At home, I shower, relieved to finally be able to wash my entire body. I hiss as the water hits my raw skin and stings. I begin what will become my daily ritual: massaging oils and cream into my skin and gently moving it around, straightening and bending, trying to get used to the new freedom. I still feel incapacitated without the cast, I don’t trust my leg to take my full weight without the boot for support. I will be gentle and patient until my muscles regain their tone, trying to be as kind to myself as I would be to others. And when my chest aches with the hurt of losing Gabriel, and the hurt that I’ve caused him, I think of what he has gained, remind myself that he has Ava. And of course I think of what I have gained this year: my new friends from the club and what, and who, they have brought back into my life.
I never felt that Gabriel and I were forever. I was younger when I met Gerry and perhaps naïvely believed that he and I were soul mates, that he was the one, but when he died, I stopped thinking like that. I’ve come to believe that at different times of our lives we are drawn to certain people for various reasons, mainly because that version of ourselves is connected to that version of them at that particular time. If you stick at it, work at it, you can grow in different directions together. Sometimes you get pulled apart, but I believe there is the right person, the one, for all the different versions of yourself. Gabriel and I lived in the now. Gerry and I aimed for forever. We got a fraction of forever. And an enjoyable now and a fraction of forever is always better than nothing at all.
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.