Postscript

by Cecelia Ahern

  Out of the shower, I discover a missed call from Joy. Bert’s health has declined, he’s lost consciousness. She adds a panicked, ‘Are his letters ready and in place?’

  I choose an Edwardian script font to give Bert’s words a more grandiose effect and then wonder if it’s too grand, if I should keep it simple, if it’s all style and no substance. Other fonts seem too heartless, lacking soul, and even look like ransom letters from a maniac. Once I see that, I can’t unsee it. I play around and then go back to the Edwardian script because I think it’s the type of writing that Bert was aiming for but couldn’t pull off. I print Bert’s six notes on gold labels, I stick the labels on to midnight blue textured cards. I decorate the cardboard border with tiny stickers. The theme has meaning to me, Gerry’s phrase Shoot for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars, though I’m aware Rita will never understand this link. It’s just me feeling connected, stamping Gerry’s identity to this, though themed or not, it has his essence all over it as he planted the seed. I hope Rita likes stars. I hope Rita doesn’t feel this looks like a school project. I chose elegant ones, expensive ones. I slide Bert’s notes into gold envelopes, then I print out numbers, experimenting with different fonts. I lean the page of printed numbers against my computer and study them, hoping for one to jump out at me. So much is going on in my sleep-deprived, exhausted mind.

  As I sit here, writing the living words of a man taking his last breaths, it is not lost on me that I am writing Bert’s letters in possibly exactly the same place as Gerry wrote mine. I stay up all night until the sun starts to rise and sprinkle its hope on the world. By morning, the letters are finished and I hope that dear Bert has managed to cling on through the night.

  I am proud of myself for doing this. It is not breaking me as others, and I, thought it might. To look back, to go back, is not to be weak. It is not to reopen wounds. It takes strength, it takes courage. It takes a person who is more in control of who they are to cast a discerning, non-judgemental eye over who they once were. I know without doubt that revisiting me will encourage me, and everyone who is touched by my journey, to soar.

  ‘You’ve been up all night,’ Denise says behind me at the kitchen door, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired. She surveys the table.

  ‘You’re still living here,’ I reply, catatonic.

  ‘Another time,’ she replies. ‘Whose letters are these?’

  ‘Bert’s. His condition worsened last night. I need to get his letters ready.’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she says softly, sitting down. ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I say, rubbing my aching eyes, my head pounding from the tiredness. Denise watches me for a moment, thinking something that she doesn’t share and I’m glad of that, then she jumps into action, finding the remaining numbered labels on cards, and sliding them into their corresponding envelopes.

  She reads the first one she picks up. ‘He wrote poems?’

  ‘Limericks. It’s a mystery tour. He hints at a place, his wife goes there, finds the next note and so on.’

  ‘Sweet,’ she smiles, reading, before sliding it into the envelope. ‘Do you need to deliver these today?’

  ‘It’s part of my service. Bert can’t do it.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘You’ve got work.’

  ‘I can take the day off. We’ve got enough girls on the shop floor and frankly I could do with a distraction.’

  ‘Thank you, friend,’ I say, resting my head on her shoulder.

  ‘How is our man doing?’ Denise asks, watching me check my text message.

  His family are around him. His grandchildren have sung him hymns. Everyone has said their goodbyes.

  I read Joy’s text aloud. ‘Not long now.’

  As I’m locking the front door, I hear a car door slam behind me, followed by heavy footsteps in our direction. Feet on a mission.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Denise says nervously.

  ‘I knew it!’ Sharon announces.

  ‘Where are the kids?’ Denise asks.

  ‘With my mum, I have a scan today.’

  ‘But thought you’d do a little detective work first,’ Denise asks.

  ‘I called your house. Tom said you were staying here. Is it true?’

  ‘Denise is having a moment of doubt,’ I explain.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me?’

  ‘Because you’re highly judgemental and pass-remarkable. And you have no spare bedroom.’

  Sharon’s mouth falls open.

  ‘But mainly because you have no spare bedroom.’

  ‘I could have put Alex in with Gerard, that’s what I always do with guests.’

  ‘Yes, but then I have to share a bathroom and I don’t like sharing a bathroom.’

  ‘Holly only has one bathroom upstairs between two bedrooms.’

  ‘Yes, but she has a shower room downstairs.’

  I look from Sharon to Denise, to see if this conversation is serious. It is. ‘If you two want to continue this conversation, you’re welcome to go in and use the house, but I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘You don’t work on Mondays,’ Sharon says, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at me. ‘The shop’s closed. Where are you both going?’

  ‘To deliver some love letters,’ Denise sings happily.

  Sharon’s eyes widen. ‘The PS, I Love You letters?’

  ‘Yes!’ Denise says, opening the car door and sitting into the passenger seat.

  ‘Why do you tease her so much?’ I ask as I pull the driver’s door closed.

  ‘Because it’s so easy to wind her up.’

  I start the engine, lower my window and look at Sharon standing open-mouthed staring at the two of us. She looks exhausted. She could do with an adventure.

  ‘Would you like to come too?’ I offer.

  She smiles and climbs into the back seat.

  ‘This is kind of like old times,’ I reply, looking at the three of us together.

  ‘Can I see the letters?’ Sharon asks.

  Denise passes them back to her.

  ‘Are you in on this too?’

  ‘I’ve helped mind a baby while Holly teaches her mum to read and write,’ Denise explains.

  ‘You’re teaching a person to read and write?’ Sharon asks, surprised.

  ‘Trying,’ I reply, reversing. I wait for a smart remark. People get desperate on their deathbeds, don’t they? Something, anything to belittle what I’m doing, but it doesn’t come.

  ‘Nice presentation,’ Sharon says, sliding out the first limerick to read aloud.

  There once was a boy at Chrysanthemum

  Who paused for the National Anthem

  He saw a vision in blue

  It was you, always you

  Till my heart stops I’ll live it verbatim.

  ‘How sweet,’ Sharon says. ‘Where does it lead to?’

  ‘The Chrysanthemum was a dance hall. They met in the sixties, the show band that night was called The Dawnbreakers. But it’s too early, the venue won’t be open, so we’re going to the second location first.’

  Sharon flicks on to the next envelope and reads.

  There once was a man on a date

  Who used a woman’s love of poems as bait

  They sat on the bench

  Her lips he did quench

  And the kiss sealed the love-struck fool’s fate

  ‘Their first kiss?’ she asks.

  ‘Bingo.’

  The place of Bert and Rita’s first kiss in 1968 was on Patrick Kavanagh’s bench on the north banks of the Grand Canal on Mespil Road, where there’s a life-sized statue of Kavanagh sitting on one side of the bench, welcoming a stranger to sit beside him. We stand by the bench and I imagine Bert and Rita here all those years ago, sharing their first kiss, and I feel moved. I look up at the girls, tears in my eyes but Sharon’s expression couldn’t be more different to mine.

  ‘This isn’t where you leave the second envelope.’

  ‘It is.’

/>   ‘No, it’s not. The first limerick leads to the dance hall, then you leave the second envelope there, which leads here. This is where you leave the third envelope.’

  Denise and I look at each other, wide-eyed. How the hell did we make that mistake? It’s not rocket science.

  ‘I bet you’re glad you brought me,’ she says, sitting down beside Patrick Kavanagh, with a satisfied look on her face. ‘And where are you going to leave the envelope?’ she asks, still smug. ‘With Paddy here?’ She looks at Patrick Kavanagh. ‘Paddy, I fear our friend has not thought this through, her grand master plan is turning to poo.’

  Denise cackles her dirty laugh again, which irritates me. I throw an angry look at them both and they shut up instantly.

  I look at the bench. I consider wrapping the third envelope in plastic and taping it beneath the bench but I know it’s not a practical solution. I don’t know how long Bert has to live, it could be hours, it could be days. It could be weeks, stranger things have happened. If people can be taken from the world earlier than expected, they certainly can live longer than expected too. I also don’t know when Rita will choose to begin the journey Bert has set out for her following his initial note. It could take her days, it could take her weeks, or it could take her months. A suspicious package beneath a famous city centre site visited by tourists, and who knows at night, will not last long.

  ‘I can tell she’s thinking,’ Denise says.

  ‘Because she’s barely blinking,’ Sharon finishes.

  They giggle, feeling so proud of their poetic hilarity.

  ‘She’s got that look in her eye,’ Sharon begins.

  ‘And we don’t know why,’ Denise finishes.

  I ignore them. I don’t have time to waste. I have four letters to deliver, Bert is dying, beginning his transition as we stand here in a powerful place of his past. I read the inscription and I suddenly realise something bad. Something terrible, and I’m filled with dread.

  ‘Wait a minute. Bert said they had their first kiss on this bench in 1968.’

  I look at the girls. They’re cosying up to Patrick Kavanagh and taking selfies. Peace signs, and kissy lips.

  ‘This bench was erected in 1991.’

  They finish their selfies, sensing the change in mood and stand up to read the plaque. We stare at it in silence.

  I frown. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I read the message.

  ‘Perhaps you can check with Bert that he has the right place?’ Sharon suggests helpfully.

  ‘It’s too late,’ I say, looking up from the phone, my eyes filling.

  The message is from Joy.

  Our dear Bert has gone.

  27

  I sit on the bench, my head in my hands. ‘I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You’re not an idiot,’ Denise says simply.

  ‘I can’t do anything right,’ I berate myself. ‘People are dying, I’ve made promises and instead it’s like fucking amateur hour. And I broke up with Gabriel.’

  ‘What?’ Denise explodes.

  ‘Why?’ Sharon asks.

  ‘He wanted to move Ava into the house instead of Holly,’ Denise explains.

  ‘What?’ she explodes again.

  ‘It was … falling apart. We were dangling. So I snipped the wire.’

  ‘Well, actually,’ Denise says, turning to Sharon, ‘Holly was dangling. She didn’t want to have to answer to someone who didn’t want her to be part of the PS Club, because it was obvious it’s sending her bonkers, and Gabriel was probably afraid he’d lose her, which he has done anyway by not supporting her, and she didn’t want to have to face listening to the truth and admit he was right, so she cut him off like she does with most people who don’t agree with the way she’s living her life, which is probably why she hasn’t called you for weeks. Just like when Gerry died, remember?’

  Sharon nods, looks at me nervously, then back to Denise. ‘The locking the door thing and not letting anyone in?’

  ‘Exactly, but this time she’s locked herself in with a ghost and cut off the real person who loves her, who, granted, may have had a really wrong reaction to all of this, but he doesn’t know her like we do, and frankly he’s human and none of us are perfect, so who can blame him?’

  ‘Denise,’ Sharon says quietly, warning in her voice.

  I look at her, stunned. No, distraught.

  ‘Sorry,’ Denise replies, looking away, not sorry at all. ‘But someone had to say it.’

  We sit in silence.

  ‘Flippin’ life,’ Sharon says. ‘I wish we were back in Lanzarote, on a lilo, drifting towards Africa. Times were easier then,’ she says, trying to lighten the mood.

  I can’t laugh, I can’t erase what Denise has said. Her words are ringing in my ears, my chest pounding, with a kind of panic that she’s right. What if I’ve made an enormous mistake?

  Sharon looks from me to Denise. ‘Can you two apologise so we can move on?’

  ‘What do I have to be sorry for?’ I ask.

  Denise looks ready to blurt out all my faults again but she stops herself. ‘I already said sorry but I’ll say it again. Sorry, Holly, really, I’m …’ she shakes her head. ‘Stressed. I may have made a mistake leaving Tom and it’s frustrating watching you do the same thing.’

  ‘Did you mean what you said?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she says sombrely. ‘Every word.’

  ‘Oh for christsake,’ Sharon interrupts. ‘That is not an apology. Honestly, you two, I don’t hear from you for weeks and you both break up your relationships?’

  ‘Careful, it’s catching,’ I say, smiling weakly.

  ‘In John’s dreams,’ she mutters. ‘Right, well, one problem at a time,’ Sharon says, moving on. ‘There must be another bench somewhere. Bert didn’t make it up.’ She does a Google search. ‘A-ha, you’re not an idiot. There is a bench that was built by Patrick Kavanagh’s friends, weeks after his death. It was officially launched on St Patrick’s Day in 1968. That has to be it.’

  I try to focus but everything feels like it’s falling apart. I’m still berating myself for not helping Bert to think this through properly, but how could I have, if I couldn’t even think it through? How could we expect to leave an envelope on a bench?

  We walk down the banks of the canal, me using one crutch for my weak ankle, on parallel paths with a line of trees, past the leafy suburbs of Raglan Road and by the canal made pretty with swans. When we reach the south bank at the Lock Gates close to Baggot Bridge, opposite the Mespil Hotel, we find a simple side seat made from wood and granite. We take it in in a respectful silence. The giddiness of the newer Patrick Kavanagh bench is gone, this feels more apt, an old simple bench where Bert and Rita kissed for the first time all these years ago on St Patrick’s Day, 17 March 1968, a visit to the new bench celebrating Rita’s favourite poet. Different times. Bert is gone but the bench still stands, wood and stone that has absorbed the lives of people who have come and gone, and still observes the changing seasons and the canal water going by. Though we’re still faced with the same problem as the last time. Where to put the envelope.

  The Mespil Hotel is directly across the road.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Feeling determined, I cross the road to the hotel. Straight up to reception with the air of someone who means business, and I ask for the hotel manager.

  ‘Just a moment.’ The receptionist disappears behind a hidden panelled door in the wall.

  ‘Hello,’ a woman steps out of the secret room, hand extended. ‘I’m the hotel duty manager, how may I help you?’ Her hand is warm, in these days of red tape and paperwork, I hope her heart is too.

  She guides me to a seated area and I settle myself.

  ‘Thank you so much for your time. My name is Holly Kennedy and I’m working on a venture called PS, I Love You, which helps terminally ill patients write final letters to their loved ones. I’ve been sent here by my client Bert Andrews, who unfortunately passed away just moments ago … And I need your help.�
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  And there, we leave his third riddle. When Rita arrives, after a subtle additional hint from me directing her to the hotel, she will receive her safely guarded letter to read in the comfort of a private area and a complimentary afternoon tea.

  Our second stop runs more smoothly than the first. We visit the dance hall where Bert first laid eyes on Rita. The Chrysanthemum Dance Hall was an iconic venue during Ireland’s successful show-band era, the dance mecca of Ireland. Girls on one side, boys on the other. If a boy asked you if you wanted a mineral then it meant he was interested, if you said yes to a dance it meant you were interested. Seemingly more innocent times, when the Catholic Church dominated the country. Thousands of people met their life partners on the dance floors of Ireland’s ballrooms.

  A security guard grants us entry into the building, and it’s empty as they prepare for local school exams. He allows us to wander around and take a look. Gone are the dance floors and mirror balls, rows of desks and chairs take their place, but despite that, stepping inside is like stepping back in time. I imagine the room, hot and sweaty, heaving with people jiving on the dance floor.

  As if picking up on my thoughts, Denise says. ‘If these paisley walls could talk.’

  I explain my mission to the security guard, with more confidence, ease and the insistence that anybody involved is doing a great service to humanity. He agrees to take the envelope and stores it in a safe place with Rita’s name on it, where it will take her from the place where she and Bert first met, to the bench where they first kissed. And, thanks to the hint I’ve added in small print at the bottom of Bert’s limerick, across from the bench that marked their future, Rita will find her third letter, which leads us to our next location, the place where Bert proposed.