Postscript(11)

‘There are five of us – well, four of us now. Your story filled us with light and hope. You see, dear Holly, we got together because we have something that bonds us.’

My fingers are clenching the book so hard it’s almost bending.

‘We have all been diagnosed with terminal illnesses. We joined together not just because of the hope that your story inspired in us but because we have a shared goal. We want to write letters for our loved ones as your husband did for you. We desperately need your help, Holly. We’re running out of ideas and …’ she breathes in as if summoning the energy, ‘all of us are running out of time.’

Silence as I pause, freeze, try to absorb that. I’m speechless.

‘I’ve put you on the spot and I’m very sorry,’ she says, embarrassed. She attempts to stand, with the cup of tea in one hand and her cane in the other. I can only watch her; I’m too stunned to feel anything but numb to the sadness of Joy and her fellow club members. If anything, I’m irritated that she would bring this back into my life.

‘Let me help you,’ Ciara says, rushing over to take the tea and hold her arm to assist her.

‘Perhaps I’ll leave my phone number for you, Holly. So that if you want to …’ She looks at me to finish her sentence but I don’t. I’m cruel and I wait.

‘I’ll get a pen and paper,’ Ciara says, jumping in.

Joy leaves her details with Ciara and I call goodbye as she makes her exit.

The bell rings, the door closes, Ciara’s footsteps click-clack across the wooden floors. Her 1940s vintage peep-toe heels, worn with fishnet stockings, come to a halt beside me. She stares at me, studies me, and I’m quite sure she has eavesdropped and heard it all. I look away and slide the book on to the shelf. Here. Yes, I think it will look good here.





6


‘Easy on the gravy, Frank,’ Mum says, taking hold of the jug in Dad’s hands. Dad clings to it, intent on finishing his gravy annihilation of his roast dinner, and in the tug of war the gravy glugs from the spout and drips on the table. He looks pointedly at Mum, then wipes the thick drips from the linen with his finger and sucks it in protest.

‘There won’t be enough for everyone,’ Mum says, holding it out to Declan.

Declan catches the dribbles from the spout and licks his finger. Then goes for another swipe.

‘No double-dipping,’ Jack warns, stealing the jug from Mum’s hands.

‘I haven’t had any yet,’ Declan gripes, trying to steal it back, but Jack retains possession and pours it over his food.

‘Boys,’ Mum admonishes them. ‘Honestly, you’re behaving like children.’

Jack’s kids laugh.

‘Leave some for me,’ Declan watches Jack. ‘Do they not have gravy in London?’

‘They don’t have Mum’s gravy in London,’ Jack says, winking at Mum, before pouring a little on the kids’ plates, and then passing it to his wife, Abbey.

‘I don’t want gravy,’ one of the kids moans.

‘I’ll have it,’ Declan and Dad say in unison.

‘I’ll make more,’ Mum says with a sigh, and hurries back to the kitchen.

Everybody mills into their food as if they haven’t eaten for days: Dad, Declan, Mathew, Jack, Abbey and their two children. My older brother Richard is delayed at choir practice and Gabriel is spending the day with his teenage daughter Ava. As she has wanted very little to do with him most of her life, these visits are precious to him. All are preoccupied by their meal apart from Ciara, who watches me. She looks away when I catch her eye and reaches for the salad spoon in the centre of the table. Mum returns with two jugs. She places one in the centre and another beside Ciara. Jack pretends to reach for it, like a false start, and it makes Declan panic, jump and grab the jug.

Jack laughs.

‘Boys,’ Mum says, and they stop.

The kids giggle.

‘Sit down, Mum,’ I say gently.

She surveys the table, her hungry family all greedily tucking in, and finally sits beside me at the head of the table.

‘What’s this?’ Ciara says, looking into the jug.

‘Vegan gravy,’ Mum says proudly.

‘Ahh, Mum, you’re the best.’ Ciara pours, and a murky watery substance flows all over the base of her plate like soup. She looks up at me, uncertain.

‘Yum,’ I say.

‘I’m not sure if I made it correctly,’ Mum says apologetically. ‘Is it nice?’

Ciara takes a small taste. ‘Delicious.’

‘Liar,’ Mum says with a laugh. ‘Are you not hungry, Holly?’

My plate is practically empty and I haven’t even begun eating. Broccoli and tomatoes are all I could bear to look at on my plate.

‘I had a big breakfast,’ I say, ‘but this is fabulous, thank you.’

I sit forward and tuck in. Or try to. Mum’s food, vegan gravy aside, really is delicious and on as many Sundays as possible she tries to gather the troops for a family meal, which we all adore. But today, as has been the case for the past few weeks, my appetite is gone.

Ciara eyes my plate, then me, worriedly. She and Mum share a look and I immediately sense that Ciara has spilled the beans about the PS, I Love You Club. I roll my eyes at both of them.