Postscript(87)

I stand in the Magpie stockroom. One wall has floor-to-ceiling shelving, full to the brim, there’s a rail of clothes waiting to be washed, steamed and ironed. A basket of clothes and a box of items we won’t sell and will instead send to charities. There’s a washing machine, a tumble dryer, a steam iron. It’s the busy but organised control room of the shop, but if I just … I pull a chair across the floor to the back of the room, facing the door. I sit down and imagine a desk before me, with a chair facing me. I imagine a couch, perhaps by the washing machine and tumble dryer. I close my eyes. Imagine.

There’s a rap on the door and I open my eyes. Fazeel steps in with his mat rolled up under his arm.

‘It’s noon,’ he says, with a smile.

I grin and jump up from my chair. ‘Volunteers! Yes! That’s it!’ I go to him and hug him.

‘My, my, you are happy today,’ he says, laughing, hugging me back.

‘Ciara!’ I yell. ‘Ciara, where are you?’ I enter the shop.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she says. She’s lying on her back beneath a mannequin, head hidden under the skirt.

Mathew is sitting on a stool, arms folded, watching her.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Her leg fell off,’ Ciara responds, voice muffled.

‘Is it wrong that I’m turned on by this?’ Mathew asks.

I laugh. ‘Ciara, get up, get up, I have news. I have an idea!’

‘So,’ I say excitedly to my family, who are seated around my parents’ dining table tucking into their Sunday roast. Gabriel and Ava have joined us this week and Ava hasn’t stopped laughing at Declan and Jack’s childish antics, which they’ve played up for her. ‘I’m going to turn the Magpie stockroom into a PS, I Love You office.’

‘Yes!’ Ciara says in a celebratory high-pitched tone, fist-punching the air. ‘Though perhaps not the entire stockroom!’ she adds in an equally celebratory tone, smile frozen on her face.

‘I’ll meet people there. Clients.’

‘Yes!’

‘Then, because there’s only one of me and hopefully there’ll be lots of people who require my services, I will employ volunteers to help me carry out the physical tasks, and there we have the all-new PS, I Love You Club!’

‘Yes!’ Ciara squeals, clapping her hands excitedly.

Ava laughs.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Mathew interrupts Ciara’s celebration. ‘You were dead against this at the start of the year, why are you now all, “Yes”’ He imitates her high-pitched tone.

‘Because,’ she says, widening her eyes at everyone as if I can’t see or hear her, ‘because nobody wanted her to do it last time and she did it anyway, and had a psychological crisis, so let’s support her.’

‘Ah, come on, so you don’t think it’s a good idea?’ I ask.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Mum says.

‘Good for you!’ Dad says, mouth filled with potato.

‘I’d like to volunteer,’ Ava says suddenly, and Gabriel looks at her in surprise. ‘Well, you said I needed a job. This sounds cool.’

‘But I can’t pay you, sweetie,’ I say sadly, so honoured she’d offer.

‘You can pay her if you get funds,’ Richard says. ‘If you register the PS, I Love You Club as a foundation or charity, then you can fundraise for the resources you need. You should also gather a team, for example, an accountant, a business adviser to help with the paperwork and legal obligations. Everybody would have to give their time on a voluntary basis.’

‘Really? You really think I should?’ I look around the table at them all.

‘I could do the bookkeeping for you,’ Richard offers. Before he began his landscaping business, he was an accountant.

‘I would love to help with fundraising,’ Abbey says.

‘I say a raise of hands for yes,’ Ciara declares.

They all raise their hands. All apart from Gabriel.

‘It’s a big undertaking,’ he says.

‘She can do it, Dad,’ Ava says, nudging him.

‘Yeah, Dad,’ Jack says, imitating Ava.

‘Yeah, Dad,’ the rest of them say in unison, and crack up laughing.

As the conversation turns into the usual noisy brawl, Gabriel wraps his arm around my shoulder and leans close. ‘I know you can,’ he whispers, and kisses me gently.

Excitement builds inside me. All this time I was thinking of it as a club, but it could be more. With enough support, we could help more people. I could dedicate more time to the people who need me to properly observe their life and help construct and distribute their letters. The PS, I Love You Club could become a nationwide foundation or a charity, helping those who are terminally ill finally reclaim their goodbyes. And all because of Gerry.

My phone rings; I don’t recognise the number. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Holly Kennedy?’ a young male voice asks.

‘Yes. This is Holly.’

‘Uh, I got your number from, er, Maria. Maria Costas? She told me about your club.’

‘Yes, this is the PS, I Love You Club,’ I say, standing up to leave as everyone hushes around the table.

‘Ssh,’ Jack starts, childishly, to Declan.