Page 65 of Postscript

‘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.

The Mespil Hotel is directly across the road.

‘What are you thinking?’

Feeling determined, I cross the road to the hotel. Straight up to reception with the air of someone who means business, and I ask for the hotel manager.

‘Just a moment.’ The receptionist disappears behind a hidden panelled door in the wall.

‘Hello,’ a woman steps out of the secret room, hand extended. ‘I’m the hotel duty manager, how may I help you?’ Her hand is warm, in these days of red tape and paperwork, I hope her heart is too.

She guides me to a seated area and I settle myself.

‘Thank you so much for your time. My name is Holly Kennedy and I’m working on a venture called PS, I Love You, which helps terminally ill patients write final letters to their loved ones. I’ve been sent here by my client Bert Andrews, who unfortunately passed away just moments ago … And I need your help.’

And there, we leave his third riddle. When Rita arrives, after a subtle additional hint from me directing her to the hotel, she will receive her safely guarded letter to read in the comfort of a private area and a complimentary afternoon tea.

Our second stop runs more smoothly than the first. We visit the dance hall where Bert first laid eyes on Rita. The Chrysanthemum Dance Hall was an iconic venue during Ireland’s successful show-band era, the dance mecca of Ireland. Girls on one side, boys on the other. If a boy asked you if you wanted a mineral then it meant he was interested, if you said yes to a dance it meant you were interested. Seemingly more innocent times, when the Catholic Church dominated the country. Thousands of people met their life partners on the dance floors of Ireland’s ballrooms.

A security guard grants us entry into the building, and it’s empty as they prepare for local school exams. He allows us to wander around and take a look. Gone are the dance floors and mirror balls, rows of desks and chairs take their place, but despite that, stepping inside is like stepping back in time. I imagine the room, hot and sweaty, heaving with people jiving on the dance floor.

As if picking up on my thoughts, Denise says. ‘If these paisley walls could talk.’

I explain my mission to the security guard, with more confidence, ease and the insistence that anybody involved is doing a great service to humanity. He agrees to take the envelope and stores it in a safe place with Rita’s name on it, where it will take her from the place where she and Bert first met, to the bench where they first kissed. And, thanks to the hint I’ve added in small print at the bottom of Bert’s limerick, across from the bench that marked their future, Rita will find her third letter, which leads us to our next location, the place where Bert proposed.

There once was a man who did tremble

There were words his tongue couldn’t assemble