Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(33)

Bert chuckles. He loves the intrigue. I don’t, but wonder if Gerry was the same, when his body and mind was being analysed and owned by everyone else, if he was enjoying keeping something to himself.

I retrieve the papers again and study them.

‘You wrote poems?’

‘Limericks. Rita is the poetry fan, she hates limericks,’ he says, a look of devilment in his eyes.

‘Bert,’ I keep my voice low. ‘One of the reasons I loved Gerry’s notes was because they were handwritten. I felt like he’d left a part of him behind. His words, from his hand, from his mind, from his heart. I think it’s best if you write these notes yourself.’

‘Oh?’ He looks up at me and it’s impossible to think that this big man, with enormous hands and broad shoulders, could ever lose a battle against anything. ‘Rita’s always hated my handwriting, insisted on writing greeting cards herself. She has lovely handwriting. You should do it.’

‘OK. Or I could print it out. So that it’s not from me, exactly.’

He shrugs. He’s not too bothered about how the message is relayed, so long as it is. I blink. I need to learn to take this into account: that each person will disregard what I felt was important and place great importance on an aspect that I never contemplated. There can be nothing generic about these letters; their desires and not mine must be accounted for.

‘And we need nice paper. Do you have stationery?’ Obviously he doesn’t. ‘I can get you that.’

He doesn’t touch the biscuits, he doesn’t touch his tea. There is a plate of sliced fruit beside his bed, also uneaten.

I look at his notes and the map, not seeing anything, but thinking fast in my head. It is too much to ask him to do this all again, he has done what he can, as quickly as he can.

‘Bert. Just so I don’t get any words wrong when I’m transcribing it, I need you to do one thing for me.’ I take out my phone to record. ‘Read them for me.’

He reaches for his glasses but the effort is too great. I go to the side table and hand them to him.

He looks at the page, breathes in and out, fast short breaths. He reads them quietly, his words whipped away by his breath. He stalls. His eyes go misty. Then he starts to weep as though he is a small boy. I stop the recording and I hold his hands tightly. As his cries intensify, I wrap my arms around him and this old man cries on my shoulder like a boy. He’s exhausted when he’s finished reading and weeping.

‘Bert,’ I say gently. ‘I really don’t want to say this, but have you got lotion?’

He wipes his wet eyes, confused.

‘If we’re going to keep up this cover story I’m going to have to leave those feet looking happier.’

He chuckles again. And in one second, sorrow can mutate to joy.





16


In the stationery shop, I stare at the shelves of writing paper. So many different types: coated, uncoated, laid, bond or woven. Gloss, silk, matt, patterned or parallel lines. Smooth or textured. Pastels or strong primary colours. Which size? My mind blurs. It’s only paper, what does it matter? Of course it matters. It matters more than anything. Bert has six notes for Rita. One pack of fancy cards contains four. Why four? Why not five? So I need two packets. But will the extra four allow for enough mistakes? Perhaps I should buy three packets. The envelopes come in packs of seven. Why seven? And can I print on this paper?

My hands tremble as I scour the shelves, trying to find matching envelopes. Self-adhesive, or folded; two versions of myself. A challenge, a dare. Choose this and it defines you. Which is best? To stick myself together again, or fold and admit defeat?

Gerry would have done this. He would have gone shopping for the small cards that contained his notes and letters, knowing it was for me to read after his death. Did he choose just any paper or did he care? Was he pragmatic about it? Was he emotional? Did he request assistance or was he sure? Organised? Excited, or sad?

Suddenly my mind is full of questions I’d never considered before. Did he grab the first packet of notecards that he saw? Did he have a practice round? Did he make mistakes and rip them up angrily? Did he have other options that never made it to the final ten? Did he make a list? How long did he plan it? Was it all in one day? A spur of the moment decision, or did he take his time? There were no errors in his notes, he must have taken his time, or made a few attempts. I never did find the attempts. He wrote with blue pen, did he experiment with other colours? Did the blue mean something to him? Should it have meant something to me? Did he even care what colour or what paper he was using, did he know how much I would analyse every single part of his gifts?

Did he stand here, crying, a cane keeping him upright, as my crutches do now, feeling dizzy, scouring the shelves of paper, just fucking paper, trying to find a way to communicate to ensure he’ll be remembered. Worrying about not being remembered. Grasping at every last straw to lengthen his life when he ran out of treatments, terrified of being forgotten. Thinking his whole life has come to this moment, choosing paper for his final words for a person he’ll never see again.

‘Are you OK?’ asks the sales assistant.

‘Yes,’ I say, angrily, wiping my eyes roughly. ‘Superglue. I also need superglue.’

I call Joy and apologise for deserting them. I reveal my change of heart. She is gracious and appreciative, despite my abandoning them for such a long time when time of all things is most precious in their lives. I arrive early for the club in Joy’s home, before everyone else turns up, and ask her to give me time alone so that I can set up the conservatory.