Postscript(61)

Inveniam viam. I shall either find a way or make one.

I self-consciously approach the coffin. My eyes fall upon Bert, so dapper in his best suit, navy blue, crisp white shirt and royal blue tie, with the crest of his cricket club. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, the funeral home did a good job. I didn’t know Bert very well but I know intimate things about him. The few times I met him he was struggling to breathe, now he is calm, serene.

Tears well up. Then I look down at his hands and my eyes widen. He’s holding a bible. This was not part of the plan, Bert distinctly told me to put the envelope in his hands. He never mentioned anything about a bible.

I look around to make sure nobody is watching, they’ve continued their own quiet conversations to give me my moment. With everybody distracted, I place my hand on Bert’s hand and give the bible a little tug to see how easily it will move.

‘That lady is stealing from Granddad,’ a little voice shouts.

I jump, startled, and look down to see a boy beside me pointing right at me.

There’s silence in the room again.

‘Oh, she’s only holding Granddad’s hand,’ Ciara says sweetly, with a smile, stepping forward to stand by my side.

‘Thomas, come here,’ his mother says, and he glares at me suspiciously before leaving my side. I look around again and the eyes are back on me. Less trusting now. There may be some truth to peeping Thomas’s declaration. I’m starting to sweat; can’t they just look somewhere else? I reach into my bag.

The door opens and the arrival of a new mourner steals their attention from me. I use the opportunity to remove the envelope from my bag and place it on top of Bert’s hands, but my hands are shaking and its clumsily done. The letter rests uneasily on the bible for a second, then slides down to the side of the coffin where it will never be seen.

‘Jesus, Holly,’ Ciara mutters in my ear.

I reach in and dig it out. I place it on the top again, trying to balance it where it can be clearly seen. The envelope slides down a second time. I open the Bible and slide the letter between the pages, making sure it can clearly be seen at the top, but I’m not too convinced. Bert wanted the letter in his hands.

‘She did something to Granddad!’ Thomas shouts, standing up and pointing at me.

Thomas is not my friend.

Stunned and completely mortified, I look around at the faces staring at me. The crowd moves forward to peer into the coffin.

‘Who is she?’ a woman asks quietly, but I hear her.

‘This is Holly,’ Rita says, behind me. ‘Bert’s reflexologist.’

I close my eyes.





29


All eyes are on me. I take a deep breath.

‘My name is Holly,’ I say, addressing the crowd. ‘But I was not Bert’s reflexologist.’

Cue gasp. But that doesn’t happen because this isn’t a daytime soap, it’s real life, despite the ridiculous situation I’ve found myself in. Ciara immediately reverses to hug the wall.

‘I’m sorry, Rita,’ I turn to her. ‘Bert made that up of his own accord – nothing to do with me, I assure you. He asked for my help arranging a surprise for you, as a symbol of his love for you. I’m sorry I fell at the last hurdle and didn’t quite deliver on his wishes in the sophisticated manner he desired. But the envelope I placed on his hands is for you, written by Bert, typed by me, because he said you think he has terrible handwriting.’

She lets out a laugh, a surprised, high-pitched little yelp that escapes her, and her hands go to her mouth. It’s as if the handwriting piece of information was a secret code that unlocks her belief in me, and Rita’s acceptance causes everyone else to back down.

‘What has he done? I knew he was up to something! Oh Bert!’ she looks at him with a smile, tears filling her eyes. And then her face crumples.

‘Read the letter, Mum,’ her daughter says, stepping forward to her side, arm around her. Daughter of Bert and Rita, mum of peeping Thomas.

I wring my hands, a nervous wreck. The eyes are on me again. I back away from Rita and her daughter, no longer centre stage, and creep towards the door beside Ciara. She takes my hand supportively and holds it tightly, pulling me back from leaving. Joy, Paul and Ginika form a wall at the door, ganging up to block me from escaping. I slowly swivel towards the coffin, a spectator to Rita’s new adventure.

Rita lifts the envelope resting on the bible and Bert’s hands, runs her fingers over the gold shiny paper.

I’m instantly transported back to the moment I read the first note that Gerry wrote for me, how my fingers traced his letters, looping and swirling, my fingers reliving his words, in an effort to resurrect him.

Gerry’s opening words of his first letter come back to me. ‘My darling Holly, I don’t know where you are or when exactly you are reading this …’

Rita opens the envelope and slides the card out. ‘My darling Rita,’ she reads.

‘Oh Daddy,’ a woman gasps from the group. I’m frozen. Frozen in time. Stuck in a memory. You whispered to me not long ago that you couldn’t go on alone …’

Rita continues reading.

‘Our adventure together isn’t over. Dance with me one more time, my love. Hold my hand and take this journey with me. I’ve written you six limericks.’

‘Limericks!’ she looks up. ‘I hate limericks!’ she laughs, and reads on.