Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(89)

Despite the moving context, the audience jeer the nicknames.

‘Philip wanted me to ask you three very special friends of his to stand.’

I look out at the sea of faces, every one of them looking around for the three young men. Slowly Philip’s best friends get to their feet, and already one is crying. Arms around each other’s shoulders for support, as though standing on the rugby pitch for the national anthem. These three teenagers helped carry his coffin at the funeral and they still stand side by side. I take a deep breath. I need to hold it together.

‘Dear Con-Man, Big D and Tricky Mickey,’ I read. ‘I’m not going to make this morbid, I’m sure you’re all morto enough, standing there in front of everyone.’

Somebody wolf-whistles.

‘Everyone in this room knows you three are my best mates. I’ll miss you, the only thing I don’t regret about all of this is missing out on my exams this year. At least I got away with not having to study.’

A cheer breaks out and they applaud him.

‘Today is my eighteenth birthday, I’m the youngest and you lot never let me forget it. Respect your elders, you always used to say, Tricky Mickey. Well I do. I wish I was there to do this with you, but you can finish off what I’ve started. On December twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve, you’ll be doing the twelve pubs of Christmas.’

An eruption of cheers and applause. I wait for the rowdiness to die down with help from the principal.

‘Twelve pubs. Twelve pints. And they’re all on me, lads. Bring a puke bucket for Big D.’

Retching, vomiting sounds circulate the room, and the teenager in the middle of the trio gets a ribbing from the people sitting behind him. I have located Big D.

‘You’ll be starting in O’Donoghue’s, where there’ll be a pint from me waiting for you. When you finish your pint, the bartender will give you an envelope with a note from me, telling you where to go next. Because Hanley is listening, and he wouldn’t agree to this being read out otherwise, I have to add the condition that you’ll accompany each pint with a glass of water.’

The audience cheer at the mention of the principal, and I turn in time to see Principal Hanley wiping his eyes.

‘Enjoy the night, have an extra pint for me. If I can, I’ll be watching. PS, I love you, lads.’

The three friends gather in a group hug while the rest of the auditorium applaud respectfully and arise in a standing ovation, chanting Philip’s name. Two of the three friends are crying, Big D in the centre, and the third is seriously struggling but is keeping it together, manning up, the very serious daddy one of them all, keeping them together.

You can’t know anything for sure but I wonder, if Philip had lived, whether they’d have eventually gone their separate ways. Now, though, in Philip’s death, they’ll be bonded together always. Death rips people apart, but it also has a way of stitching those left behind together.

I push open a garden gate, which squeaks at the hinges, and step on to the path leading to the cottage. I ring the doorbell and when I hear footsteps make their way to the door I nod to Mathew, who’s standing at the back doors of his van. On my nod, he opens the boot and takes out half a dozen red balloons in each hand. He’s followed by Ciara and Ava, who are also carrying a dozen red balloons. As the cottage door opens, Mathew hands me his red balloons and hurries back for the rest.

The woman isn’t much older than me. ‘Hello,’ she says, smiling, but confused.

‘From Peter,’ I say, handing her a card that reads,

Happy Birthday, Alice,

Red Balloons Go By,

Love, Peter

PS, I Love You

She takes it in shock.

I press play on my iPhone and the song ‘99 Red Balloons’ by Nena begins, the first song they danced to together. She steps aside and watches the procession of ninety-nine balloons enter and fill her home as the song fills the house.

I sit at the kitchen table of a widow who is holding her new gift of a charm bracelet in her hand, tears running down her cheeks.

‘Each charm has a story,’ I explain, handing her the eight envelopes with her wife’s messages. ‘She chose them especially for you.’

I sit with a dad and his three young children in their home. They are looking at me wide-eyed.

‘Mam did what?’

‘She started her own YouTube channel,’ I repeat. ‘How cool is that?’

‘So cool!’ the eight-year-old punches the air.

‘But Mam hated us watching YouTube,’ the teenager says, stunned.

‘Not any more,’ I smile. I open their mother’s laptop and turn the screen around to face them. They crowd around, elbowing each other, fighting for space.

The music starts and the voice of their mother calls out in a tone she’s stolen from the YouTubers her children idolise. ‘Hey, guys, it’s me, Sandra aka “Bam-It’s-Mam!” and welcome to my YouTube channel! Have I got some cool things to show you guys, and I hope you have fun watching at home. PS, I Love You so much, guys. Now, let’s get started! Today we’re gonna make slime!’

‘Slime!’ the children shriek, and their dad sits back in his chair, covers his mouth to stifle his sudden swell of emotions. His eyes fill but the children are so engrossed in their mother’s video they don’t notice.

I wake with a start. There’s something I need to do urgently, I wanted to do it last night before I went to bed but it was too late. I sit up and grab my phone from the bedside table.