Postscript(90)

‘Hello?’ Joy answers.

‘It’s December eighth.’ The unofficial start of Christmas. It’s a holy day, apparently, the feast of the immaculate conception. People from all around the country used to travel to Dublin to do their Christmas shopping, before their towns grew, before travel became easier, before society and culture changed. These are old traditional beliefs, not followed by all any more, but one thing hasn’t changed, it’s also the day that many traditional people decorate their homes for Christmas.

‘Holly, is that you?’

‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘Joy, it’s December eighth!’

‘Yes, I know, you said so, but I don’t understand.’

‘Is Joe going to buy a Christmas tree today? Is he going to decorate the house?’

‘Oh,’ she realises, and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘He can’t go up to the attic,’ I say, quickly getting out of bed, and hurrying around naked, looking for clothes.

‘Oh dear, what am I going to do? I can’t get up there.’

‘Of course not. That’s why I’m calling: I put them up there, now I’m going to take them down.’ I pause, smiling. ‘Joy. You made it.’

‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘I did.’





39


The family solicitor who handled the purchase of our house ten years ago retired, transferring all my paperwork to a new firm that I’ve had no business dealings with since. I visit the office to finally finalise the paperwork for the sale of the house.

‘Nice to see you today, Holly. I’ve spent time familiarising myself with your property and the deeds. I came across something unusual and I contacted Tony about it. He told me all was correct and in place.’

‘Please tell me there’s nothing wrong, it’s taken so long to get to this point. I just need to sign the paperwork,’ I say, exhausted from the experience.

‘There’s nothing wrong. A personal note was attached to the files. It was given to Tony Daly with a note explaining that this letter should be handed to you in the event that Holly Kennedy sells the property.

Instant palpitations. My hope surges but I know it’s stupid after all this time. It’s been eight years since Gerry died, seven years since I read his last note. There were ten letters, I read them all. It would be greedy to hope for more.

She reaches into the files and slides out an envelope.

‘Oh my God,’ I say, hands to my mouth. ‘That’s my late husband’s handwriting.’

She holds it to me but I don’t take it. I keep looking at it, held by her in the air, his writing. She eventually places it down on the desk before me.

‘I’ll give you some time alone,’ she says. ‘Would you like water?’

I don’t answer.

‘I’ll get you some water.’

Alone with the envelope, I read the words on the front.

One for the Road.

It’s late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. The crowds are leaving the pub, being shouted out and abused by the doormen. The lights are on full, the smell of bleach is strong as the staff attempt to flush the crowds out. Others are going home, or are continuing on to a club. Sharon and John are practically eating each other’s faces alive, as they have been all night, but what seemed mildly unappetising in the dark is far uglier in the harsh bright lights.

‘One for the road?’ Gerry says to me, looking bleary-eyed, with a charming grin. Eyes always smiling, with devilment, with life.

‘They’re throwing us out.’

‘Denise,’ Gerry calls. ‘Work some magic, will you?’

‘Already on it.’ Denise salutes him and heads directly to a handsome young bouncer.

‘Stop pimping my friend.’

‘She loves it,’ he grins.

Denise turns and winks, already successful at securing a last round.

‘Always one more,’ I say, kissing him.

‘Always,’ he whispers.

My alarm sounds. It’s 7 a.m. I roll onto my side and turn it off. I need to get up, out of bed, go home, shower, get to college. I feel Gerry stirring beside me. His hand reaches across the bed to me, warm like a furnace. He moves his body and presses up against me, full, wanting. His lips brush the nape of my neck. His fingers find me, just where he needs to to convince me to stay. I press back against him, responding.

‘One for the road,’ he says, sleepily.

I feel his words against my skin. I hear the smile in his voice. I’m not going anywhere else but to him.

‘Always one more,’ I whisper.

‘Always.’

I stare at the envelope on the desk before me, in shock. How did I not consider this, in all the analysis and calculations since his death? One for the road, he always said it. There’s always one more. Always. Ten letters, it should have been enough, but seven years since I read the final one, here’s one for the road.

Dear Holly,

There’s always one more. But this is the last.

Five minutes for me, but who knows how long for you. Maybe you’ll never read this, maybe you’ll never sell the house, maybe it will get lost, maybe somebody else is reading this. A beautiful daughter or son of yours. Who knows. But I’m writing this with the intention of you reading this.