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.’
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.
There once was a man who did tremble
There were words his tongue couldn’t assemble
On bended knee
He made his plea
Of that place he is sentimental
‘I’m loving this!’ Sharon admits. ‘Please let me know when you’re doing this again, I’d love to help. Where to next?’
‘How much time do you have, I thought you said you have a scan today?’
She looks guilty. ‘I made it up. I told my mum that so I could have a few hours off, I’m so tired,’ she says, her eyes glistening.
I hug her.
‘This is the perfect day, really, I know I wasn’t sure about this, Holly, but I’m fully behind you now. There is nothing wrong about doing any of this, and if you need me to tell Gabriel all about it, I will.’
My smile instantly fades at the mention of Gabriel, and I remember all over again that I’ve lost him. I gave him up. ‘It’s too late for that,’ I say, starting the engine.
We travel to Howth Harbour Lighthouse and Martello tower, built in 1817, where Bert proposed to Rita with fish and chips in their hands. The lighthouse caretaker emerges from the small Georgian-style house that is attached to the tower, listens to my story and does me the honour of accepting the letter for Rita. As with the hotel duty manager, and the security guard, I’m discovering that Bert’s story, a human story, is one that these busy people make time to listen to. They don’t divert me, or stonewall me. I’m not going to them with a complaint, I’m not trying to extort them. I’m just asking them to listen and to play their part in somebody’s dying wishes. The kindness of these strangers gives me hope, a faith in humanity: that though sometimes it may feel as though people are shutting down to others, devoid of compassion and empathy, we can still recognise when something is real. We are not altogether numb and unfeeling.
The caretaker takes the envelope containing the limerick:
There once was a fool who got lost
Who was greedy and ignored the cost
I’m sorry my love
From below and above
It’s here I felt your hate truly exhaust
‘I wonder what he did,’ Sharon says, as we walk back along the pier to the car park, eating our own fish and chips.
‘I think we can guess,’ Denise says, her words thick with cynicism.
‘I don’t know what you’re so angry about, you have a perfect husband who adores you and who stayed by your side through everything,’ Sharon snaps. I don’t have the energy to agree, after what Denise has thrown at me already today.
‘I know that,’ Denise says quietly. ‘That’s why he deserves more.’
We are all quietly thoughtful as we travel to our next destination, Sharon pondering the arrival of a baby into an already chaotic life, Denise pondering the demise of her marriage and a future that is not going according to plan. Me about … oh everything.
I park and we get out, looking out at the building Bert has led us to.
‘So this is where Rita forgave Bert,’ I say, looking up.
Our silence is broken as we break the sombre mood to laugh. It’s a hemp shop and tattoo parlour.
‘You never know, they might have gotten high and had his and her tattoos declaring their love,’ Denise suggests.
‘What will I do?’
‘You have to follow protocol,’ Sharon says, holding out her hand for me to lead the way.
I laugh, take a deep breath and enter.
The staff are the easiest of all the spots we’ve been at, they’re moved by the story and excited to play their part, and they even offer to throw in a complimentary tattoo for Rita on her arrival. It’s been a long day, and we’re all quiet, eager to finish. The final destination is a house in Glasnevin.
Sharon reads the limerick.
There once was a woman named Regret
Who had a twin who made her fret
It’s time to say hi
To the anger, goodbye
In this place where they both first met.
‘A woman named Regret,’ Sharon reads. ‘Is it all of us a few months from now?’
‘It’s about Rita,’ I explain, again shaking away the horrifying fear Denise has instilled in me. ‘The home belongs to Rita’s twin sister, where they were born and grew up. They had a falling out when their mother died, something to do with settling the estate. Her sister took everything and they never spoke again, nor do their families.’
‘Money makes people crazy,’ Denise says.
‘I think it’s better if you go in there alone,’ Sharon says.
I agree.
I limp up the pathway in the colourful neat and tidy garden that has been lovingly maintained. I ring the doorbell. It takes a while for the door to be answered and while I’ve only ever met Rita a few times, her sister is indeed the image of her, though harder-looking. She looks at me suspiciously through the glass in the side of the door and I realise that she has no intention of opening the door.
‘Bert sent me.’
She unlocks the door.
‘What do they want this time? My blood?’ she grunts, leaving the door open a little and shuffling back inside the house. I step inside and follow her into the TV room.
A TV guide is open on the coffee table, a biro has circled the chosen shows of the day. She slowly sits down in a worn armchair, face twisting with agony as she leans on her cane.
‘Can I help?’ I move closer to her.
‘No,’ she snaps.
She takes a moment to catch her breath, pulls her cardigan closed. ‘Hip replacement,’ she says, and eyes my boot. ‘What happened to you?’
‘A taxi hit me when I was cycling.’
‘They think they own the roads. Are you a lawyer?’ she barks.
‘No, definitely not.’
‘What then? What do they want from me?’
I retrieve the letter from my bag and hand it to her. ‘Bert wanted me to give you this. But it’s not for you to open. He wanted me to leave it with you for Rita to collect.’
She eyes it warily, as though it’s a bomb, refusing to take it. ‘Tell him I said he can keep it. I haven’t seen her for years. Bert knows that. I don’t know what he’s playing at. Sick games. Sick people, my sister and her husband.’
‘Bert passed away earlier today.’
The anger disappears from her face and her mouth opens in a silent ‘oh’. ‘I heard a while back that he was in hospital. What happened?’
‘Emphysema.’
She shakes her head. ‘He smoked forty fags a day. I told him, Bert, those bastards will kill you, but he never listened,’ she says angrily. ‘God rest his soul,’ she adds quietly, blessing herself.
‘I’d been spending time with him before he passed. He wanted to leave some letters for Rita, in places of importance.’
‘Trying to right his wrongs, is he? Well, isn’t that a fine thing when he’s dead? He doesn’t have to face it himself. She won’t come here,’ she says, the anger returning. ‘Haven’t spoken to her for seven years. Not without it being through a lawyer or nasty letter she’d send. I have them all, you can read them if you want, that’ll tell you who the real monster is.’
‘I’m not here to take sides,’ I say gently. ‘I don’t know what happened and I’m not judging. He asked me to deliver this to you and I promised him I would.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what happened. And unlike them, I’ll tell you the truth. I spent every day with our mother when she was sick, brought her to every hospital appointment, bathed her, nursed her, moved in with her to care for her, and they all thought I was doing it to get the house.’ She raises her voice as though it was me who accused her. ‘What kind of sick people would think that? People who only want the house themselves, that’s who. Money, it was all about money to them. I moved in here because the care worker Rita organised was stealing from Mammy. Stole her toilet roll! Have you ever heard the likes of it? Paid for helping an old woman and you steal her toilet roll?! And I save us all the money by doing it myself and I’m the thief?’ She points her finger at me, poking the air to send home every point. ‘They painted me as a con artist, a thief. Spread nasty rumours that the likes of everyone around here was talking about. Can you imagine? I never made Mammy change her will. Never. That was all her own doing. They make it sound like I held her hand and forced her to write. Rita and Bert were fine, Mammy knew I needed it. She left it to me. I couldn’t change that.’ She sits back, recharging for her next outburst. ‘Then when they found out? Ah Lord be God, World War Three broke out. All of a sudden I was a monster. They wanted to make me sell the house. Thought they deserved half of the money. Sent solicitor’s letters and all kinds of scare tactics. And for what? So they could go on more holidays? Buy a new car? Pay college fees to bail out their drug addict son who failed all his exams? Oh so high and mighty, everyone knows what that boy was like, but Rita, no, she’d pretend everything was perfect, better than everyone else. She was always like that.’ She looks into the distance, her teeth gritted with anger. ‘Mammy left this house to me and I had nothing to do with putting that in her head.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ I say, wondering how to extract myself from this.
‘They all turned their backs on me. Even the kids, my own nieces and nephews, think I’m the devil. Don’t speak to mine either. Cousins who adored each other,’ she says, shaking her head angrily. ‘Ripped the family apart, Bert and Rita. I’ll never forgive them. Mammy wanted me here. Her mind was as clear as crystal when she did what she did. You can’t blame the dead. A dying wish is a dying wish.’
I find my moment. I place the envelope down on the opened TV guide where I know it will be seen. ‘And this is Bert’s.’
I get into the car with a long sigh, relieved to be out of there, feeling her words ringing in my ears. You can’t blame the dead.
‘What took you so long?’ Denise asks.
‘I’m exhausted after that. There is some bad blood there.’
‘Do you think Bert’s letter will work?’
‘I have no idea,’ I say, rubbing my eyes tiredly. ‘I hope so.’
It’s 6 p.m., it’s been a full long day, a fruitful day but a draining one. Going on somebody else’s personal journey has brought us back into our own, has made us contemplative, and reflective of our own lives.
‘I don’t suppose she’ll let me use her toilet,’ Sharon says.
I laugh. ‘I dare you to try.’
‘I’ll wait,’ she says, moving around uncomfortably in the back. ‘There’s one more envelope left, the first one.’
‘Yes,’ I say, concerned, unsure how I’m going to pull this one off.
‘Do you give it directly to Rita?’ Sharon asks.
‘Yeah, kind of,’ I say, shrugging it off.
‘So not exactly,’ Sharon says, not letting it go. ‘Where do you put the first letter, Holly?’
I clear my throat, nervously. ‘Bert wanted the first letter in his hands, for Rita to find.’
Sharon’s eyes widen. ‘In the coffin?’
Denise cracks up so much, she’s doubled over in the back seat.
‘How are you going to pull that off?’ Sharon asks.
‘What are you going to do?’ Denise asks, wiping the tears of laughter from the corners of her leaking eyes. ‘Crack open the coffin at the funeral?’
‘I don’t know, I hadn’t quite ironed that one out with Bert, but I suppose I’ll go to the funeral parlour, so that he has it in his hands when he arrives at the house.’
‘They won’t let you near him, you’re not family!’ Sharon says, and Denise continues laughing until she’s red in the face.
‘I’ll tell them it’s under his instruction. It’s what Bert wanted.’
‘Unless you have written instructions from Bert or his family, there’s no way they’re going to let a random stranger put a letter in a dead man’s hands. Holly, honestly, you’ve some ground rules to iron out before you continue with this.’
‘I know,’ I say quietly, chewing my fingernails. ‘He’s having a wake. He’ll be laid out in his house for a few days. I’ll ask for a moment alone with him and I’ll place it in his hands.’
‘You were lucky with the security guard, the hotel and the hemp shop, but I don’t think a funeral parlour is going to allow you to place a letter with unknown contents in a dead man’s hands.’
‘OK, Sharon! I get it!’
The girls are quiet. I think they have accepted this plan but out of nowhere Sharon snorts and the two of them dissolve into convulsions again.
I roll my eyes, agitated, not finding this or their laughter at all funny.
I’d laugh along with them but I can’t get to their place. This is serious for me.
Seven years ago Gerry set me on a path of new adventure, seven years later his actions are continuing me on my adventure.
Life has roots, and death, death grows them too.