Postscript

by Cecelia Ahern

  ‘I say a raise of hands for yes,’ Ciara declares.

  They all raise their hands. All apart from Gabriel.

  ‘It’s a big undertaking,’ he says.

  ‘She can do it, Dad,’ Ava says, nudging him.

  ‘Yeah, Dad,’ Jack says, imitating Ava.

  ‘Yeah, Dad,’ the rest of them say in unison, and crack up laughing.

  As the conversation turns into the usual noisy brawl, Gabriel wraps his arm around my shoulder and leans close. ‘I know you can,’ he whispers, and kisses me gently.

  Excitement builds inside me. All this time I was thinking of it as a club, but it could be more. With enough support, we could help more people. I could dedicate more time to the people who need me to properly observe their life and help construct and distribute their letters. The PS, I Love You Club could become a nationwide foundation or a charity, helping those who are terminally ill finally reclaim their goodbyes. And all because of Gerry.

  My phone rings; I don’t recognise the number. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, is that Holly Kennedy?’ a young male voice asks.

  ‘Yes. This is Holly.’

  ‘Uh, I got your number from, er, Maria. Maria Costas? She told me about your club.’

  ‘Yes, this is the PS, I Love You Club,’ I say, standing up to leave as everyone hushes around the table.

  ‘Ssh,’ Jack starts, childishly, to Declan.

  ‘Ssh,’ Declan replies.

  ‘Ssh,’ Mathew continues it, nudging Ciara, who’s not saying anything at all.

  I press a finger into my ear and leave the room.

  When I end the call, I see Gabriel standing at the door, watching me.

  ‘I have a client,’ I say happily, then wipe the smile off my face, uncertain that my happiness is fair to Philip’s predicament. ‘But don’t say anything, you know what they’re like.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he whispers conspiratorially.

  As soon as we walk back to the dinner table, he grabs my hand and lifts it high in the air. ‘She has a client!’

  They roar in celebration.

  ‘Hello, Holly,’ Maria Costas says, greeting me at the main door of St Mary’s hospice. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

  ‘No problem, I’m glad Philip called.’

  ‘He told me he wanted to leave something behind for his friends but couldn’t think what. That’s when I told him about you and the club. I wasn’t sure if you were going to continue it, after our chat.’

  ‘You gave me a lot to think about after we talked, but it was always about growing it, not ending it. Since we last met I’ve been implementing plans to develop the PS, I Love You Club, with more of a structure, and a team. If you have time after this, we can talk about it?’

  ‘I’d like that.’ We stop walking. ‘This is Philip’s room.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He’s seventeen, he was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, which is a type of bone cancer. He’s been through a lot, he’s had limb salvage surgery to replace his left femur, he’s had three cycles of chemo, but the cancer is aggressive.’

  We enter Philip’s room and he looks younger than seventeen. He’s tall and broad but shrunken in his own body, his skin has a yellowish tinge. His brown eyes are deep, large in his shrunken sockets.

  ‘Hey, Philip,’ Maria says coolly, going to him with a hand held up for a high five.

  ‘Hey, Maria, the Greek goddess.’

  Maria laughs. ‘I’m a Cypriot, actually, and no royal blood in my veins, unless you count my granddad’s home-grown olive oil. I brought a present for you. Holly, this is Philip. Philip, this is Holly.’

  ‘I prefer a boom,’ I say, holding my fist out.

  ‘Oh, she’s a boom-type girl,’ Maria says, smiling as Philip and I tap fists.

  I sit beside him and notice the inside of his locker is covered in photos of friends. Boys his age, groups of them messing, laughing, posing, in rugby gear, a rugby team. A group holding a trophy. I recognise Philip instantly, a broad, muscular young teenager before the cancer took hold.

  After spending an hour brainstorming with Philip, we part and Maria and I leave him alone. ‘Well?’ I ask, feeling that I was auditioning in there for her.

  ‘For your club to work, you’d need a therapist who can have the psychological needs of your clients in mind, particularly one who understands the natural course and treatment of the illness, and has a flexible approach in accordance with the medical status of the patient.’

  ‘Where could I find one of those?’ I muse.

  She looks in the window at Philip and takes a moment. ‘I’m in,’ she says.

  38

  Two months later, I sit on stage alongside teachers of Belvedere College, a secondary school in Dublin, while the principal makes a speech to the leaving cert students who will be sitting their final exams in the summer. He’s motivating them to study harder, believe in themselves, give themselves one big push, because it means something. It’s their future. I scan the faces of the young men of seventeen and eighteen years of age, I see hope, determination, I see stifled yawns, mischievous private jokes. All kinds.

  ‘But there’s another reason why we’re all gathered here today.’

  Silence. Intrigue. They murmur amongst themselves, trying to guess, but they won’t.

  ‘Today is Philip O’Donnell’s eighteenth birthday. We want to remember our student and friend, who we sadly lost a few months ago.’

  A cheer goes up, louder in the middle section. Philip’s friends.

  ‘We have been joined by a special guest, Holly Kennedy, who will introduce herself and tell us why she is here. Please welcome Holly Kennedy to the podium.’

  Polite applause.

  ‘Hello, everybody. I’m sorry to have dragged you away from your classes, I’m sure you all want to get back as quickly as possible so I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  They laugh, delighted to be called from class.

  ‘As Principal Hanley said, my name is Holly and I work with a new foundation called PS, I Love You. Our work is to help those who are terminally ill write letters for their loved ones, to be delivered after they’ve passed on. It’s something I have personal experience with, and something that I’ve learned is very important and precious to those who are ill, ensuring that the people they have left behind know that they are not alone, that they will be guided, and also to ensure that they themselves will be remembered. I appreciate Principal Hanley allowing Philip to carry out this wish, and gathering you all here today. I have a letter here, from Philip. It was his wish that I read this aloud to his special friends, Conor aka Con-Man, David aka Big D, and Michael aka Tricky Mickey.’

  Despite the moving context, the audience jeer the nicknames.

  ‘Philip wanted me to ask you three very special friends of his to stand.’

  I look out at the sea of faces, every one of them looking around for the three young men. Slowly Philip’s best friends get to their feet, and already one is crying. Arms around each other’s shoulders for support, as though standing on the rugby pitch for the national anthem. These three teenagers helped carry his coffin at the funeral and they still stand side by side. I take a deep breath. I need to hold it together.

  ‘Dear Con-Man, Big D and Tricky Mickey,’ I read. ‘I’m not going to make this morbid, I’m sure you’re all morto enough, standing there in front of everyone.’

  Somebody wolf-whistles.

  ‘Everyone in this room knows you three are my best mates. I’ll miss you, the only thing I don’t regret about all of this is missing out on my exams this year. At least I got away with not having to study.’

  A cheer breaks out and they applaud him.

  ‘Today is my eighteenth birthday, I’m the youngest and you lot never let me forget it. Respect your elders, you always used to say, Tricky Mickey. Well I do. I wish I was there to do this with you, but you can finish off what I’ve started. On December twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve, you’l
l be doing the twelve pubs of Christmas.’

  An eruption of cheers and applause. I wait for the rowdiness to die down with help from the principal.

  ‘Twelve pubs. Twelve pints. And they’re all on me, lads. Bring a puke bucket for Big D.’

  Retching, vomiting sounds circulate the room, and the teenager in the middle of the trio gets a ribbing from the people sitting behind him. I have located Big D.

  ‘You’ll be starting in O’Donoghue’s, where there’ll be a pint from me waiting for you. When you finish your pint, the bartender will give you an envelope with a note from me, telling you where to go next. Because Hanley is listening, and he wouldn’t agree to this being read out otherwise, I have to add the condition that you’ll accompany each pint with a glass of water.’

  The audience cheer at the mention of the principal, and I turn in time to see Principal Hanley wiping his eyes.

  ‘Enjoy the night, have an extra pint for me. If I can, I’ll be watching. PS, I love you, lads.’

  The three friends gather in a group hug while the rest of the auditorium applaud respectfully and arise in a standing ovation, chanting Philip’s name. Two of the three friends are crying, Big D in the centre, and the third is seriously struggling but is keeping it together, manning up, the very serious daddy one of them all, keeping them together.

  You can’t know anything for sure but I wonder, if Philip had lived, whether they’d have eventually gone their separate ways. Now, though, in Philip’s death, they’ll be bonded together always. Death rips people apart, but it also has a way of stitching those left behind together.

  I push open a garden gate, which squeaks at the hinges, and step on to the path leading to the cottage. I ring the doorbell and when I hear footsteps make their way to the door I nod to Mathew, who’s standing at the back doors of his van. On my nod, he opens the boot and takes out half a dozen red balloons in each hand. He’s followed by Ciara and Ava, who are also carrying a dozen red balloons. As the cottage door opens, Mathew hands me his red balloons and hurries back for the rest.

  The woman isn’t much older than me. ‘Hello,’ she says, smiling, but confused.

  ‘From Peter,’ I say, handing her a card that reads,

  Happy Birthday, Alice,

  Red Balloons Go By,

  Love, Peter

  PS, I Love You

  She takes it in shock.

  I press play on my iPhone and the song ‘99 Red Balloons’ by Nena begins, the first song they danced to together. She steps aside and watches the procession of ninety-nine balloons enter and fill her home as the song fills the house.

  I sit at the kitchen table of a widow who is holding her new gift of a charm bracelet in her hand, tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘Each charm has a story,’ I explain, handing her the eight envelopes with her wife’s messages. ‘She chose them especially for you.’

  I sit with a dad and his three young children in their home. They are looking at me wide-eyed.

  ‘Mam did what?’

  ‘She started her own YouTube channel,’ I repeat. ‘How cool is that?’

  ‘So cool!’ the eight-year-old punches the air.

  ‘But Mam hated us watching YouTube,’ the teenager says, stunned.

  ‘Not any more,’ I smile. I open their mother’s laptop and turn the screen around to face them. They crowd around, elbowing each other, fighting for space.

  The music starts and the voice of their mother calls out in a tone she’s stolen from the YouTubers her children idolise. ‘Hey, guys, it’s me, Sandra aka “Bam-It’s-Mam!” and welcome to my YouTube channel! Have I got some cool things to show you guys, and I hope you have fun watching at home. PS, I Love You so much, guys. Now, let’s get started! Today we’re gonna make slime!’

  ‘Slime!’ the children shriek, and their dad sits back in his chair, covers his mouth to stifle his sudden swell of emotions. His eyes fill but the children are so engrossed in their mother’s video they don’t notice.

  I wake with a start. There’s something I need to do urgently, I wanted to do it last night before I went to bed but it was too late. I sit up and grab my phone from the bedside table.

  ‘Hello?’ Joy answers.

  ‘It’s December eighth.’ The unofficial start of Christmas. It’s a holy day, apparently, the feast of the immaculate conception. People from all around the country used to travel to Dublin to do their Christmas shopping, before their towns grew, before travel became easier, before society and culture changed. These are old traditional beliefs, not followed by all any more, but one thing hasn’t changed, it’s also the day that many traditional people decorate their homes for Christmas.

  ‘Holly, is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘Joy, it’s December eighth!’

  ‘Yes, I know, you said so, but I don’t understand.’

  ‘Is Joe going to buy a Christmas tree today? Is he going to decorate the house?’

  ‘Oh,’ she realises, and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘He can’t go up to the attic,’ I say, quickly getting out of bed, and hurrying around naked, looking for clothes.

  ‘Oh dear, what am I going to do? I can’t get up there.’

  ‘Of course not. That’s why I’m calling: I put them up there, now I’m going to take them down.’ I pause, smiling. ‘Joy. You made it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘I did.’

  39

  The family solicitor who handled the purchase of our house ten years ago retired, transferring all my paperwork to a new firm that I’ve had no business dealings with since. I visit the office to finally finalise the paperwork for the sale of the house.

  ‘Nice to see you today, Holly. I’ve spent time familiarising myself with your property and the deeds. I came across something unusual and I contacted Tony about it. He told me all was correct and in place.’

  ‘Please tell me there’s nothing wrong, it’s taken so long to get to this point. I just need to sign the paperwork,’ I say, exhausted from the experience.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong. A personal note was attached to the files. It was given to Tony Daly with a note explaining that this letter should be handed to you in the event that Holly Kennedy sells the property.

  Instant palpitations. My hope surges but I know it’s stupid after all this time. It’s been eight years since Gerry died, seven years since I read his last note. There were ten letters, I read them all. It would be greedy to hope for more.

  She reaches into the files and slides out an envelope.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, hands to my mouth. ‘That’s my late husband’s handwriting.’

  She holds it to me but I don’t take it. I keep looking at it, held by her in the air, his writing. She eventually places it down on the desk before me.

  ‘I’ll give you some time alone,’ she says. ‘Would you like water?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘I’ll get you some water.’

  Alone with the envelope, I read the words on the front.

  One for the Road.

  It’s late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. The crowds are leaving the pub, being shouted out and abused by the doormen. The lights are on full, the smell of bleach is strong as the staff attempt to flush the crowds out. Others are going home, or are continuing on to a club. Sharon and John are practically eating each other’s faces alive, as they have been all night, but what seemed mildly unappetising in the dark is far uglier in the harsh bright lights.

  ‘One for the road?’ Gerry says to me, looking bleary-eyed, with a charming grin. Eyes always smiling, with devilment, with life.

  ‘They’re throwing us out.’

  ‘Denise,’ Gerry calls. ‘Work some magic, will you?’

  ‘Already on it.’ Denise salutes him and heads directly to a handsome young bouncer.

  ‘Stop pimping my friend.’

  ‘She loves it,’ he grins.

  Denise turns and winks, already successful at securin
g a last round.

  ‘Always one more,’ I say, kissing him.

  ‘Always,’ he whispers.

  My alarm sounds. It’s 7 a.m. I roll onto my side and turn it off. I need to get up, out of bed, go home, shower, get to college. I feel Gerry stirring beside me. His hand reaches across the bed to me, warm like a furnace. He moves his body and presses up against me, full, wanting. His lips brush the nape of my neck. His fingers find me, just where he needs to to convince me to stay. I press back against him, responding.

  ‘One for the road,’ he says, sleepily.

  I feel his words against my skin. I hear the smile in his voice. I’m not going anywhere else but to him.

  ‘Always one more,’ I whisper.

  ‘Always.’

  I stare at the envelope on the desk before me, in shock. How did I not consider this, in all the analysis and calculations since his death? One for the road, he always said it. There’s always one more. Always. Ten letters, it should have been enough, but seven years since I read the final one, here’s one for the road.

  Dear Holly,

  There’s always one more. But this is the last.

  Five minutes for me, but who knows how long for you. Maybe you’ll never read this, maybe you’ll never sell the house, maybe it will get lost, maybe somebody else is reading this. A beautiful daughter or son of yours. Who knows. But I’m writing this with the intention of you reading this.

  I could have died yesterday, it could have been decades ago. You could be putting your teeth in a glass beside your bed at night, I’m sorry I didn’t get to grow old with you. I don’t know who you are in your world right now, but here in my world, at the time of writing this, I’m still me, you’re still you and we’re still us.

  Let me take you back there.

  I’m sure you’re still beautiful. I’m sure you’re still kind.

  You’ll always be loved, from here and away, from near and from far.

  I have experience in loving you from afar, remember? It took me a year to ask you to go out with me.

  I’ve no doubt it will ever change, all I know is that the less life I have in me, the more I love you, as if love is filling the spaces. When I’m gone, I think I’ll be filled with nothing but love, made of nothing but love for you.