Postscript(32)

The door to Bert’s room is closed but I can hear that it is filled with people, young children being the loudest. The PS, I Love You Club is a secret to add to the element of surprise after death, and I don’t know what Bert has told his family about me, if anything at all, but the idea of a book club is thankfully a good cover and so I’ve brought a sports memoir with me to pretend I’m recommending our next read.

Suddenly there’s a rise of beautiful music as a choir of young voices sing ‘Fall on Your Knees’. The sounds of his grandchildren to lift his spirits, they probably don’t know that they’re saying goodbye but their parents do. Bert does. He probably looks at them all one by one as they sing and wonders about their future, hoping they’ll be OK, guessing who will become what, wishing he could see it. Or perhaps it’s his own children he worries about, as they watch their singing children with strained smiles and pain in their hearts, and he feels their pain, their struggles, knows the hurdles they have overcome in life and worries about how they will cope in the future. Because he knows their characters, even on his deathbed as they’re worrying about him, he’s unable to stop worrying about them. Their dad, forever. And perhaps he thinks of Rita, who will be faced with it all alone when he’s gone. I envisage it all as the sweet young voices drift through the walls.

The door opens and cries of ‘Goodbye, Granddad,’ ‘We love you Granddad,’ drift out the door. The grandchildren stream excitedly from the room, hopping and skipping, chattering happily; they’re followed by children and in-laws, who smile at me as they pass and leave through the front door, pausing to hug Rita on the way. Bert’s wife is a small woman in a pair of pink golf trousers and sweater, with a set of pearls and lipstick to match her outfit. I stand as she closes the door behind the last of them.

‘Sorry for the wait,’ she says warmly. ‘I’m afraid Bert didn’t tell me you had an appointment. Oh goodness, you poor thing, what happened?’

She doesn’t seem the slightest bit emotional after the scene I witnessed, not as moved as I am, but I remember the feeling of always being the strongest person in every room, because if you weren’t, everything would be impossible. High emotions, goodbyes, and talk of the end becomes the norm and the soul builds up a super layer of armour when faced with it. When alone, it was a different matter; alone was when everything was free to come crashing down.

‘Cycling accident,’ I reply. ‘It will be off soon, thankfully.’

‘He’s waiting for you,’ she says, guiding me into his room. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea, please. Thank you.’

Bert is lying in a hospital bed in the living room. The couches have been pushed to one side. He’s hooked up to his oxygen, and when he sees me he motions for me to close the door and sit beside him. I obey.

‘Hi, Bert.’

He signals to the tubes in his nose and rolls his eyes. The energy from our first meeting in Joy’s conservatory is gone, but there is life and a twinkle in his eye for our project.

‘You look worse than me,’ he gasps between words.

‘I’ll heal. Only four more weeks left. I brought you this book, for our book club.’ I wink, and place it on the locker beside him.

He chuckles. Then coughs, angry coughs that rip him of life. I stand and move closer to him, hovering, as if that will help.

‘I told Rita something else.’

‘Oh God, do I want to know?’

‘My feet,’ he says, and I look to his toes that are wiggling at the end of the blanket his coughing has pulled up. Crusty flat feet with long tough yellow nails. I am not touching those feet for love nor money.

‘Foot … massage … therapy.’

‘Bert,’ I look at him wide-eyed, ‘we’re going to have to come up with a better cover story.’

He chuckles again, enjoying this.

I hear cups and plates rattling in the kitchen as Rita prepares.

‘OK,’ I shake my head, ‘let’s get down to business. Have you thought about the new questions?’

‘Under my pillow.’

I stand and help him lean forward. Laughing, I retrieve the papers from beneath his huge stack of pillows and hand them to him.

‘Ever since I was a boy I’ve always wanted to plan a heist.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy scheming.’

‘Nothing … else to do.’

He shows me a map with coloured circular stickers in the exact locations. To my absolute relief, all are Dublin-based but his writing is so erratic I can barely read it.

‘It’s rough. You’ll have to write it again,’ he says, possibly noticing my struggle.

The sound of a rattling tray and footsteps nears the door. I hide the papers under my coat on the chair and open the door for Rita.

‘Here we are,’ she says brightly.

I help her wheel the tray table closer to Bert. Pretty teapot and mismatching cups and saucers, with a plate of biscuits.

‘Will this be in the way of your work?’ she asks, concerned.

‘Oh no, it’s OK,’ I reply, hating the lie. ‘I can slide it across easily.’

We shuffle it around and she leaves us. I’m sure she’s relieved to have an hour to herself. I remember that I did. In the depths of a difficult reality I would watch home make-over shows, transforming gardens, cooking shows, everything to do with transformation and crying, surprised guests. I got lost in their sorrow and then was lifted by their hope.