Postscript(57)

The Mespil Hotel is directly across the road.

‘What are you thinking?’

Feeling determined, I cross the road to the hotel. Straight up to reception with the air of someone who means business, and I ask for the hotel manager.

‘Just a moment.’ The receptionist disappears behind a hidden panelled door in the wall.

‘Hello,’ a woman steps out of the secret room, hand extended. ‘I’m the hotel duty manager, how may I help you?’ Her hand is warm, in these days of red tape and paperwork, I hope her heart is too.

She guides me to a seated area and I settle myself.

‘Thank you so much for your time. My name is Holly Kennedy and I’m working on a venture called PS, I Love You, which helps terminally ill patients write final letters to their loved ones. I’ve been sent here by my client Bert Andrews, who unfortunately passed away just moments ago … And I need your help.’

And there, we leave his third riddle. When Rita arrives, after a subtle additional hint from me directing her to the hotel, she will receive her safely guarded letter to read in the comfort of a private area and a complimentary afternoon tea.

Our second stop runs more smoothly than the first. We visit the dance hall where Bert first laid eyes on Rita. The Chrysanthemum Dance Hall was an iconic venue during Ireland’s successful show-band era, the dance mecca of Ireland. Girls on one side, boys on the other. If a boy asked you if you wanted a mineral then it meant he was interested, if you said yes to a dance it meant you were interested. Seemingly more innocent times, when the Catholic Church dominated the country. Thousands of people met their life partners on the dance floors of Ireland’s ballrooms.

A security guard grants us entry into the building, and it’s empty as they prepare for local school exams. He allows us to wander around and take a look. Gone are the dance floors and mirror balls, rows of desks and chairs take their place, but despite that, stepping inside is like stepping back in time. I imagine the room, hot and sweaty, heaving with people jiving on the dance floor.

As if picking up on my thoughts, Denise says. ‘If these paisley walls could talk.’

I explain my mission to the security guard, with more confidence, ease and the insistence that anybody involved is doing a great service to humanity. He agrees to take the envelope and stores it in a safe place with Rita’s name on it, where it will take her from the place where she and Bert first met, to the bench where they first kissed. And, thanks to the hint I’ve added in small print at the bottom of Bert’s limerick, across from the bench that marked their future, Rita will find her third letter, which leads us to our next location, the place where Bert proposed.

There once was a man who did tremble

There were words his tongue couldn’t assemble

On bended knee

He made his plea

Of that place he is sentimental

‘I’m loving this!’ Sharon admits. ‘Please let me know when you’re doing this again, I’d love to help. Where to next?’

‘How much time do you have, I thought you said you have a scan today?’

She looks guilty. ‘I made it up. I told my mum that so I could have a few hours off, I’m so tired,’ she says, her eyes glistening.

I hug her.

‘This is the perfect day, really, I know I wasn’t sure about this, Holly, but I’m fully behind you now. There is nothing wrong about doing any of this, and if you need me to tell Gabriel all about it, I will.’

My smile instantly fades at the mention of Gabriel, and I remember all over again that I’ve lost him. I gave him up. ‘It’s too late for that,’ I say, starting the engine.

We travel to Howth Harbour Lighthouse and Martello tower, built in 1817, where Bert proposed to Rita with fish and chips in their hands. The lighthouse caretaker emerges from the small Georgian-style house that is attached to the tower, listens to my story and does me the honour of accepting the letter for Rita. As with the hotel duty manager, and the security guard, I’m discovering that Bert’s story, a human story, is one that these busy people make time to listen to. They don’t divert me, or stonewall me. I’m not going to them with a complaint, I’m not trying to extort them. I’m just asking them to listen and to play their part in somebody’s dying wishes. The kindness of these strangers gives me hope, a faith in humanity: that though sometimes it may feel as though people are shutting down to others, devoid of compassion and empathy, we can still recognise when something is real. We are not altogether numb and unfeeling.

The caretaker takes the envelope containing the limerick:

There once was a fool who got lost

Who was greedy and ignored the cost

I’m sorry my love

From below and above

It’s here I felt your hate truly exhaust

‘I wonder what he did,’ Sharon says, as we walk back along the pier to the car park, eating our own fish and chips.

‘I think we can guess,’ Denise says, her words thick with cynicism.

‘I don’t know what you’re so angry about, you have a perfect husband who adores you and who stayed by your side through everything,’ Sharon snaps. I don’t have the energy to agree, after what Denise has thrown at me already today.

‘I know that,’ Denise says quietly. ‘That’s why he deserves more.’

We are all quietly thoughtful as we travel to our next destination, Sharon pondering the arrival of a baby into an already chaotic life, Denise pondering the demise of her marriage and a future that is not going according to plan. Me about … oh everything.