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 securing 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.
But on the off chance I do hook up with somebody on the other side, please don’t get mad, I’ll drop her as soon as you arrive. If you’re not looking or waiting for someone else.
Good luck with your new adventure, whatever it is.
I love you, beautiful, and I’m still glad you said yes.
Gerry
PS – I’ll see you later?
Inside the envelope is a note that, despite it sitting in an envelope for eight years, has a crumpled, wrinkled appearance. I smooth it out on the desk and, seeing the handwriting, I realise it’s the first letter Gerry wrote to me when we were fourteen years old.
His words bring me back in time and take me forward with renewed hope for my future; they plant me in the earth, grounding me in reality, and they lift me up so that I feel like I’m floating.
His letter gives me roots and wings.
Tuesday morning. I hate Tuesdays because they’re worse than Mondays. I’ve already been through a Monday and the week still isn’t even half over. My school day begins with double Maths with Mr Murphy, who hates me as much as I hate Maths, which is a lot of hate in one room on a Tuesday. I’ve been moved right up to the front row in front of Mr Murphy’s desk so he can keep an eye on me. I’m quiet as a mouse, but I can’t keep up.
It’s lashing rain outside, my socks are still wet from the walk from the bus stop to school. I’m freezing cold and to add to it Mr Murphy has opened all the windows to wake us up because one person yawned. The boys are lucky, they get to wear trousers, my legs are goose-pimpled and I can feel the hairs standing up. I shaved them up to my knee but cut my shin and it’s stinging through my grey woollen uniform sock. I probably shouldn’t have used Richard’s razor but last time I asked for my own razor, Mum said I’m too young to shave my legs and I can’t be bothered going through the mortification of asking her again.
I hate Tuesdays. I hate school. I hate Maths. I hate hairy legs.
The bell rings at the end of the first period and I should feel relief as the halls outside are flooded with students going to their next class, but I know we’ve another forty minutes to get through. Sharon is out sick and so the seat beside me is empty. I hate when she’s not beside me, it means I can’t copy her answers. She was moved beside me because she kept laughing, but she’s good at Maths so I can copy her. I can see the hallways through the glass panel beside the door. Denise waits until Mr Murphy isn’t looking and she presses her face up against the glass, opening her mouth and pressing her nose up like a pig. I grin and look away. Some people in the class laugh, but by the time Mr Murphy looks over, she’s gone.
Mr Murphy leaves the classroom for ten minutes. We’ve to finish a problem he gave us. I know I won’t reach the solution because I don’t even understand the question. X and Y can kiss my arse. He’ll come back into the class stinking of smoke like he always does, and sit in front of me with a banana and a knife, looking at us all in a menacing way like he’s a badass. Someone slides into the seat beside me. John. I feel my face go red with embarrassment. Confused, I look over my right shoulder to the wall where he normally sits, with Gerry. Gerry looks away and down at his copybook.
‘What are you doing?’ I whisper, even though everybody else is talking, probably finished their work. Even if they’re not finished, it won’t matter, Mr Murphy will always ask me.
‘Me mate wants to know if you’ll go out with him,’ John says.
My heart thuds and I feel my mouth dry up.
‘Which mate?’
‘Gerry. Who’d you think?’
Thump, thump.
‘Is this a joke?’ I ask, annoyed and mortified at the same time.
‘I’m serious. Yes or no?’
I roll my eyes. Gerry is the most gorgeous guy in class – correction, in the year. He can have anyone he wants and this is most likely a joke.
‘John, it’s not funny.’
‘I’m serious!’
I’m afraid to turn around and look at Gerry again. My face is full on flaming red. I much preferred sitting in the back row where I could always stare at Gerry whenever I wanted. Everyone likes him, and he’s gorgeous, even with his new train tracks, and he always smells nice. Of course I fancy Gerry, most girls – and Peter – do. But me and Gerry? I didn’t think he even knew I was here.
‘Holly, I’m serious,’ John says. ‘Smurf will be back in a minute. Yes or no?’
I swallow hard. If I say yes and it’s a joke then I’ll be mortified. But if I say no and it’s not a joke, I’ll never forgive myself.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and my voice comes out all funny.
‘Cool,’ John grins and hurries back to his seat.
I wait for jeering, for everyone to laugh and tell me it’s a joke. I wait to be humiliated, afraid to turn around, sure that everyone is silently laughing at me. There’s a bang on the open door and I jump with fright. Mr Murphy is back, with his banana and his knife, stinking of smoke.
Everyone goes quiet.
‘Everyone finished?’
There’s a chorus of yeses.
He looks at me. ‘Holly?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s go through it, shall we?’
I’m so self-conscious that everybody’s eyes are on me that I can’t even think. And Gerry, he must be thinking I’m an absolute dunce.
‘OK, take the first part,’ Mr Murphy says, unpeeling the banana and slicing the tip. He never eats the tip, he hates the black pointy part. He cuts a thin slice of banana and eats it off the knife.
‘John has thirty-two chocolate bars,’ he says slowly, patronisingly, and a few people laugh. ‘He eats twenty-eight. What does he have now?’
‘Diabetes, sir!’ Gerry shouts out, and everybody cracks up laughing.
Even Mr Murphy laughs. ‘Thank you for that, Gerry.’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Since you think you’re so smart, finish this off for us.’
And he does. Easy as that. I’m saved. I’m grateful but too embarrassed to turn around. Something hits against my leg and lands at my feet. I look down and see a scrunched-up piece of paper. I pretend to be leaning down to get something from my bag and while Mr Murphy has his back turned and is writing on the board, I open the ball of paper and smooth it open on my lap.
It wasn’t a joke. Promise. Wanted to ask you for ages.
Glad you said yes.
Gerry
PS, see you later?
I grin, my heart pounding, my stomach alive with butterflies. I shove the letter into my bag and as I do, I sneak a glance behind me. Gerry is watching me, big blue eyes, kind of nervous. I smile, and he smiles. Like a private joke only the two of us are in on.