Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(38)

‘The largest earthquake to hit Ireland was in 1984, the Llyn Peninsula earthquake, which measured five-point-four on the Richter scale. It was the largest known onshore earthquake to occur in Ireland since instrumental measurements began. Dad says they woke up when their bed slid across the floor and hit the radiator.’

I snort with laughter. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t know that.’

‘I made you tea,’ he says suddenly, pointing to the coffee table. ‘It should still be hot.’

‘Thanks, Richard.’ I sit down on the couch and sip. It’s perfect.

He studies the wall and tells me what screws are in and what he’ll need. I listen but don’t absorb any of it.

‘Why do you want to take them down?’ he asks, and I know that this is not a personal question; he’s asking because he wonders about the wall, perhaps about the frame, something that will have a bearing on his taking them down. It’s not a question about feelings. But I live and think more in feelings and less in function.

‘Because people are viewing the house and I want to protect my privacy.’ Despite having discussed my private life in front of an audience and allowing it to be made available online for everyone to hear.

‘You’ve already had viewings.’

‘I know.’

‘Did the estate agent advise this?’

‘No.’

He looks at me for more.

‘It just seemed unfair, to me, that when people come to the house I hide the photo of Gabriel and me in a drawer but Gerry stays on the wall. If I’m putting one man away, I should put them both away,’ I say, knowing how ludicrous that would sound to somebody like Richard.

He looks at the photograph of Gabriel on the mantelpiece but doesn’t respond, which I suppose I expected. We don’t usually have deep and meaningful chats.

Richard gets to work drilling the wall and I do some ironing in the adjoining dining room, where I pile my washing when people aren’t viewing the house.

‘I met Gabriel for a drink last night,’ he says suddenly, unscrewing his drill bit and replacing it with another. His actions are slow, methodical, sturdy.

‘Really?’ I look at him in surprise.

I don’t think Gerry and Richard had ever been for a drink in all the years we were together. Not alone anyway. And even when together, it was my brother Jack that Gerry was drawn to. Jack was my cool brother, easy, affable, handsome, and Gerry looked up to him when we were teenagers. Richard, to Gerry and me, was the difficult, wooden, rather nerdish, boring brother.

After Gerry’s death, that changed. Richard stepped up. I was able to identify with him more as he navigated divorce, the loss of his sturdy predictable life, and I counselled him through new life choices. Jack, in comparison, seemed shallow, unable to reach the great depths that I needed or expected. People can surprise you when you suffer through grief. It’s not true that you discover who your friends are, but it’s true to say that their characters are revealed. Gabriel is always pleasant to Jack, but he’s allergic to his smart-suited and booted business friends. He says he doesn’t trust a man who carries an umbrella. Richard smells of grass, and moss, and soil, salt-of-the-earth scents that Gabriel can trust.

‘Did Jack go too?’

‘No.’

‘Declan?’

‘Just Gabriel and me, Holly.’

He drills again and I impatiently wait.

He stops drilling, doesn’t say anything as if he’s forgotten.

‘Where did you go?’

‘The Gravediggers.’

‘You went to the Gravediggers?’

‘Gabriel likes his Guinness. They serve the best Guinness in Dublin.’

‘Who arranged it?’

‘I suggested the Gravediggers, but I assume you mean the meeting. Gabriel called me. Quite nice. We’d been meaning to connect since Christmas. He’s a man of his word.’

He turns the drill on again.

‘Richard!’ I shout and he turns it off. ‘Is he OK?’

‘Yes. A bit going on with his daughter.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, distracted. ‘Was that what it was about? Divorce talk?’ Richard’s children are nothing like Ava. They sing in choirs, play cello and piano. If you asked them about sambuca, they’d ask what key to play it in. His wife had broken his heart even further when she married an acquaintance of theirs, a professor of Economics. ‘Or was it about the car accident? I think he’s dealing with it worse than I am.’ I want to ask if it was about the PS, I Love You Club, which would be the obvious issue, but in case it’s not, I don’t want to have to bring it up and therefore discuss it. Richard missed the family conversation at Sunday lunch and to my knowledge it hasn’t been brought up again.

‘A little bit of all those things,’ he says. ‘But mostly he’s concerned about the club you have befriended.’

‘Ah, I see. And what did you tell him?’

‘Your shirt is on fire.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Your shirt, on the ironing board,’ he points.

‘Oh, flip it,’ I lift the iron from my T-shirt, revealing a burn mark on the fabric. I always do stupid things in Richard’s company and use expressions like ‘flip it’ as though we’re in an Enid Blyton book. I don’t know whether it’s that I always do stupid things and only notice in his company, or if it’s his company that brings it out in me.