy mess from his shoulder.

‘I have no idea. I mean, I know what PS, I Love You means, but … is there anything else in the envelope?’

‘No, just this card.’

‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. It’s like stalking.’ I grab my phone from the couch and move away from him for privacy. ‘Or plagiarism.’

He laughs at my abrupt change of mood. ‘You’d have to have written it down somewhere for it to be remotely so. Try to tell her to fuck off nicely, Holly.’ He turns his attention to his art book.

It rings for a long time. I drum my fingers on the counter, impatiently constructing a firm dialogue in my head about how she needs to leave this alone, back off, fuck off, kill it immediately. Whatever this club is, I will have nothing to do with it, and I insist that nobody else does either. I was helping my sister, and all I felt afterwards was exhausted and used. And those words belong to my husband, in my letters; they are not hers to use. My anger intensifies with each new ring, and I’m about to hang up when a man finally answers.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. Could I speak with Angela Carberry, please?’

I feel Gabriel’s eyes on me, he mouths be nice. I turn my back to him.

The man’s voice is muffled as though he’s moved his mouth from the mouthpiece. I hear voices in the background and I’m not sure if he’s talking to them or me.

‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m here. But she’s not. Angela. She’s gone. She passed away. Just this morning.’

His voice cracks.

‘They’re here with me, the funeral people. We’re planning it at the moment. So I have no information for you as yet.’

I brake hard, careen into a ditch, anger crashed and burned. I try to catch my breath.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I say, sitting down, noticing as I do that I have Gabriel’s full attention. ‘What happened?’

His voice is coming and going, weak and strong, wobbly, away from the receiver, back again. I can sense his disorientation. His world is upside down. I don’t even know who this man is and yet his loss is palpable and like a weight on my shoulders.

‘It was very sudden in the end, took us by surprise. They thought she had more time. But the tumour spread, and that was … well.’

‘Cancer?’ I whisper. ‘She died of cancer?’

‘Yes, yes, I thought you knew … I’m very sorry, who is this? Did you say? I’m sorry I’m not thinking very clearly …’

He talks on, confused. I think of Angela, thin and needy, holding on to my arm, squeezing me so tightly it hurt. I thought she was odd, I found her irritating, but she was desperate, desperate for me to visit with her – and I didn’t. I didn’t even call her. I barely gave her time. Of course she was moved by my talk, she was dying of cancer. She was holding on to my arm that day as though she was clinging to life.

I must be making a noise, I must be doing something because Gabriel is down on his knees beside me and the man on the other end of the phone is saying, ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. I should have worded it better. But I haven’t had to … this is all very new and …’

‘No, no,’ I try to keep it all together. ‘I’m very sorry for disturbing you at this time. My sincere condolences to you and yours,’ I say quickly.

I dissolve the call.

I dissolve.




5 (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


I did not kill Angela, I know that, but I cried as if I did. I know that a phone call, a visit to Angela or an agreement to take part in one of her events would not have prolonged her life, and yet I cried as if it could have. I cried for all the irrational beliefs that stampeded through my head.

As Angela had been a generous contributor to the shop, Ciara feels obligated to attend her funeral and, despite Gabriel disagreeing, I feel I have even more reason. I had been hiding from Angela in the weeks before her death, I had shut her down so many times. We don’t often remember how we meet, we mostly remember how we part. I didn’t give Angela the best impression when we met, I want to say goodbye to her properly.

Her funeral is in Church of the Assumption in Dalkey, a picturesque parish church on the main street opposite Dalkey Castle. Ciara and I pass through the lingering crowds outside and go directly into the church and sit near the back. The funeral attendees follow the coffin and the family inside and the church pews fill. Leading the procession is a lone man, her husband, the man I spoke with on the phone. He is followed by crying family and friends. I’m satisfied to see he is not alone, that people are sad, that Angela is missed, that her life contained love.

It’s clear the priest didn’t know Angela very well, but he does his best. He has collected the core information about her, like a magpie drawn to shiny items, and he has a kind delivery. When it’s time for the eulogy, a woman takes to the podium. A TV screen is wheeled into the old church, wires and all.

‘Hello, my name is Joy. I would love to say a few words about my friend Angela, but she told me I couldn’t. She wanted to have the last word. As was usual.’

The congregation laughs.

‘Are you ready for this, Laurence?’ Joy asks.

I can’t see or hear Laurence’s response but the screen comes to light anyway and Angela’s face fills the screen. She is thin, clearly this was filmed in her final weeks, but she is beaming.

‘Hello, everybody, it’s me!’

This draws gasps of surprise, and the tears flow around me.

‘I hope you’re all having an awful time without me. Life must be dreadfully dull. I’m sorry I’m gone, but what can we do. We must look forward. Hello, my darlings. My Laurence, my boys, Malachy and Liam. Hello, my little babies, I hope Grandma isn’t scaring you. I hope to make things a little easier for you. Well, let’s move it on. Here we are in my wig room.’

The camera turns around, held by her, to survey her wigs. Wigs of various shapes, colours and styles sit on mannequin heads on shelves.

‘This has been my life for some time, as you all know. I thank Malachy for bringing this one home from a recent music festival,’ she zooms in on a Mohawk. She lifts it off and places it on her head.

Everybody laughs through their tears. Hankies flying, tissues being taken out of handbags and passed along the pews.

‘So, my darling boys,’ she continues, ‘you three are my most precious people in the whole entire world and I’m not ready to say goodbye to you. Beneath these wigs I’ve taped envelopes to every head. Each month I want you to remove a wig, place it on your head, open these envelopes, read my notes, and remember me. I’m always with you. I love you all and thank you for the happiest, most blessed beautiful life a woman, wife, mother and grandmother could wish for. Thank you for everything.

‘PS,’ she blows a kiss, ‘I love you.’

Ciara grabs my arm and slowly turns to look at me. ‘Oh my …’ she whispers.

The screen goes black and everybody, everybody is crying. I can’t imagine how her family feel after this. I can’t look at Ciara. I feel sick. I feel dizzy. I feel like there’s no air. Nobody is paying the slightest attention to me but I feel self-conscious, as if they all know about me, and what Gerry did for me. Would it be rude for me to leave? I’m so near to the door. I need air, I need light, I need to get out of this claustrophobic suffocating scene. I stand and steady myself on the back of the pew then walk towards the door.

‘Holly?’ Ciara whispers.

Outside, I suck in air, but it’s not enough. I need to move away, get away.

‘Holly!’ Ciara calls, hurrying to catch up with me. ‘Are you OK?’

I stop walking and look at her. ‘No. I’m not OK. I’m definitely not OK.’

‘Shit, this is my fault. I’m so sorry, Holly. I asked you to do the podcast, you didn’t want to and I practically forced you, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. No wonder you were avoiding her. It all makes sense now. I’m so sorry.’

Her words somehow manage to steady me, it’s not my fault for feeling like this. This happened to me. It’s not my fault. It’s unfair. She’s offering sympathy. She hugs me and I rest my head on her shoulder, back to feeling weak and vulnerable and sad. I don’t like it. I stop myself. My head snaps up.

‘No.’

‘No what?’

I wipe my eyes roughly and charge towards the car. ‘This is not who I am any more.’

‘What do you mean? Holly, look at me please,’ she pleads, trying to meet my eye as I look around wildly, desperate to sharpen my focus, desperate to get things in perspective.

‘This is not happening to me again. I’m going back to the shop. I’m going back to my life.’

The skill I discovered when I began working with my sister, after the magazine I worked for folded, is that I’m good at sorting. While Ciara is a magnificent creature when it comes to dealing with the aesthetic, beautifying the shop and placing each item in a place of importance, I could happily, and do quite happily, spend long days in the stockroom emptying boxes and bin liners of the things people no longer want. I get lost in the rhythm of it. These actions are particularly therapeutic in the days that follow Angela Carberry’s funeral. I empty everything on to the floor, sit down and go through the contents of handbags and pockets, sorting the precious from the trash. I polish jewellery until it sparkles, shoes until they shine. I dust off old books. I discard anything that’s not appropriate: dirty underwear, odd socks, used handkerchiefs and tissues. Depending on how busy I am, I can be nosy and get lost in studying receipts and notes, trying to date the last use of the object, understand the life of the person who lived with it. I run the clothes through a rinse wash, I use a steamer to smooth wrinkled fabric. I treasure anything of value: money, photographs, letters that should be returned to their sender. As far as possible, I make detailed notes of who owns what. Sometimes the possessions will never be reunited with their owner; those who have dropped boxes and bags off without contact details are just happy to be rid of their clutter. But sometimes I manage to matchmake. If we don’t feel we can sell the product, if it’s not right for Ciara’s vision, then we repackage them and give them to charities.

I take what’s old and make it new and I’m rewarded by the belief that there is value in my work. Today is a good day to get lost in a cardboard box filled with possessions that became objects as soon as they were dropped into the bag. I lift a box of books from the stockroom and carry them to the shop floor. Again I sit on the floor, wiping covers, folding back dog-eared pages and flicking through the pages for bookmarks of value. Sometimes I find old photographs that are used as bookmarks; mostly I don’t find anything, but every find is important. I’m lost in this world of sorting when the bell rings above the shop door.

Ciara is across the other side of the shop battling with a disarmed and beheaded mannequin as she tries to squeeze a polka-dot tea dress onto its body.

‘Hello,’ she greets the customer warmly.

She is better with customers than I am. I focus on the products when given the choice and she focuses on the people. She and Mathew opened the shop five years ago after they bought it as a house on St. George’s Avenue in Drumcondra, Dublin. The front of the house already had a floor-to-ceiling window built in, from its former life as a sweet shop. They live upstairs in a flat. As a second-hand shop on a quiet terraced street, we don’t attract much in the way of passing trade, but people travel to get here, and the local university provides plenty of students as customers, lured by the cheaper prices and the cool factor that comes with wearing vintage. Ciara is the star of the shop, hosting evening events, attending trade fairs, contributing to magazines, and a sometime-TV-presenter of breakfast television fashion slots, displaying the latest arrivals to the shop. If she is the heart of this shop, Mathew is the brains who handles the accounts, runs their online presence and oversees the technical side of the podcasts, and I’m the guts.

‘Hello,’ the customer, a woman replies.

I can’t see her, I’m hidden behind a display unit, sitting on the floor. I’m already zoning out and allowing Ciara to do her thing.

‘I recognise you,’ Ciara says. ‘You spoke at Angela’s funeral.’

‘You were there?’

‘Yes, of course. Angela was a fantastic supporter of the shop. My sister and I were there. We’ll miss her, she was a powerhouse of a woman.’

So now I’m listening.

‘Your sister was there too, you say?’

‘Yes. Holly, she’s … busy at the moment.’ Ciara uses her smarts and remembers that I will not wish to speak to this woman, as I have not wanted to speak about the entire funeral episode since it happened two weeks ago.

I did what I said I would do. I returned to the shop, I went back to my life, I tried not to think of what happened at the funeral for one second, but inevitably I did. I can’t stop thinking about it. Angela was clearly inspired by my experience with Gerry’s letters to do the same for her family in her final weeks, this I understand, but what I don’t understand is her business card. What on earth was she intending on doing with the PS, I Love You Club? Over the past few weeks I’ve wanted to know and I didn’t want to know and yet, here I am, not wanting to be seen but wanting to hear at the same time.

‘Did Holly …’ The woman abandons her question. ‘My name is Joy, pleased to meet you. Angela loved this shop. Did you know this is the house she grew up in?’

‘No! She never mentioned it. Never, I can’t believe it.’

‘Yes. Well, it would have been like her not to say. She and I were school friends, I lived around the corner. We recently reconnected, but I know she would have enjoyed seeing her belongings in the place she grew up – not that we had such fine things back then. I still don’t.’

‘Wow! I can’t believe this,’ Ciara replies. Sensing this woman is not here to browse, she extends her usual wonderful and, in this instance, annoying, hospitality. ‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’

‘Oh, a tea would be lovely, thank you. With a small drop of milk, please.’

Ciara goes into the back rooms, and I hear Joy walk around the shop. I pray that she won’t discover me but I know that she will. Her footsteps near me. They stop, I look up.

‘You must be Holly,’ she says. She has a cane.

‘Hello,’ I say, as though I hadn’t heard a word her and Ciara had said.

‘I’m Joy. A friend of Angela Carberry’s.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you. She went fast in the end. She declined so quickly. I wonder if she had a chance to speak with you.’

If I was polite I would stand up. Stop this woman on a cane from having to lean down and talk to me. But I’m not feeling polite.

‘About?’

‘About her club.’ She reaches into her pocket and retrieves a business card. The same one that Gabriel had shown me.

‘I received the business card, but I have no idea what it’s about.’

‘She gathered – well, she and I both gathered a group of people who are fans of yours.’

‘Fans?’

‘We listened to your podcast, we were so moved by your words.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I wonder if you could meet with us? I want to continue the good work Angela began …’ her eyes fill. ‘Oh, I’m very sorry.’

Ciara returns with the tea. ‘Are you OK, Joy?’ she asks when she sees the woman with a cane crying, while I’m still sitting on the floor with a book in my hand. She throws me a look of confusion and horror. Her cold-hearted sister.

‘I’m fine. Yes, I am, thank you. I’m very sorry for the imposition. I think I’ll just … gather myself.’

‘There’s no need to leave, take a seat over here.’ Ciara guides Joy to an armchair beside the dressing room, a corner of the room with a mirror and dramatic draping, still in my line of vision. ‘You stay here and rest until you feel right. There’s your tea. I’ll get you a tissue.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Joy says, weakly.

I remain on the floor. I wait for Ciara to leave before speaking, ‘What’s the club about?’

‘Did Angela not explain it to you?’

‘No. She left the business card here for me, but we never talked.’

‘I’m sorry she didn’t explain it to you. So please do let me. Angela was shining like a light after she attended your talk; she came to me with her idea, and when Angela Carberry got something in her head she was bound to it. She could be very persistent, and not always in the right ways. She was used to getting what she wanted.’

I think of Angela’s hand squeezing my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. The urgency that I misread.

‘Angela and I were in school together but we lost contact, as you do. We met each other a few months ago and because of our illnesses I think we connected more than we ever had. After she heard you speak, she called me and told me all about it. I was as greatly inspired by your story as she was. I told a few others who I felt would benefit.’

As Joy takes a breath I realise I’m holding mine. My chest is tight, my body is rigid.

‘There are five of us – well, four of us now. Your story filled us with light and hope. You see, dear Holly, we got together because we have something that bonds us.’

My fingers are clenching the book so hard it’s almost bending.

‘We have all been diagnosed with terminal illnesses. We joined together not just because of the hope that your story inspired in us but because we have a shared goal. We want to write letters for our loved ones as your husband did for you. We desperately need your help, Holly. We’re running out of ideas and …’ she breathes in as if summoning the energy, ‘all of us are running out of time.’

Silence as I pause, freeze, try to absorb that. I’m speechless.

‘I’ve put you on the spot and I’m very sorry,’ she says, embarrassed. She attempts to stand, with the cup of tea in one hand and her cane in the other. I can only watch her; I’m too stunned to feel anything but numb to the sadness of Joy and her fellow club members. If anything, I’m irritated that she would bring this back into my life.

‘Let me help you,’ Ciara says, rushing over to take the tea and hold her arm to assist her.

‘Perhaps I’ll leave my phone number for you, Holly. So that if you want to …’ She looks at me to finish her sentence but I don’t. I’m cruel and I wait.

‘I’ll get a pen and paper,’ Ciara says, jumping in.

Joy leaves her details with Ciara and I call goodbye as she makes her exit.

The bell rings, the door closes, Ciara’s footsteps click-clack across the wooden floors. Her 1940s vintage peep-toe heels, worn with fishnet stockings, come to a halt beside me. She stares at me, studies me, and I’m quite sure she has eavesdropped and heard it all. I look away and slide the book on to the shelf. Here. Yes, I think it will look good here.




6 (#ua7e88459-84fa-5112-9812-4d28bdb2f4dd)


‘Easy on the gravy, Frank,’ Mum says, taking hold of the jug in Dad’s hands. Dad clings to it, intent on finishing his gravy annihilation of his roast dinner, and in the tug of war the gravy glugs from the spout and drips on the table. He looks pointedly at Mum, then wipes the thick drips from the linen with his finger and sucks it in protest.

‘There won’t be enough for everyone,’ Mum says, holding it out to Declan.

Declan catches the dribbles from the spout and licks his finger. Then goes for another swipe.

‘No double-dipping,’ Jack warns, stealing the jug from Mum’s hands.

‘I haven’t had any yet,’ Declan gripes, trying to steal it back, but Jack retains possession and pours it over his food.

‘Boys,’ Mum admonishes them. ‘Honestly, you’re behaving like children.’

Jack’s kids laugh.

‘Leave some for me,’ Declan watches Jack. ‘Do they not have gravy in London?’

‘They don’t have Mum’s gravy in London,’ Jack says, winking at Mum, before pouring a little on the kids’ plates, and then passing it to his wife, Abbey.

‘I don’t want gravy,’ one of the kids moans.

‘I’ll have it,’ Declan and Dad say in unison.

‘I’ll make more,’ Mum says with a sigh, and hurries back to the kitchen.

Everybody mills into their food as if they haven’t eaten for days: Dad, Declan, Mathew, Jack, Abbey and their two children. My older brother Richard is delayed at choir practice and Gabriel is spending the day with his teenage daughter Ava. As she has wanted very little to do with him most of her life, these visits are precious to him. All are preoccupied by their meal apart from Ciara, who watches me. She looks away when I catch her eye and reaches for the salad spoon in the centre of the table. Mum returns with two jugs. She places one in the centre and another beside Ciara. Jack pretends to reach for it, like a false start, and it makes Declan panic, jump and grab the jug.

Jack laughs.

‘Boys,’ Mum says, and they stop.

The kids giggle.

‘Sit down, Mum,’ I say gently.

She surveys the table, her hungry family all greedily tucking in, and finally sits beside me at the head of the table.

‘What’s this?’ Ciara says, looking into the jug.

‘Vegan gravy,’ Mum says proudly.

‘Ahh, Mum, you’re the best.’ Ciara pours, and a murky watery substance flows all over the base of her plate like soup. She looks up at me, uncertain.

‘Yum,’ I say.

‘I’m not sure if I made it correctly,’ Mum says apologetically. ‘Is it nice?’

Ciara takes a small taste. ‘Delicious.’

‘Liar,’ Mum says with a laugh. ‘Are you not hungry, Holly?’

My plate is practically empty and I haven’t even begun eating. Broccoli and tomatoes are all I could bear to look at on my plate.

‘I had a big breakfast,’ I say, ‘but this is fabulous, thank you.’

I sit forward and tuck in. Or try to. Mum’s food, vegan gravy aside, really is delicious and on as many Sundays as possible she tries to gather the troops for a family meal, which we all adore. But today, as has been the case for the past few weeks, my appetite is gone.

Ciara eyes my plate, then me, worriedly. She and Mum share a look and I immediately sense that Ciara has spilled the beans about the PS, I Love You Club. I roll my eyes at both of them.

‘I’m fine,’ I say defiantly, before stuffing an entire broccoli floret in my mouth as proof of my stability.

Jack looks up at me. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

My mouth is stuffed. I can’t answer, but I roll my eyes and give him a frustrated look.

He turns to Mum. ‘What’s wrong with Holly? Why is she pretending she’s fine?’

I grumble through my food and try to chew quickly so I can end this conversation.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Holly,’ Mum says calmly.

Ciara pipes up in a fast-paced high-pitch volley: ‘A woman who died of cancer started a PS, I Love You Club before her death, made up of people who are terminally ill, and they want Holly to help them write letters to their loved ones.’ She seems immediately relieved to have gotten it out of her system and then afraid of what will happen next.

I swallow my broccoli and almost choke. ‘For fuck sake, Ciara!’

‘I’m sorry, I had to!’ Ciara says, holding her hands up defensively.

The kids laugh at my language.

‘Sorry,’ I say to their mum, Abbey. ‘Guys,’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m fine. Really. Let’s change the subject.’

Mathew looks at his tell-tale wife with disapproval. Ciara sinks lower.

‘Are you going to help these people write their letters?’ Declan asks.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, slicing a tomato.

‘With who? With them or with us?’ Jack asks.

‘With anyone!’

‘So you’re not going to help them?’ Mum asks.

‘No!’

She nods. Her face is completely unreadable.

We eat in silence.

I hate that her face is unreadable.

Frustrated, I give in. ‘Why? Do you think I should?’

Everyone at the table, bar the kids and Abbey, who knows better than to get involved, answer at the same time and I can’t decipher anybody’s words.

‘I was asking Mum.’

‘You don’t care what I think?’ Dad asks.

‘Of course I do.’

He concentrates on his food, hurt.

‘I think …’ Mum says thoughtfully, ‘you should do what feels right for you. I never like to interfere, but as you’ve asked: if it has you this …’ she looks at my plate, then back at me ‘… upset, then it’s not a good idea.’

‘She said she ate a big breakfast,’ Mathew says in my defence, and I throw him a grateful look.

‘What did you eat?’ Ciara asks.

I roll my eyes. ‘A big dirty fry-up, Ciara. With pig’s meat and pig’s blood and eggs and all kinds of dirty animal products dripping in butter. Butter that came from a cow.’ I didn’t. I couldn’t stomach breakfast either.

She glares at me.

The kids laugh again.

‘Can I film it if you help them?’ Declan asks, his mouth full of food. ‘Could make a good documentary.’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Declan,’ Mum says.

‘No. Because I’m not going to,’ I reply.

‘What does Gabriel think?’ Jack asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Because she hasn’t told him yet,’ Ciara says.

‘Holly,’ Mum admonishes me.

‘I don’t need to tell him about it if I’m not doing it,’ I protest, but I know I’m wrong. I should have discussed it with Gabriel. He’s not an idiot, he already senses something is up. Never mind Joy’s reveal about the club, ever since I got off the phone with Angela’s husband weeks ago, I’ve not been my usual self.

We all go quiet.

‘You still didn’t ask me,’ Dad says, looking around at everyone as though they’ve all individually hurt his feelings.

‘What do you think, Dad?’ I ask, exasperated.

‘No, no. It’s clear you don’t want to know,’ he says, while he reaches for the replenished jug of gravy and drowns his second helpings.

I violently fork another floret. ‘Dad, tell me.’

He swallows his hurt. ‘I think it sounds like a very thoughtful caring gesture for people in need, and it might do you good to do good.’

Jack appears irritated by Dad’s response. Mum, again, is unreadable; she’s thinking it all through, examining the angles before sharing her opinion.

‘She can’t eat as it is, Frank,’ Mum says quietly.

‘She’s practically inhaling her broccoli,’ Dad says, winking at me.

‘And she put six chipped teacups out in the shop this week,’ Ciara adds salt to the wound. ‘She’s distracted as it is, just knowing about it.’

‘Some people don’t mind chipped teacups,’ I retort.

‘Like who?’

‘Beauty and the Beast,’ Mathew replies.

The kids laugh.

‘Hands up if you think it’s a good idea,’ Ciara addresses the table.

The kids put their hands up, Abbey quickly pushes them down.

Dad raises his fork in the air. So does Declan. Mathew looks like he’s with them, but Ciara glares at him and he stares her down, but doesn’t raise his hand.

‘No,’ Jack says firmly. ‘I don’t.’

‘Me neither,’ says Ciara. ‘And I don’t want it to be all my fault if it goes wrong.’

‘It’s not about you,’ Mathew mutters, frustrated.

‘No, I know. But she’s my sister and I don’t want to be the one to be responsible for—’

‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ Richard’s voice calls out from the hall. He appears at the door. He looks around at us all, sensing something. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ we say in unison.

I’m alone in the shop, behind the desk. Sitting on a stool, staring into space. Ciara and Mathew have gone out to collect donations from a family nearby who are moving house. The shop is empty of customers, and has been for the past hour. I’ve emptied every bag and box I could, setting precious things aside and making phone calls to their owners to arrange for collection. I’ve tidied every rail, moved things an inch to the left or an inch to the right. There’s nothing left to do. The bell rings as the door opens and a young girl, a teenager, steps inside. She’s tall, wearing a striking black-and-gold turban on her head.

‘Hello,’ I attempt cheerily.

She smiles shyly and self-consciously, so I look away. Some customers want attention lavished on them, others like to be left alone. I watch her while she’s not looking. She’s carrying a baby in a baby carrier. The baby, who’s only a few months old, is facing outward, pudgy legs squeezed into a pair of leggings that kick spontaneously. Her mother – if she is her mother, as she seems so young to have a child, but what do I know – has mastered the craft of standing sideways so that the child can’t reach anything on the rails. The teenager keeps glancing at me and then back to the rails. She’s looking at the clothes but not really looking, she’s more intent on keeping an eye on me. I wonder if she’s going to steal something; sometimes shoplifters have that look, checking out my whereabouts rather than the items. The baby cries out, practising her sounds, and the teenager reaches for the baby’s hand; little fingers wrap around her finger.

I wanted a baby once. It was ten years ago and I wanted a baby so much my body was calling out to me every day to provide one. That longing vanished when Gerry became sick. It became a longing for something else: for him to survive. It put all its energy into making him survive, and when he was gone, the longing for a child died with him. I had wanted a baby with him, and he was no longer here. Looking at her beautiful bouncy baby, something chimes inside me, a reminder of what I once wanted. I’m thirty-seven years old, it could still happen. I’m moving in with Gabriel, but I don’t think either of us are quite there yet. He’s too busy working on the relationship with the daughter he has.

‘I’m not going to steal nothing,’ she says, snapping me out of my trance.

‘Pardon?’

‘You keep staring. I’m not going to steal nothing,’ the teenager says defensively, annoyed.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t, I didn’t mean to … I was daydreaming,’ I say. I stand up. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

She looks at me, a long stare as if deciding something, as if weighing me up. ‘No.’

She walks to the door, the bell rings, it closes. I stare at the closed door and I remember, she’s been in here before. A few weeks ago, maybe last week, perhaps a few times, doing the same thing, browsing with her baby. I remember because Ciara complimented her on her turban and then, fashion-inspired, wore a red and white polka-dot headscarf for a week. The girl has never bought anything. It’s no big deal, people always browse through second-hand shops, people like to see what others once owned and gave away, how others once lived. There’s an extra something attached to objects that have once had an owner. Some think they’re more precious, others think used means dirty, and then there are those who have a desire to be around these things. But she was right, I hadn’t trusted her.

Mathew and Ciara’s van pulls up outside the shop. Ciara leaps out, wearing an eighties spangly jumpsuit and trainers. They open the back doors and start sliding out the goods.

‘Hello, David Bowie.’

She grins. ‘Man did we find some treasures over there, you’re going to love them. Anything exciting happen here?’

‘No. It’s been quiet.’

Mathew races by with two rolled-up carpets under his arm, announcing in his thick Australian accent, ‘We’ll have more rugs than a bald man’s house.’

Bald. I think of Angela’s funeral, her display of wigs, the letters hidden beneath for her family.

She studies me. ‘You good?’

‘Yes, Ciara.’ She asks me at least every ten minutes.

She waits for Mathew to disappear into the stockroom. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. Again. I really feel responsible for everything that’s happened.’

‘Ciara, stop—’

‘No, I won’t. If I’ve set you back, if I’ve fucked up everything, I’m so so sorry. Please, tell me what I can do to fix it.’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong, things happened, and it’s not your fault. But if Joy or anyone else from the club comes by, tell them I’m not interested, OK?’

‘Yeah. Of course. I told that guy yesterday not to come back.’

‘What guy?’

‘He said he was from the club. His name was … doesn’t matter what his name is. He’s not coming back, I made it very clear to leave you alone, especially at your place of work, it’s not right.’

My heart pounds with anger. ‘So they are coming here.’

‘They?’

‘The club members. There was a girl earlier. She’d been in here before, she was looking at me oddly. Accused me of accusing her of stealing. She must be with them too.’

‘No …’ Ciara studies me with concern. ‘I mean, you can’t think that everyone in here that looks at you is from the club.’

‘The woman said they had five members, four members left. My ghost of Christmas past, of present and today of future have all paid me a little visit. They’re never going to leave me alone, are they?’ I ask, the anger pumping through me at this invasion of my nice normal stable happy moving-on life. ‘You know what, I’m going to meet with them. I’m going to meet this little club and tell them in no uncertain terms to leave me alone. Where is that woman’s number?’ I start rifling through the drawers.

‘Joy?’ Ciara asks, concerned. ‘Maybe you’d be better to leave it, Holly, I think they’ll get the message eventually.’

I find the slip of paper and grab my phone. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ I hurry to the door, I need to make this call outside.

‘Holly,’ Ciara calls after me. ‘Remember, they’re sick. They’re not nasty people. Be kind.’

I step outside, close the door and walk away from the shop, dialling Joy’s number. I’m going to tell this club to leave me alone once and for all.




7 (#ulink_8cae2247-7af7-518b-9488-f2f92b144fdb)


The PS, I Love You Club gather in Joy’s conservatory, the 1 April morning sun heating the glass room. Her blond Labrador snoozes on the hot tiles, in the path of the sunlight in the centre of the room. We have to step around him to get anywhere. I look at the club members seated in front of me, feeling awkward and annoyed. I’d arranged to meet with Joy to deliver my well-rehearsed, polite but firm refusal to her invitation to be involved, but I hadn’t bargained on everyone else being here. Clearly, she understood my request to meet as meaning entirely the opposite, and I wish now that I’d told her over the phone instead of opting to come here for an honourable face-to-face rebuff.

‘He’s a lazy lump, aren’t you, my old friend,’ Joy says, gazing fondly at the dog as she places a cup of tea and a heaped plate of biscuits on the table beside me. ‘We got him when we first heard my diagnosis, thinking he’d be company, a distraction for everyone, and he’s served us well. He’s nine,’ she says defiantly. ‘I have MS. Multiple Sclerosis.’

Bert, a big man in his late sixties, oxygen being fed to him through a nasal cannula, goes next. ‘Too handsome for my own good,’ he says, winking.

Paul and Joy chuckle, Ginika rolls her eyes, the teenager caught amongst the bad dad jokes. I’d been right about the girl in the shop, I’m not paranoid after all. I smile politely.

‘Lungs. Emphysema,’ Bert corrects himself, laughing at his joke.

Paul next. He’s younger than Bert and Joy, closer to my age. Handsome, deceivingly healthy-looking, and the second mystery person to have visited the shop, and turned away by Ciara. ‘A brain tumour.’

Young man, handsome man, brain tumour. Just like Gerry. It’s too close. I should leave, but when’s a good time to get up and leave when a young man is telling you about his cancer?

‘But my situation is a little different to the others,’ he adds. ‘I’m in remission.’

A slight weight lifts. ‘That’s great news.’

‘Yes,’ he says, not at all appearing like it’s great news. ‘This is my second time, in remission, it’s quite regular for brain tumours to recur. I wasn’t ready to go the first time round. If it recurs again, I want to be prepared for my family.’

I nod. My chest tightens a bit more; even in remission he is preparing for his death, in fear of the tumour recurring. ‘My husband had primary brain cancer,’ I feel the need to add, by way of conversation, but as soon as the words have left my mouth I realise it’s not a great talking point. We all know my husband died.

I came here to put an end to this before my involvement began, but as soon as I walked in the door and saw the group, I felt the hourglass had been flipped. Now that the grains of sand are falling, I wonder if perhaps my being here this once will be all I need to do. I can ease my guilt, try to be of help, then go back to my life. It will only take an hour.

I look to the teenager beside me, Ginika. Perhaps this visit will end their stalking of me. It will have to, because I will tell them in no uncertain terms to stop. Her baby, Jewel, is contently sitting on her lap, playing with the bangles around Ginika’s wrist. Feeling the attention on her, Ginika speaks without lifting her gaze from the floor.

‘Cervical cancer,’ she says, firmly, her back teeth pushed together as she forces the words out. She’s angry.

OK. OK. Tell them, get it over with. Tell them you don’t want to be here, that you can’t help them. A silence falls.

‘As you can see we’re all in various stages of our illnesses,’ Joy, the voice of the group says. ‘MS isn’t a terminal illness but a life-long condition and lately my symptoms are advancing. Angela seemed to be responding well to treatment but then declined rapidly. Paul is in a great place, physically, but … none of us really know – we’re all up and down, aren’t we,’ she says, looking around her comrades. ‘I think I can speak for us all when I say I don’t know how much quality time we have left. Still, we’re here, and that’s the main thing.’

They all nod to that, apart from Ginika, for whom being here now is not the main thing.

‘Some of us have ideas for our letters, others don’t. We would appreciate your insight.’

This is my window to extract myself. They are human, they will understand, and even if they don’t, what is it to me if they don’t care about my mental stability; I must put myself first. I sit forward. ‘I need to explain—’

‘I have my idea,’ Bert leaps in. He’s breathless as he speaks, though this doesn’t seem to limit the amount of words he uses. ‘It’s a treasure trail for my wife Rita, and I could do with your help to place clues all around the country.’

‘Around the country?’

‘It’s like a pub quiz. For example, question one: where did Brian Boru lose his life in his final battle? And so Rita goes to Clontarf and I’ll have the next clue waiting for her there.’ A fit of coughing takes over.

I blink. Not quite what I’d expected to hear.

‘I think you’re being a cheapskate,’ Paul teases. ‘You should send Rita to Lanzarote like Gerry did for Holly.’

‘Get away out of that,’ Bert snorts, and folds his arms high on his chest and looks to me. ‘Why did he send you there?’

‘It was their honeymoon destination,’ Paul answers on my behalf.

‘Ooh yes!’ Joy closes her eyes dreamily. ‘And that’s where you saw the dolphins, isn’t it?’

My head is spinning as they speak about my experience as though it was an episode of some TV reality show. Watercooler chat.

‘He left the tickets with the travel agent for her to collect,’ Ginika tells Bert.

‘Ah yes,’ he says, remembering.

‘What was the connection to the dolphins? I don’t think you said in the podcast,’ Paul asks, reaching for a chocolate biscuit. Their eyes are on me and I feel peculiar, hearing them speak about Gerry’s letters like this. I know I spoke about them briefly with Ciara, in a small shop in front of thirty people, but somehow I forgot about the fact it could go further, downloadable onto devices, to be listened to in people’s homes like entertainment. The way they are so casually discussing one of the biggest, deepest, darkest moments of my life, makes me feel far away, like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

I look from one to the other, trying to keep up with the speed of their conversation. Questions fly at me as if I’m a contestant on a quiz show, under a timer. I want to answer them, but I can’t think fast enough. My life can’t be summed up in rapid one-word answers, it requires context, scene-setting, explanations and emotional responses, not quick-fire rounds. To hear them speak of the process of writing and leaving these letters in such a cavalier way feels surreal and makes my blood boil. I want to shake them all and tell them to listen to themselves.

‘The letter I really want to know about is the one with the sunflower seeds. Is that really your favourite flower?’ Joy asks. ‘Did Gerry ask you to plant the seeds? I quite like that. I’d like to ask Joe to plant a tree or something, in my name, and then they’d look at it every day and they’d think of—’

‘How many years you’ve been gone,’ I interrupt, without thinking. My voice is sharper than I intend.

‘Oh,’ she says, surprised, then disappointed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of it like that. Just something for them to remember me by.’ She looks to the club for backup.

‘But they will remember you. They’ll remember you every second of every day. They won’t be able to stop remembering you. Everything they say, everything they smell, taste, hear, absolutely everything in their lives is linked to you. In a way, you will haunt them. You will be constantly in their thoughts even when they don’t want you there, because they’ll need you gone so that they can get through, and then there are days when they’ll need you there in order for them to get through. Sometimes they’d do anything to not think of you. They won’t need extra plants and trees to see you, they won’t need a quiz to remember you by. Do you understand?’

Joy nods quickly and I realise I’ve raised my voice. I’ve sounded angry when I haven’t meant to. I check myself, reign myself in. I’m surprised by my reaction, by the harshness of my tone.

‘Holly, you liked Gerry’s letters, didn’t you?’ Paul asks, breaking the stunned silence.

‘Yes, of course!’ I hear the defensiveness in my voice. Of course I did. I lived for those letters.

‘Only, it sounds a bit like—’ Paul begins, but he’s interrupted by Joy’s hand on his knee. He looks down at her hand.

‘It sounds like what?’

‘Nothing.’ He holds his hands up defensively.

‘You’re right, Holly,’ Joy says slowly, thoughtfully, studying me as she speaks. ‘Maybe they would see it as a marker of my death rather than a way of celebrating my life. Is that how the sunflowers made you feel?’

I feel sweaty. Hot.

‘No. I liked the sunflowers.’ Again I hear my words, so carefully guarded they sound armour-plated. ‘I plant them on the same day every year. Gerry didn’t tell me to do that. I just decided it was something I wanted to continue.’

Joy is impressed by that idea, makes a note of it in her diary. I don’t tell them that it was my brother Richard’s idea, that he planted them and kept them alive. But I looked at them. I looked at them all the time. Sometimes I couldn’t bear the sight of them, other times I was drawn to them; on the good days, I barely noticed they were there.

Joy continues to muse while I squirm uncomfortably. ‘Plant something on the same date every year. Maybe the date of my passing – or, no—’ She stops and looks at me, biro pointed at my face. ‘My birthday. More positive.’

I nod weakly.

‘I don’t have a good imagination for this kind of thing,’ she sighs.

‘I do,’ Bert says; it’s his turn to be the defensive one. ‘I have it all planned out. I got the idea from my local. I love a table quiz. She’ll have great fun, we haven’t travelled for so long because of this thing,’ he says, throwing a thumb at his oxygen tank.

‘What if she doesn’t know the answers?’ I ask.

They look at me.

‘Of course she’ll know. It will be a general knowledge quiz. Where was Brian Boru defeated? Which group of islands give their name to a sweater? Where was Christy Moore from? And then off she’ll go to Limerick for the next clue.’

‘Christy Moore is from Kildare,’ I say.

‘What? No, he’s not,’ he says. ‘Sure, I listen to him all the time.’

Paul gets on his phone to google it. ‘Kildare.’

‘For feck sake, Bert,’ Ginika says, rolling her eyes. ‘This isn’t going to work if you don’t know the answers to your own bleedin’ questions. And which of the Aran Islands is she supposed to go to? And which building? Is she going to find your letter on the ground when she steps off the boat? Will it be bobbing up and down in a bottle on the beach? You have to narrow it down.’

Paul and Joy laugh. I can’t. It’s too surreal. How have I ended up deep in this conversation?

‘Ah stop it, the lot of you,’ Bert says, getting agitated.

‘Thank God we have Holly here to guide us,’ Joy says, looking away from them and to me with a perplexed frown. As if to say, See? This is why we need you.

She’s right to be concerned. This is serious, they need to end these antics. I need to help them refocus. ‘Bert, what if your wife doesn’t know the answers? She will be grieving. It’s a brain scrambler, believe me. She might feel under pressure, like it’s a test. Maybe you should write the answers down and leave them with somebody for her.’

‘Then she’ll cheat!’ he exclaims. ‘The whole reason for this is to get her out there, thinking.’ He breaks into racking coughs again.

‘Give your answers to Holly,’ Joy says. ‘And if Rita gets stuck on one, she can call Holly.’

My stomach heaves. Heart flips. I’m only here for the hour. One hour, nothing more. Tell them, Holly, tell them.

‘Holly, you can be the guardian of our notes, if you will,’ Bert says, saluting me. ‘As we head off to war.’

This is not what I’d planned. I had convinced myself that I could sit with them for an hour, hear their ideas for their letters, guide them, and then extract myself from their lives. I don’t want to be invested. If Gerry had had someone helping him with his letters, I would have besieged them with questions. I would have wanted to know more and more, pressing them for every last detail of his secret moments away from me. I’d practically invited the travel guide, Barbara, to my house on Christmas Day for drinks, trying to make her a part of my life, before I realised the imposition I was putting on her. She couldn’t provide me with any more information, I was squeezing her dry of what had been a short experience, pleading with her to share it with me over and over again.

And here they are, making plans for me to be their gatekeeper after their deaths, these strangers. They’ll be gone, and the advice I give them will affect their loved ones forever more. I should leave immediately, before I get too involved, before it’s too late. I should stick to the plan. I came here to tell them ‘no’.

‘Oh, would you look at that,’ Joy says, pouring the last of the tea into her cup, and filling it so that tea spills out over the rim and pools on her saucer. ‘We’re out of tea. Holly, would you mind?’

Taking the teapot in a dazed state, I step over the dog and leave the room. As I’m standing waiting for the kettle to boil, trying to figure out how to escape this nightmare, feeling trapped and panicked, I hear a door off the kitchen opening, a man coming inside and wiping his feet on the mat. He steps into the kitchen as I ready myself for our greeting.

‘Oh,’ the man says. ‘Hello. You must be with the book club.’

I pause. ‘Yes, yes, the book club,’ I reply, putting the kettle down and wiping my wet hands on my jeans.

‘I’m Joe – Joy’s husband.’

‘I’m Holly.’

He shakes my hand, studies me. ‘You look … well … Holly.’

‘I am very well,’ I laugh, and it’s a split second later that I catch his meaning. He may not know the real reason behind the supposed book club, but he has figured out that its members are not at all well.

‘Good to hear it.’

‘I was about to leave, actually,’ I say. ‘Just topping up the tea before I go. I’m late, for an appointment. I’ve cancelled it twice before and really can’t again, or I’ll never get another one,’ I blather on.

‘Well, off you go, can’t have you missing it again. I’ll make the tea.’

‘Thank you.’ I hand him the teapot. ‘Do you mind giving them my apologies that I had to leave?’

‘Not at all,’ he says.

I back away in the direction of the front door. I can easily make my escape. But something about his movements stops me and I watch him.

He opens a cupboard and then another. Scratches his head. ‘Tea, you say?’ he says, pulling open a drawer. He scratches his head. ‘I’m not sure …’ he mumbles as he searches.

I step back closer to him, reach to the cupboard above the kettle and open the door, revealing the box of tea. ‘Here it is.’

‘Ah,’ he says, sliding closed the bottom drawer containing pots and pans. ‘That’s where that is. Joy always makes the tea. They’ll probably want the sugar bowl too.’ He starts opening more cupboards. He looks back at me. ‘Off you go now, don’t want you missing that appointment.’

I open the cupboard again. It’s beside the tea. ‘Found it.’

He turns suddenly and knocks over a vase of flowers. I hurry to help him and mop up the water with a dishcloth. When I’ve finished, the dishcloth is unusable. ‘Where’s your washing machine?’

‘Oh, I’d say that it’s …’ he looks around again.

I open the wooden cupboard beside the dishwasher and find the washing machine.

‘There it is,’ he says. ‘You know your way around here better than I do. Truth be told, it’s Joy that does everything in here,’ he admits guiltily as if I couldn’t have guessed. ‘Always said I’d be lost without her.’ It feels like something he’s always said, and now it has real meaning. Life without Joy, as he knows her, is nearing. It’s real.

‘How is she doing?’ I ask. ‘She seems very positive.’

‘Joy is always upbeat, to others anyway, but it’s got harder for her. She went through a period where nothing changed, she didn’t worsen. We thought that was it, but then it advanced – and it’s when it advances that the body declines.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. ‘For you both.’

He purses his lips and nods. ‘But I do know where the milk is,’ he says, perking up and pulling open a door.

A broom falls out.

We both start laughing.

‘You’d best be off to your appointment,’ he says again. ‘I know how they can be. Waiting list after waiting list, life is one big waiting room.’

‘It’s OK.’ I pick the broom up from the floor, the desire to run gone. I sigh to myself. ‘It can wait.’

When I return to the group with the replenished tea, Bert has faded. Whatever burst of energy his medication gave him for the hour has worn off, leaving him exhausted. As if anticipating this, his carer has arrived to collect him.

‘Why don’t we talk about this in detail the next time we meet,’ Bert taps his nose in a secretive but terribly obvious manner, and jerks his head towards the sound of his carer speaking with Joe in the hallway. His chin wobbles as he moves. ‘And not in my house, because Rita will be suspicious.’

‘Here,’ Joy says. ‘We can all meet here again.’

‘That’s unfair on you, Joy,’ Paul says.

‘I can take over from where Angela left off. I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she says firmly, and it’s clear, at least to me, that it suits Joy in more ways than one to remain in her home.

‘Good for me,’ Bert says. ‘How about two days from now, same time? If we meet tomorrow, Rita will be jealous of Joy.’ He chuckles and winks. ‘Will you come back to us, Holly?’

Everyone looks at me again.

I should not get involved in this club. I do not want to get involved in this club. It can’t be healthy.

But everyone is looking at me, hopeful and expectant. Ginika’s baby Jewel lets out a sound, as if she’s joining in, trying to convince me along with the group. She makes happy bubbling sounds. She is six months old, she could be a one-year-old when her mother dies.

I look around at them all, this motley crew. Bert is struggling to breathe, Joy is barely holding herself together. I’ve been here before, I know how short six months can be, how quickly everything can change, how health can deteriorate in two weeks, how twenty-four hours can change it all.

I read an article on how the clocks stand still to keep our time in sync with the universe. It’s called the leap second: a one-second adjustment applied to the coordinated universal time because the Earth’s rotation speed changes irregularly. A positive leap second is inserted between second 23:59:59 and second 00:00:00 of the following date, offering an extra second in our lives. News articles and magazine features have posed the question, what can happen in a second? What can we achieve with this extra time?

In one second, almost two and a half million emails are sent, the universe expands fifteen kilometres and thirty stars explode, a honey bee can flap its wings two hundred times, the fastest snail travels 1.3 centimetres, objects can fall sixteen feet, and ‘Will you marry me?’ can change a life.

Four babies are born. Two people die.

One second can be the difference between life and death.

Their expectant faces peer up at me, waiting, hoping.

‘Let’s give her time to think about it,’ Joy says softly, but her disappointment is obvious. They all back off.




8 (#ulink_c077e658-a88e-532d-b493-9e45a737729e)


Rage has returned and it rushes through me. I am angry, I am seething. I want to scream. I need to shout it off, cry it off, exorcise it before I cycle home. My bicycle could surely not take the extra weight, couldn’t cope with the ever-shifting emotional imbalance. I cycle out of sight of Joy’s home, dismount, lazily discard the bike on the ground, and hunker down, leaning against a painted white popcorn wall that digs into my back. The PS, I Love You Club are not Gerry but they do represent him, his journey, his struggles, his intent. I always felt in my heart that the point of Gerry’s letters was to guide me, and yet the motivation for these people is fear of being forgotten. It breaks my heart and makes me furious. Because, Gerry, my love, how could you ever feel that I’d forget you, that I could forget you?

Perhaps the root of my rage is that I lied to Ciara about not still feeling his presence. I could never forget him, but Gerry is blurring. Though he lives on in the stories we share and in my memory, it is becoming harder to summon the vivid living, moving, fluid, animated Gerry to mind. I don’t want to forget him, but the more I move on and the more new experiences I have, the more the old memories get pushed aside. Selling the house, moving in with Gabriel … Life won’t let me stay still and remember. No. I made a decision that I wouldn’t allow myself to stay still and remember. Waiting … waiting for what, a reunion in death that I don’t even know will happen?

‘Hi.’ I hear a voice beside me and I jump to my feet, startled.

‘Ginika, hi, you gave me a fright.’

She examines my bike, where I’m standing, the way I’m standing. Perhaps she recognises a hiding place when she sees one. ‘You’re not coming back, are you?’

‘I said that I’d think about it,’ I reply weakly. I’m pissed off, I’m agitated. I don’t know what the hell I want.

‘Nah. You’re not. It’s OK. It’s all a bit weird anyway, isn’t it? Us lot? Still, it gives us something to do. Something to focus on, thinking about our letters.’

I exhale slowly. I can’t be angry at Ginika. ‘Do you have an idea of what you want to do?’

‘Yeah,’ she adjusts her grip on Jewel’s thigh as the baby sits on her hip. ‘But it’s not, like, smart the way the others’ ideas are.’

‘It doesn’t have to be smart, just yours. What’s your idea?’

She’s embarrassed and avoids eye contact. ‘It’s a letter, that’s all. One letter. From me to Jewel.’

‘That’s lovely. It’s perfect.’

She seems to prepare herself to say something and I brace myself. She’s firm, strong, shoots from the hip, a hip loaded with a baby she made.

‘You weren’t right in there, what you said, about everyone remembering us when we’re gone. She won’t remember me.’ She holds her baby tighter. ‘She won’t remember anything about me. Not my smell or nothing of the things you said. She’s not going to look at anything and think of me. Whether it’s good or bad. Ever.’

She’s right. I hadn’t considered that.

‘That’s why I have to tell her everything. Everything from the start, all the things about me that she knows now but won’t remember, and all the things about her as a baby, because there’ll be no one to tell her. Because if I don’t write it all down about her, then she’ll never know. All she’ll have of me is one letter for the rest of her life, and that letter has to be from me. About me and her. Everything about us that only we know and that she won’t remember.’

‘That’s a beautiful idea, Ginika, it’s perfect. I’m sure Jewel will treasure it.’ These are feathery kinds of words in response to the weight of her reality but I have to say something.

‘I can’t write it.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘No, I mean. I can’t write. I can barely read. I can’t do it.’

‘Oh.’

‘I left school. I didn’t, couldn’t keep up’ She looks around, embarrassed. ‘I can’t even read that sign up there.’

I look up at the road sign. I’m about to tell her that it says No Through Road but I realise it doesn’t matter.

‘Can’t read my baby bedtime stories. Can’t read the instructions on my medication. Can’t read the hospital paperwork. Can’t read directions. Can’t read buses. I know you’re so smart and all, you probably don’t understand.’

‘I’m really not smart Ginika,’ I say, with a bitter laugh. If I had been smart I wouldn’t have gone to Joy’s house today, I wouldn’t be in this position now. If I was smart, if I could think clearly through the mush and the fog, then I would know exactly what to do next, instead of standing here, feeling completely emotionally incapacitated, this supposedly experienced adult facing a teenager, unable to aid or guide. I’m reaching out and grasping for golden nuggets of advice and inspiration, but my hands flail uselessly in the emptiness. Too wrapped up trying to clean the shit off my own wings instead of helping a younger woman to fly.

‘I don’t ask for help,’ Ginika says. ‘I’ve always been able to do everything myself. Don’t need no one else.’ She shifts Jewel’s weight to her left hip. ‘But I need help writing the letter,’ she says it as though she’s pushing it out through her teeth, it’s that hard for her to say.

‘Why don’t you ask somebody in the club to write the letter for you?’ I suggest, trying to weasel myself out of the equation. ‘I’m sure Joy would be wonderful. You can tell her exactly what you want to say and she can write it down, exactly as you want. You can trust her.’

‘No. I want to write it myself. I want to learn how to write this letter for her. Then she’ll know that I done something good for her, because of her. And I don’t want to ask any of them. They mean well, but they haven’t a clue. I’m asking you to help me.’

I look at her, feeling stunned, frozen, by the magnitude of this request. ‘You want me to teach you how to write?’ I ask slowly.

‘Can you?’ she looks at me, her large brown eyes deep and pleading.

I feel that I should say yes; I know that I shouldn’t.

‘Can I …’ I begin nervously, then shut down my emotions, the desire to protect myself is too great. ‘I’d like to take some time to think about it.’

Ginika’s shoulders drop instantly, her demeanour slackens. She has swallowed her pride and asked for help and, selfish coward that I am, I can’t bring myself to say yes.

I know it’s prosaic, I know it’s tedious to say this after so much time has passed, when everything is OK, when I am more than a woman in grief, but sometimes something sets me off and everything gets tilted. I lose him all over again and all I am is a woman in grief.

The smashing of his favourite Star Wars mug. Discarding our bedsheets. When his clothes lost his smell. The broken coffee machine, the sun we’d rotated every day like two desperate planets. Small losses but huge. We all have something that unexpectedly derails us when we are motoring smoothly, blissfully, ardently. This encounter with the club is mine. And it hurts.

My instinct is to move inward, recoil, curl in a ball like a hedgehog, but never hide or run. Problems are excellent hunters with their flaring nostrils and sharp teeth; their special sensory organs ensure there is no place they can’t find you. They like nothing more than to be in control, on top, predator to you the prey. Hiding from them gives them power, even feeds their strength. A face-to-face meeting is what is required, but on your own terms, in your own territory. I go to the place where I process and acknowledge what is happening. I ask for help; I ask it of myself. I know the only person who can ultimately cure me is me. It’s in our nature. My troubled mind calls out to my roots to dig deep and steady myself.

I cycle away from Ginika, my heart pounding, my legs feeling shaky, but I don’t go home. As if I’m a homing pigeon, an inner compass takes over and I find myself at the graveyard staring at a Columbarium Wall. I read the familiar words of one of Gerry’s favourite phrases, and wonder just how and when the past started chasing me, when I started running, and the moment it caught me. I wonder how on earth all that I worked so hard to build up has so suddenly come crashing down.

Damn you, Gerry. You came back.




9 (#ulink_3659b498-adbb-57df-9147-6c7dd495a0ba)


I watch the ‘For Sale’ sign being hammered into the soil in the front garden.

‘I’m glad we finally got to do this,’ the estate agent breaks into my thoughts.

I’d made the decision to sell the house in January, and it’s now April. I’d cancelled our appointment a few times, a representation of the yin-yang pendulum swinging in my newly altered state of mind, though I told Gabriel it was because the estate agent kept cancelling. I had to arm-wrestle his phone to the floor when he threatened to give her a piece of his mind. My reluctance has not been because I’ve changed my mind, but because I seem to have lost the ability to focus my mind on ordinary tasks. Though as I watch the ‘For Sale’ sign’s violent disturbance of the peaceful daffodil beds, I acknowledge this task is not ordinary.

‘I’m sorry, Helen, my schedule kept changing.’

‘I understand. We all lead busy lives. The good news is I have a list of very interested people – it’s the ideal starter home. So I’ll be in touch with you very soon to organise viewings.’

A starter home. I look out the window at the sign. I’ll miss the garden, not miss doing the physical work which I delegated to my landscaper brother Richard anyway, but I’ll miss the view and the escape. He created a haven for me, one that I could disappear to when I craved it. He will miss this garden and I will miss the connection we have because of this garden; it binds us together. Gabriel’s house has a courtyard in the back, with a beautiful lone mature pink cherry blossom tree. I sit and gaze at it from his conservatory, captivated by it when in bloom and willing it on in winter. I wonder if I should grow new plants, how Gabriel will feel about a pot of sunflowers, in keeping with my annual tradition since Gerry sent me the seeds in one of his ten letters. If this is my starter home, does that mean Gabriel’s house is the main event? Or is there a third course with him or another person that I have to look forward to?

Helen is staring at me. ‘Can I ask a question? It’s about the podcast. It was wonderful, incredibly moving, I had no idea what you’d been through.’

I’m put out, not ready for the sudden veering into my personal life and thoughts in the middle of a regular life moment.

‘My sister’s husband died. Heart attack, out of the blue. Only fifty-four.’

Twenty-four more years than Gerry had. I used to do that; a calculation of how many more years people had with their loved ones than I managed. It’s cold but it used to help feed the bitterness that occasionally came to life and chomped at every hopeful thing around it. Apparently the gift has returned to me.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thanks. I was wondering … did you meet somebody else?’

I’m taken aback.

‘In your husband’s final letter, he gave you consent, his permission to meet somebody else. That seems so … unusual. I can’t imagine my brother-in-law doing that. I can’t imagine her with anyone else anyway. Xavier and Janine. Just rolls off the tongue, you know.’

Not quite, but that’s the point, isn’t it. People who don’t fit together suddenly do and then you can’t imagine anyone else fitting at all. Circumstance and happenstance collide to synchronise two people who until then repelled each other, so they find themselves pulled into a net electric field. Love; as natural as shifting tectonic plates with seismic results.

‘No.’

She seems uncomfortable at having asked, starts to backtrack. ‘I suppose there’s only one real true love. You’re lucky you had him at all,’ she blurts. ‘At least, that’s what my sister says. OK, so I’ll get this in motion, and I’ll call you as soon as I have viewings arranged.’

It may seem like a lie, that I’m a Judas to my Gabriel, but I didn’t mean to tell her that I haven’t found love again. It was her paraphrasing of Gerry’s final letter that I took issue with. I did not receive nor did I need Gerry’s consent or permission to fall in love again; that human right to choose who I love and when I love has always lain with me. What Gerry did was provide a blessing, and it was this blessing that boomed the loudest in the scared, excited Greek chorus of my mind when I began dating again. His blessing fed a desire that already lived within me. Humans possess insatiable longings for wealth, status, and power, but are hungry, most of all, for love.

‘Which room did it happen in?’ she asks.

‘His death?’ I ask, in surprise.

‘No!’ she says, aghast. ‘Where were they written, or discovered, or read? I thought that might help with the tour of the house. It’s always nice to have a little story. The room where the wonderful PS, I Love You letters were written,’ she says, grinning, her salesperson head on full blast.

‘It was the dining room,’ I say, making it up. I don’t know where Gerry wrote the letters, I’ll never know, and I read them in every room, all the time, over and over again. ‘The same room he died in. You can tell them that too.’

His breath, hot, against my face. His sunken cheeks, his pale skin. His body is dying, his soul is still here.

‘See you on the other side,’ he whispers. ‘Sixty years. Be there or be square.’

He’s still trying to be funny, the only way he can cope. My fingers on his lips, my lips on his. Inhale his breath, inhale his words. Words mean he’s alive.

Not yet, not yet. Don’t go yet.

‘I’ll see you everywhere.’ My reply.

We never speak again.




10 (#ulink_a6e0d180-3273-5f90-a206-0fb9707989d7)


I study Denise for a hint of what to expect. She seems calm, but impossible to read, and that’s always how Denise announces these things. I recall her face when she announced her engagement, her apartment, her promotion, coveted shoes bagged in a sale: any announcement of good news has been preceded by this solemn expression, to trick us into thinking she’s going to deliver bad news.

‘No.’ She shakes her head and her face crumples.

‘Oh sweetie,’ Sharon says, reaching for her and embracing her.

I haven’t seen the old bubbly Denise for a few years. She is tamer, quieter, distracted. I see her less often. She’s exhausted, constantly putting her body under stress. This is the third course of IVF that has failed in six years.

‘That’s it, we can’t do it any more.’

‘You can keep trying,’ Sharon says, in soothing tones. ‘I know somebody who went through seven courses.’

Denise cries harder. ‘I can’t do this four more times.’ There is pain in her voice. ‘We can’t afford one more time. This has wiped us out.’ She wipes her eyes roughly, sadness turned to anger. ‘I need a drink.’ She stands. ‘Wine?’

‘Let me get it,’ I say, standing.

‘No,’ she snaps. ‘I’m getting it.’

I hurriedly sit.

‘You’ll have one too, Sharon,’ I say in a tone that I hope she can decipher. I want her to order the wine, sit with it, pretend to drink it, anything to draw attention away from the fact Sharon currently has something growing inside her that is the only thing Denise wants. But Sharon isn’t getting it. She thinks that I’ve forgotten. She’s making ridiculous wide-open eyes in an attempt to secretly remind me, but Denise watches this pantomime act and knows at once that something is up.

‘Sparkling water is fine,’ Sharon says to Denise finally.

I sigh and sit back. All she had to do was order the damn thing. Denise wouldn’t have noticed. Denise’s eyes run over Sharon’s body, as if she’s carrying out her own ultrasound.

‘Congratulations,’ Denise says flatly, before continuing to the bar.

‘Fuck,’ Sharon says, breathing out.

‘You should have just ordered the drink,’ I sing. ‘That’s all you had to do.’

‘I know, I get it now, but I couldn’t figure out what you were doing – I thought you’d forgotten. Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she says, holding her hand to her head. ‘Poor Denise.’

‘Poor you.’

Denise returns to the table. She sets down the glasses of wine and the sparkling water, then reaches over to hug Sharon. They hold each other for a long time.

I take a large gulp of wine that burns going down my throat. ‘Can I run something by you both?’

‘Sure,’ Denise says, concerned and happy to be distracted.

‘After the Magpie podcast, a woman from the audience was so moved by what she heard she set up a club, called the PS, I Love You Club. It’s made up of people who are ill, and they want to write letters to their loved ones, the way Gerry did.’

‘Oh my …’ Denise says, looking at me with wide eyes.

‘They reached out to me and want me to help them write their letters.’

Sharon and Denise share a concerned look, each trying to figure out how the other feels.

‘I need your honest opinions, please.’

‘Do you want to help them?’ Denise asks.

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘But then I think about what I’d be helping them with, I know the value of what they’re doing and I feel slightly obligated.’

‘You are not obligated,’ Sharon says firmly.

They’re both pensive.

‘On the positive side,’ Denise begins, ‘It’s beautiful that they asked you.’

The beauty of it we cannot deny.

‘On the realistic side,’ Sharon steps in, ‘for you, it would be like reliving the entire thing. It would be going backwards.’

She echoes Gabriel’s podcast concerns and half of my family’s feelings on the matter too. I look from one to the other like it’s a tennis match, my two best friends replaying the exact same conversation I’ve had in my head all week.

‘Unless it would actually take her forward. She’s moved on,’ Denise defends it. ‘She’s a different Holly now. She has a new life. She works. She washes herself. She’s selling her house, she’s moving in with the sexy tree-man.’

The more Denise speaks, the more nervous I get. These are all things I worked hard to achieve. They cannot become undone.

Sharon is studying me, concerned. ‘How ill are they?’

‘Sharon,’ Denise elbows her. ‘Ill is ill.’

‘Ill is not ill. There’s ill and then there’s …’ she sticks her tongue out and closes her eyes.

‘Ugly?’ Denise finishes.

‘They aren’t all terminally ill,’ I admit, attempting a hopeful tone. ‘One guy, Paul, is in remission and Joy, has a life-long … deteriorating condition.’

‘Well, isn’t that a rosy picture,’ Sharon says, sarcastically. She doesn’t like it. She fixes me with one of her scary mummy faces that takes no nonsense. ‘Holly, you need to be prepared. You’d be helping these people because they’re sick and they’re dying. You’re going to have to say goodbye over and over again.’

‘But imagine, how beautiful it could be,’ Denise changes the tone, to our surprise. ‘When they write the letters. When they die knowing they achieved it. When their loved ones read their letters. Think ahead to that part. Remember how we felt, Sharon, when Holly would open an envelope on the first day of every month? We couldn’t wait to get to her. Holly, you received a gift from Gerry and you are in a position to pass it on. If you are able to, if you feel it’s good for you, you should do it; if you think it will set you back, then don’t and don’t feel guilty about it.’

Wise words but a straight yes or no would have been more helpful.

‘What does Gabriel think?’ Sharon asks.

‘I haven’t told him yet, but I already know what he’ll say. He’ll say no.’

‘No?’ Sharon says, huffily. ‘You’re not asking him for his permission.’

‘I know but … I don’t even think it’s a good idea.’

‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ Sharon says in a final tone.

So why am I still asking the question?

I tune out of the rest of their conversation, my mind racing back and forth as it chases the options, grasping for a decision. I feel as though I should, I know that I shouldn’t.

We part, back to our lives, back to our problems.

To weave and unravel, to unravel and weave.




11 (#ulink_019b02a8-6c66-56ca-9e52-cb740a0f26a5)


It’s 2 a.m. and I pace the downstairs rooms of my house. There aren’t many. Living room to dining room to small U-shaped kitchen that only has enough standing room for two people, a toilet and shower room under the stairs. Which is ideal for me because it’s only me, and occasionally Gabriel. His house is nicer and we stay there more often. Mine and Gerry’s was a starter home; a new build in the suburbs of Dublin for us to begin the rest of our life together. Everything was shiny and new, clean, we were the first to use our shower, the kitchen, our bathroom. How excited we’d been to come from our rented flat to our own home with stairs for the first time.

I walk to the staircase and look up.

‘Holly!’ Gerry calls me.

He was standing where I’m standing now, at the foot of the stairs, hand on the banister.

‘Yes!’ I yell from upstairs.

‘Where are you?’

‘In the bathroom!’

‘Where? Upstairs?’

‘Gerry, our only bathroom is upstairs.’

‘Yes, but we have a toilet downstairs.’

I laugh, understanding. ‘Ah yes but I’m in the bathroom upstairs. Where are you? Are you downstairs?’

‘Yes! Yes, I’m here downstairs!’

‘OK great, I’ll see you in a minute when I come downstairs, from where I am upstairs!’

‘OK.’ Pause. ‘Be careful on the stairs. There’s a lot of them. Hold on to the banister!’

I smile at the memory, running my hand up and down the banister, touching all the places he touched, wanting to rub him on to me.

I haven’t done this late-night room wandering for years, not since the months after he passed, but now I feel the house is owed my attentive farewell. My mind is whirring with ideas. Bert’s quiz, Ginika’s letter, Joy’s trees and flowers notions; I didn’t ask Paul what he wants to do. They had more questions for me than I for them, about the dolphins, the holiday, the sunflowers. Sunflowers. My October letter from Gerry. A sunflower pressed between two cards and a pouch of seeds to brighten the dark October days you hate so much





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