Postscript(55)

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.