Postscript Read online

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your will.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Have you anyone in mind?’

  ‘I mean, I …’ I stall. It’s a vulnerable time in her life, I don’t want to be accused of undue influence, not over something as important as this. I sidetrack. ‘Well, her dad for one. Does he know about what’s going on? About Jewel? That you’re sick?’

  She glares at me.

  ‘Sorry.’ I back off. ‘I thought we were having a moment.’

  ‘You’re having a flippin’ breakdown moment, is what you’re having. Let’s get back to work.’

  We open the books and pick up where we left off.

  ‘Do you ever wish your husband wrote you different letters?’ she asks suddenly in the middle of writing the word love over and over. I’m choosing words that I know she’ll need for her letter to Jewel.

  I tense up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said,’ she says bluntly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar.’

  Irritated, I let her comment pass.

  ‘Do you know what you’re going to write in your letter yet?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m working on it,’ she says, head down and concentrating again on her cursive writing. Now it’s: dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. ‘I know I don’t want it to be anything like Paul’s though,’ she adds when the line is complete.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘Are you serious?’ She eyeballs me again. ‘Paul has every second of his kids’ lives all sewn up, by the sounds of it. Their birthdays, their driving lessons, their weddings, their first days of school, the first day they wipe their own arses. It’s like he thinks he can see exactly who they’re going to be. But what if they’re not that person? I know Jewel better than anyone in the whole wide world. But even I don’t know what she’ll do five minutes from now, never mind tomorrow. It’ll be weird for them, you know?’ She shudders at the thought of their futures. ‘So that’s why I asked you about your husband’s letters. Maybe he got something wrong, that didn’t suit you after he died.’

  She’s looking at me again. Her words have hit me with impact and my mind is racing.

  ‘Because if there’s a letter you didn’t like or something, you should probably tell Paul – not that he’d listen, Mr I Can Do This All By Myself. What is it with the men? Him and Bert. If they wanted their letters delivered, they should’ve hired a courier service. Me? I really need your help.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ginika,’ I sigh, everything unravelling again. ‘I sometimes wonder who’s teaching who here.’

  32

  The next day I have another session with Paul, our final one before his surgery. I’m not in the best of moods, particularly after how yesterday’s driving lesson ended. I’m missing a Sunday roast in my parents’ house and I’m a little resentful of that despite the fact I’m relieved I don’t have to answer to them about my break-up with Gabriel and my involvement in the club, about how I’m ruining Paul’s marriage, as opposed to cherishing it. I can only imagine what Ciara is telling them. I’ve chosen to be here but still feel contrary about missing out on my life, as though Paul should know what I’m sacrificing for him.

  He’s sheepish when he arrives. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. Claire believed me, if that makes you feel any better.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I snap. ‘I didn’t even want to come here today.’

  ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t.’

  ‘What happened yesterday goes against everything that I’m trying to achieve. I don’t want to lie to your wife. I don’t want her to hate me. I don’t want to ruin anything, the object is to give her a gift, not a nightmare. I’m supposed to be invisible, not the cause of a problem.’

  ‘I promise, Holly, it won’t happen again. I won’t lie; if anything, I’ll tell her the truth.’

  ‘If you don’t, I will,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Understood.’

  I breathe out, feeling a little better. ‘OK, let’s finish this.’

  The ‘PS, I Love You initiative’ as I phrased it in our communications, managed to come to an agreeable decision with Donard Castle, a fifteenth-century castle that was family-owned until fifty years ago and is now a popular event venue. Today they are hosting a wedding reception and while the couple are in a nearby chapel saying their vows, Paul and I have permission to utilise their fully furnished and decorated reception room to film his pieces for Eva.

  His father of the bride speech.

  When he shared the idea with me some time ago I was moved, but today, standing at Eva’s faux-wedding, I’m agitated. After Ginika’s pearls of wisdom yesterday, I haven’t been able to shake the question about Gerry’s letters. Were they all helpful? Did he get anything wrong? Alarm bells are ringing. Am I getting it wrong? It’s not just about holding the camera, making a film; I was put into this position by the PS, I Love You Club because of my own personal experience. I can offer Paul more and I haven’t been.

  During an illness, especially one such as his, there are few moments of light, and I didn’t want to be the one to block it out. I didn’t interrupt or interfere in his excited plans because I didn’t want to spoil his vision. Yet in staying quiet I certainly put his loved ones last. Just as I’ve done with my own. I check the time. They’re probably sitting down to eat. I’ve no idea what Gabriel is doing with Ava. Perhaps they’re sitting around for dinner with Kate and Finbar, and the idea of them playing a happy united family without me saddens me.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks, modelling his black tuxedo. ‘It’s Murphy. Paul Murphy.’

  I smile and adjust his crooked bowtie. ‘Most youthful father of the bride I’ve ever seen.’

  He surveys the wedding reception room, impressed. ‘Holly,’ he grins, ‘You have surpassed yourself.’

  The bride and groom’s choice of decorations are pink and silver themed, with pink peonies at the centre of every circular table of ten. The table linen is white and the chairs are covered in white fabric with pink and silver bows on alternating chairs. The head table is long and laid out banquet-style, facing the room, behind it is a stage where the band recently completed their sound check then left to give us our designated thirty minutes. It was the most time I could negotiate for no fee whatsoever.

  ‘You ready?’ I ask Paul, snapping him out of his trance, as he studies the room, absorbing the fantasy set-up of his daughter’s future wedding. Drinking it in and adding it to his memories, as though he was there.

  ‘Eh, yeah,’ he says, perhaps surprised by my brusque tone.

  ‘The head table is here.’

  He follows me, slowly walking along the table, reading the names, perhaps imagining who will be seated at Eva’s wedding.

  ‘Father of the bride is here,’ I interrupt his thoughts. ‘I brought you a bottle of champagne. Non-alcoholic, because I know you’re not allowed to drink with your medication.’ I remove the bottle from my bag. I pop the cork, no nonsense, fill a glass that was also in my bag and hand it to him.

  He watches me, silent.

  ‘It’s for your toast.

  ‘Is everything OK, Holly, you seem a little …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, backing off. ‘If it’s because of yesterday, I apologise. Again.’

  ‘Thank you. We only have twenty minutes left before the bridal party arrive.’

  ‘Right. OK.’

  He takes his place at the father of the bride’s position.

  ‘How much of the table do you want me to capture?’ I ask. ‘Zoom in on you and we could be anywhere, which defeats the purpose of this room. Zoom out and I capture the table and it’s obvious you’re at a table by yourself.’

  He blinks. Looks lost.

  I decide. ‘I can get the flowers in this way. On one, two …’ I give him the nod.

  He lifts his champagne glass and grins. ‘Hello, Monkey Face. My darling Eva. I’m honoured to be here with you on your special day. You look so beautiful
. And this man—’

  I must make a face because he stops. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  I stop filming. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You made a face.’

  I shrug. ‘Ignore my face. Concentrate on your speech. Go again.’

  ‘My darling monkey face Eva. I’m honoured to be here—’

  ‘OK.’ I obviously did make a face because the same thing annoyed me the second time. I lower the phone. ‘Eva is a one-year-old now, I get that you call her monkey face, but do you think you’d be calling her that on her wedding day?’

  He thinks about it. ‘It’s funny?’

  ‘She might not – remember – that you called her monkey face. This is going to be at least twenty years away.’

  ‘Right.’ He clears his throat. ‘My darling Eva, I’m so happy to be here on your special day. You look so beautiful in your dress—’

  ‘What if she’s not wearing a dress?’

  ‘Every bride wears a dress.’

  ‘In 1952 they did.’

  He looks at me, confused.

  ‘She could be wearing a bikini on a beach, or in an Elvis suit in Vegas. You’ve no idea what she’s wearing. You’re probably going to appear on a screen in a room. People are going to be shocked. Moved. Confused. Imagine how Eva will feel. You sharing your sentiments is enough, don’t be too specific because if you get it wrong it will feel … off.’

  ‘OK. Yeah. Good point.’

  He starts again. ‘Hello, my darling Eva. I’m delighted to be with you on your special day and even though I can’t be with you in person I’m raising a glass to you from the best seat in the house. I’d like to congratulate the groom. I hope this guy knows how lucky he is—’ His smile fades. Irritation. ‘What now?’

  I stop filming again.

  ‘What if she doesn’t marry a guy?’

  He rolls his eyes.

  ‘Think about it. She’s one and she may seem terribly heterosexual to you,’ I say sarcastically, ‘But she will change. If she’s marrying a woman, you saying this will actually spoil the entire wedding.’

  I’m irritating him but he gathers himself and starts again.

  It’s all going well until. ‘As the father of the bride, on behalf of me and Claire.’

  I stop recording. ‘Paul,’ I say gently.

  ‘What?’ he snaps.

  I walk towards him. We’re running out of time. Time for me to speak.

  ‘Please allow me to speak freely.’

  ‘Jesus, haven’t you been? The guests are going to arrive soon and we’ve got nothing! I should have run this speech by you before.’ There’s sweat on his upper lip, beads on his forehead.

  ‘I offered and you said no. You wanted to do it on your own. Now hear me out.’

  He calms.

  ‘I haven’t been honest with you. This whole time I’ve been going along with your enthusiasm, swept along by your mission, but I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t stop this.’

  One jab to the heart, and he readies himself for more.

  ‘Your ideas are wonderful. They’re exciting. They’re moving. They’re filled with love … but mostly they’re for you.’ I pause to see how he’ll take it and it’s not looking good. I continue. ‘They’re so you feel included in the moments. And also so that they’ll feel you’re there, but you will already be in their minds in these moments. If you don’t do all this, it doesn’t mean that you disappear.’

  He looks downward, emotion gathering and bubbling around his jaw.

  ‘What if Casper doesn’t want to drive? What if he does and Claire wants to teach him? What if Eva never gets married? What if she marries a woman and what if Claire wants to make the speech? You can’t decide their futures for them.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ he says, voice shaking. ‘But I don’t want them to feel like they’re missing something. Growing up empty, like there’s a hole in every place in their life. An empty place at the table where their dad should be.’

  I think about whether to say it or not. Even Gerry thought about what Paul hasn’t, his final letter paved the way for his space to be filled. ‘What if the seat isn’t empty?’

  ‘Oh wow. Holly that’s just … Jesus. You saved that one for a good moment,’ he says angrily. ‘This is bullshit, I’m done. I’ll record my own message.’

  He storms out of the room.

  I chase after him, afraid. My aim was to fill the PS, I Love You Club with hope, but now I’ve broken his heart even further, a man who’s facing the end of his life. Well done, Holly. I race out of the conference room, through the bar, past the photo booth and a box of silly clothes ready for the party festivities, and out the door of the bar. He’s sitting outside, at a picnic table decorated with pink and silver balloons, looking out at the view. I’m sure he would rather be left alone but I’m not finished yet. I’m not finished until he understands. I approach him and my heels crunch over the pebbles. He turns around to check on his company, then back to the view again.

  ‘Go away, Holly, we’re done.’

  I sit opposite him anyway. He looks out, still ignoring me but at least not challenging me. I take this as positive encouragement under the circumstances.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Halfway through my husband’s letters, I wished he’d stop.’

  That gets his attention. ‘Now you’re being honest. You think you could have told us all this a few months ago?’ he asks, but the anger is gone.

  ‘When Gerry died, I was in a dark miserable fucking slump that I couldn’t get out of. That’s how it is. Just shit. I was angry, I was sad, everything was unfair. Why and how did the world keep turning without him in it? Poor me, that’s what I honestly kept thinking. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t wise. I didn’t handle it well. I gave up. The letters gave me purpose. Companionship. More of him that I craved. His letters forced me to get up and get out. He got me moving, and then, when I was back to life again, I felt that waiting every month for another letter held me back. Every new letter was a reminder that he was gone, that everyone around me was moving on. Friends were getting engaged, pregnant, and I was still waiting for more letters, for direction from my dead husband, afraid to do anything for myself in case it clashed with the next mission. I loved them, but resented them at the same time. After a year, the letters stopped and I knew that was the end. Closure.

  ‘The right letter can be a blessing; the wrong one can be dangerous. It can be a setback, it can trap you in a dangerous place where you’re living in between. My husband got my letters right because he knew me, he thought about me. If he’d continued writing letters for my whole life … it wouldn’t work, because he doesn’t know me now. If we had children, maybe he wouldn’t know that somebody helped raise them, loved them, maybe even called him dad or walked them up the aisle. You can’t replace people, Paul, you’ll never be replaced, but you can replace roles.

  ‘By writing your letters, or filming your videos, you can’t write others out. I know you can’t see into the future, nobody’s asking you to be perfect, but if your wish is to be there for your family – for Claire, for Casper and Eva – then you can’t decide their futures for them. You won’t always get to be a part of their every day. But the memory of you will.’ I think of how I felt Gerry fill my body with his energy at Bert’s funeral. ‘And maybe you will get to be there in another way, maybe they’ll feel you in ways that you can’t plan or imagine. I believe that now.’

  I stop speaking and stare straight ahead at the fields that surround the castle. I wait for him to stand and leave, but after a moment he’s still there. I sneak a look at him and he’s rubbing tears from his cheeks.

  I hurry around to him and sit beside him, and wrap my arms around him. ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he says, voice trembling. ‘That’s the best advice anybody ever gave me.’

  I smile, relieved, but I feel his aching sadness; a pressing weight on my chest. ‘I should have said it a long time ago. To you all.
’

  ‘I probably wouldn’t have listened.’ He wipes his eyes. ‘I’m dying,’ he says, finally. ‘I’m just trying to do everything to give them more of me.’

  ‘I know, but you have to leave room for them to remember you themselves.’ A thought strikes me, clear and vivid and it’s directed at myself. ‘And they can’t allow the ghost of you to take someone else’s place.’

  After meeting with Paul, I give up on the idea of gathering with my family and go home. I take Gerry’s letters from my bedside locker, never far from me after all these years, and I open the one that I need to examine with a different pair of eyes.

  Gerry’s fourth letter was one I treasured and was grateful for. In it, he encouraged me to rid myself of his possessions – not everything, of course, but he guided me as to what to keep and what to lose, what to give away and to whom. He told me I didn’t need his things to feel him with me, that he’d always be there wrapping his arms around me, guiding me. Gerry was wrong. At the time I did need his things to feel him with me. I smelled his T-shirts I refused to wash and hugged myself in his sweaters to fool myself into believing his arms were around me. This letter was one of my favourites because it kept me busy, it wasn’t a one-off event, it took me one month. It was weeks of work, gathering items, reminiscing, holding on then letting go as I allocated homes for them.

  I wish I’d taken more time before following Gerry’s instructions. I wish I’d thought about my life more carefully and about what I would need. Instead he instructed me based on the woman I was when he knew me, instead of the woman I became when he was gone, and there are items that I gave away that I wish I’d kept and, most importantly, there are precious belongings of his that he told me to keep that I know I shouldn’t have. I kept them because he told me to, and I used him as my excuse for my own needs and greed.

  It was delivering Bert’s letter to Rita’s sister that has played on my mind for some time. You can’t blame the dead, Rachel had blasted, respecting her mother’s final wishes, as though the final decisions of the dying are the correct ones, sacred and untouchable. I used to agree with her, but perhaps we’re wrong. Perhaps the ones who leave us behind don’t always see the bigger picture, but instead place it in our hands with trust in us to make better decisions.