Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(56)

‘I can tell she’s thinking,’ Denise says.

‘Because she’s barely blinking,’ Sharon finishes.

They giggle, feeling so proud of their poetic hilarity.

‘She’s got that look in her eye,’ Sharon begins.

‘And we don’t know why,’ Denise finishes.

I ignore them. I don’t have time to waste. I have four letters to deliver, Bert is dying, beginning his transition as we stand here in a powerful place of his past. I read the inscription and I suddenly realise something bad. Something terrible, and I’m filled with dread.

‘Wait a minute. Bert said they had their first kiss on this bench in 1968.’

I look at the girls. They’re cosying up to Patrick Kavanagh and taking selfies. Peace signs, and kissy lips.

‘This bench was erected in 1991.’

They finish their selfies, sensing the change in mood and stand up to read the plaque. We stare at it in silence.

I frown. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I read the message.

‘Perhaps you can check with Bert that he has the right place?’ Sharon suggests helpfully.

‘It’s too late,’ I say, looking up from the phone, my eyes filling.

The message is from Joy.

Our dear Bert has gone.





27


I sit on the bench, my head in my hands. ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘You’re not an idiot,’ Denise says simply.

‘I can’t do anything right,’ I berate myself. ‘People are dying, I’ve made promises and instead it’s like fucking amateur hour. And I broke up with Gabriel.’

‘What?’ Denise explodes.

‘Why?’ Sharon asks.

‘He wanted to move Ava into the house instead of Holly,’ Denise explains.

‘What?’ she explodes again.

‘It was … falling apart. We were dangling. So I snipped the wire.’

‘Well, actually,’ Denise says, turning to Sharon, ‘Holly was dangling. She didn’t want to have to answer to someone who didn’t want her to be part of the PS Club, because it was obvious it’s sending her bonkers, and Gabriel was probably afraid he’d lose her, which he has done anyway by not supporting her, and she didn’t want to have to face listening to the truth and admit he was right, so she cut him off like she does with most people who don’t agree with the way she’s living her life, which is probably why she hasn’t called you for weeks. Just like when Gerry died, remember?’

Sharon nods, looks at me nervously, then back to Denise. ‘The locking the door thing and not letting anyone in?’

‘Exactly, but this time she’s locked herself in with a ghost and cut off the real person who loves her, who, granted, may have had a really wrong reaction to all of this, but he doesn’t know her like we do, and frankly he’s human and none of us are perfect, so who can blame him?’

‘Denise,’ Sharon says quietly, warning in her voice.

I look at her, stunned. No, distraught.

‘Sorry,’ Denise replies, looking away, not sorry at all. ‘But someone had to say it.’

We sit in silence.

‘Flippin’ life,’ Sharon says. ‘I wish we were back in Lanzarote, on a lilo, drifting towards Africa. Times were easier then,’ she says, trying to lighten the mood.

I can’t laugh, I can’t erase what Denise has said. Her words are ringing in my ears, my chest pounding, with a kind of panic that she’s right. What if I’ve made an enormous mistake?

Sharon looks from me to Denise. ‘Can you two apologise so we can move on?’

‘What do I have to be sorry for?’ I ask.

Denise looks ready to blurt out all my faults again but she stops herself. ‘I already said sorry but I’ll say it again. Sorry, Holly, really, I’m …’ she shakes her head. ‘Stressed. I may have made a mistake leaving Tom and it’s frustrating watching you do the same thing.’

‘Did you mean what you said?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she says sombrely. ‘Every word.’

‘Oh for christsake,’ Sharon interrupts. ‘That is not an apology. Honestly, you two, I don’t hear from you for weeks and you both break up your relationships?’

‘Careful, it’s catching,’ I say, smiling weakly.

‘In John’s dreams,’ she mutters. ‘Right, well, one problem at a time,’ Sharon says, moving on. ‘There must be another bench somewhere. Bert didn’t make it up.’ She does a Google search. ‘A-ha, you’re not an idiot. There is a bench that was built by Patrick Kavanagh’s friends, weeks after his death. It was officially launched on St Patrick’s Day in 1968. That has to be it.’

I try to focus but everything feels like it’s falling apart. I’m still berating myself for not helping Bert to think this through properly, but how could I have, if I couldn’t even think it through? How could we expect to leave an envelope on a bench?

We walk down the banks of the canal, me using one crutch for my weak ankle, on parallel paths with a line of trees, past the leafy suburbs of Raglan Road and by the canal made pretty with swans. When we reach the south bank at the Lock Gates close to Baggot Bridge, opposite the Mespil Hotel, we find a simple side seat made from wood and granite. We take it in in a respectful silence. The giddiness of the newer Patrick Kavanagh bench is gone, this feels more apt, an old simple bench where Bert and Rita kissed for the first time all these years ago on St Patrick’s Day, 17 March 1968, a visit to the new bench celebrating Rita’s favourite poet. Different times. Bert is gone but the bench still stands, wood and stone that has absorbed the lives of people who have come and gone, and still observes the changing seasons and the canal water going by. Though we’re still faced with the same problem as the last time. Where to put the envelope.