Читать книгу Postscript - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 12

‘Easy on the gravy, Frank,’ Mum says, taking hold of the jug in Dad’s hands. Dad clings to it, intent on finishing his gravy annihilation of his roast dinner, and in the tug of war the gravy glugs from the spout and drips on the table. He looks pointedly at Mum, then wipes the thick drips from the linen with his finger and sucks it in protest.

‘There won’t be enough for everyone,’ Mum says, holding it out to Declan.

Declan catches the dribbles from the spout and licks his finger. Then goes for another swipe.

‘No double-dipping,’ Jack warns, stealing the jug from Mum’s hands.

‘I haven’t had any yet,’ Declan gripes, trying to steal it back, but Jack retains possession and pours it over his food.

‘Boys,’ Mum admonishes them. ‘Honestly, you’re behaving like children.’

Jack’s kids laugh.

‘Leave some for me,’ Declan watches Jack. ‘Do they not have gravy in London?’

‘They don’t have Mum’s gravy in London,’ Jack says, winking at Mum, before pouring a little on the kids’ plates, and then passing it to his wife, Abbey.

‘I don’t want gravy,’ one of the kids moans.

‘I’ll have it,’ Declan and Dad say in unison.

‘I’ll make more,’ Mum says with a sigh, and hurries back to the kitchen.

Everybody mills into their food as if they haven’t eaten for days: Dad, Declan, Mathew, Jack, Abbey and their two children. My older brother Richard is delayed at choir practice and Gabriel is spending the day with his teenage daughter Ava. As she has wanted very little to do with him most of her life, these visits are precious to him. All are preoccupied by their meal apart from Ciara, who watches me. She looks away when I catch her eye and reaches for the salad spoon in the centre of the table. Mum returns with two jugs. She places one in the centre and another beside Ciara. Jack pretends to reach for it, like a false start, and it makes Declan panic, jump and grab the jug.

Jack laughs.

‘Boys,’ Mum says, and they stop.

The kids giggle.

‘Sit down, Mum,’ I say gently.

She surveys the table, her hungry family all greedily tucking in, and finally sits beside me at the head of the table.

‘What’s this?’ Ciara says, looking into the jug.

‘Vegan gravy,’ Mum says proudly.

‘Ahh, Mum, you’re the best.’ Ciara pours, and a murky watery substance flows all over the base of her plate like soup. She looks up at me, uncertain.

‘Yum,’ I say.

‘I’m not sure if I made it correctly,’ Mum says apologetically. ‘Is it nice?’

Ciara takes a small taste. ‘Delicious.’

‘Liar,’ Mum says with a laugh. ‘Are you not hungry, Holly?’

My plate is practically empty and I haven’t even begun eating. Broccoli and tomatoes are all I could bear to look at on my plate.

‘I had a big breakfast,’ I say, ‘but this is fabulous, thank you.’

I sit forward and tuck in. Or try to. Mum’s food, vegan gravy aside, really is delicious and on as many Sundays as possible she tries to gather the troops for a family meal, which we all adore. But today, as has been the case for the past few weeks, my appetite is gone.

Ciara eyes my plate, then me, worriedly. She and Mum share a look and I immediately sense that Ciara has spilled the beans about the PS, I Love You Club. I roll my eyes at both of them.

‘I’m fine,’ I say defiantly, before stuffing an entire broccoli floret in my mouth as proof of my stability.

Jack looks up at me. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

My mouth is stuffed. I can’t answer, but I roll my eyes and give him a frustrated look.

He turns to Mum. ‘What’s wrong with Holly? Why is she pretending she’s fine?’

I grumble through my food and try to chew quickly so I can end this conversation.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Holly,’ Mum says calmly.

Ciara pipes up in a fast-paced high-pitch volley: ‘A woman who died of cancer started a PS, I Love You Club before her death, made up of people who are terminally ill, and they want Holly to help them write letters to their loved ones.’ She seems immediately relieved to have gotten it out of her system and then afraid of what will happen next.

I swallow my broccoli and almost choke. ‘For fuck sake, Ciara!’

‘I’m sorry, I had to!’ Ciara says, holding her hands up defensively.

The kids laugh at my language.

‘Sorry,’ I say to their mum, Abbey. ‘Guys,’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m fine. Really. Let’s change the subject.’

Mathew looks at his tell-tale wife with disapproval. Ciara sinks lower.

‘Are you going to help these people write their letters?’ Declan asks.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, slicing a tomato.

‘With who? With them or with us?’ Jack asks.

‘With anyone!’

‘So you’re not going to help them?’ Mum asks.

‘No!’

She nods. Her face is completely unreadable.

We eat in silence.

I hate that her face is unreadable.

Frustrated, I give in. ‘Why? Do you think I should?’

Everyone at the table, bar the kids and Abbey, who knows better than to get involved, answer at the same time and I can’t decipher anybody’s words.

‘I was asking Mum.’

‘You don’t care what I think?’ Dad asks.

‘Of course I do.’

He concentrates on his food, hurt.

‘I think …’ Mum says thoughtfully, ‘you should do what feels right for you. I never like to interfere, but as you’ve asked: if it has you this …’ she looks at my plate, then back at me ‘… upset, then it’s not a good idea.’

‘She said she ate a big breakfast,’ Mathew says in my defence, and I throw him a grateful look.

‘What did you eat?’ Ciara asks.

I roll my eyes. ‘A big dirty fry-up, Ciara. With pig’s meat and pig’s blood and eggs and all kinds of dirty animal products dripping in butter. Butter that came from a cow.’ I didn’t. I couldn’t stomach breakfast either.

She glares at me.

The kids laugh again.

‘Can I film it if you help them?’ Declan asks, his mouth full of food. ‘Could make a good documentary.’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Declan,’ Mum says.

‘No. Because I’m not going to,’ I reply.

‘What does Gabriel think?’ Jack asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Because she hasn’t told him yet,’ Ciara says.

‘Holly,’ Mum admonishes me.

‘I don’t need to tell him about it if I’m not doing it,’ I protest, but I know I’m wrong. I should have discussed it with Gabriel. He’s not an idiot, he already senses something is up. Never mind Joy’s reveal about the club, ever since I got off the phone with Angela’s husband weeks ago, I’ve not been my usual self.

We all go quiet.

‘You still didn’t ask me,’ Dad says, looking around at everyone as though they’ve all individually hurt his feelings.

‘What do you think, Dad?’ I ask, exasperated.

‘No, no. It’s clear you don’t want to know,’ he says, while he reaches for the replenished jug of gravy and drowns his second helpings.

I violently fork another floret. ‘Dad, tell me.’

He swallows his hurt. ‘I think it sounds like a very thoughtful caring gesture for people in need, and it might do you good to do good.’

Jack appears irritated by Dad’s response. Mum, again, is unreadable; she’s thinking it all through, examining the angles before sharing her opinion.

‘She can’t eat as it is, Frank,’ Mum says quietly.

‘She’s practically inhaling her broccoli,’ Dad says, winking at me.

‘And she put six chipped teacups out in the shop this week,’ Ciara adds salt to the wound. ‘She’s distracted as it is, just knowing about it.’

‘Some people don’t mind chipped teacups,’ I retort.

‘Like who?’

‘Beauty and the Beast,’ Mathew replies.

The kids laugh.

‘Hands up if you think it’s a good idea,’ Ciara addresses the table.

The kids put their hands up, Abbey quickly pushes them down.

Dad raises his fork in the air. So does Declan. Mathew looks like he’s with them, but Ciara glares at him and he stares her down, but doesn’t raise his hand.

‘No,’ Jack says firmly. ‘I don’t.’

‘Me neither,’ says Ciara. ‘And I don’t want it to be all my fault if it goes wrong.’

‘It’s not about you,’ Mathew mutters, frustrated.

‘No, I know. But she’s my sister and I don’t want to be the one to be responsible for—’

‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ Richard’s voice calls out from the hall. He appears at the door. He looks around at us all, sensing something. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ we say in unison.

I’m alone in the shop, behind the desk. Sitting on a stool, staring into space. Ciara and Mathew have gone out to collect donations from a family nearby who are moving house. The shop is empty of customers, and has been for the past hour. I’ve emptied every bag and box I could, setting precious things aside and making phone calls to their owners to arrange for collection. I’ve tidied every rail, moved things an inch to the left or an inch to the right. There’s nothing left to do. The bell rings as the door opens and a young girl, a teenager, steps inside. She’s tall, wearing a striking black-and-gold turban on her head.

‘Hello,’ I attempt cheerily.

She smiles shyly and self-consciously, so I look away. Some customers want attention lavished on them, others like to be left alone. I watch her while she’s not looking. She’s carrying a baby in a baby carrier. The baby, who’s only a few months old, is facing outward, pudgy legs squeezed into a pair of leggings that kick spontaneously. Her mother – if she is her mother, as she seems so young to have a child, but what do I know – has mastered the craft of standing sideways so that the child can’t reach anything on the rails. The teenager keeps glancing at me and then back to the rails. She’s looking at the clothes but not really looking, she’s more intent on keeping an eye on me. I wonder if she’s going to steal something; sometimes shoplifters have that look, checking out my whereabouts rather than the items. The baby cries out, practising her sounds, and the teenager reaches for the baby’s hand; little fingers wrap around her finger.

I wanted a baby once. It was ten years ago and I wanted a baby so much my body was calling out to me every day to provide one. That longing vanished when Gerry became sick. It became a longing for something else: for him to survive. It put all its energy into making him survive, and when he was gone, the longing for a child died with him. I had wanted a baby with him, and he was no longer here. Looking at her beautiful bouncy baby, something chimes inside me, a reminder of what I once wanted. I’m thirty-seven years old, it could still happen. I’m moving in with Gabriel, but I don’t think either of us are quite there yet. He’s too busy working on the relationship with the daughter he has.

‘I’m not going to steal nothing,’ she says, snapping me out of my trance.

‘Pardon?’

‘You keep staring. I’m not going to steal nothing,’ the teenager says defensively, annoyed.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t, I didn’t mean to … I was daydreaming,’ I say. I stand up. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

She looks at me, a long stare as if deciding something, as if weighing me up. ‘No.’

She walks to the door, the bell rings, it closes. I stare at the closed door and I remember, she’s been in here before. A few weeks ago, maybe last week, perhaps a few times, doing the same thing, browsing with her baby. I remember because Ciara complimented her on her turban and then, fashion-inspired, wore a red and white polka-dot headscarf for a week. The girl has never bought anything. It’s no big deal, people always browse through second-hand shops, people like to see what others once owned and gave away, how others once lived. There’s an extra something attached to objects that have once had an owner. Some think they’re more precious, others think used means dirty, and then there are those who have a desire to be around these things. But she was right, I hadn’t trusted her.

Mathew and Ciara’s van pulls up outside the shop. Ciara leaps out, wearing an eighties spangly jumpsuit and trainers. They open the back doors and start sliding out the goods.

‘Hello, David Bowie.’

She grins. ‘Man did we find some treasures over there, you’re going to love them. Anything exciting happen here?’

‘No. It’s been quiet.’

Mathew races by with two rolled-up carpets under his arm, announcing in his thick Australian accent, ‘We’ll have more rugs than a bald man’s house.’

Bald. I think of Angela’s funeral, her display of wigs, the letters hidden beneath for her family.

She studies me. ‘You good?’

‘Yes, Ciara.’ She asks me at least every ten minutes.

She waits for Mathew to disappear into the stockroom. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. Again. I really feel responsible for everything that’s happened.’

‘Ciara, stop—’

‘No, I won’t. If I’ve set you back, if I’ve fucked up everything, I’m so so sorry. Please, tell me what I can do to fix it.’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong, things happened, and it’s not your fault. But if Joy or anyone else from the club comes by, tell them I’m not interested, OK?’

‘Yeah. Of course. I told that guy yesterday not to come back.’

‘What guy?’

‘He said he was from the club. His name was … doesn’t matter what his name is. He’s not coming back, I made it very clear to leave you alone, especially at your place of work, it’s not right.’

My heart pounds with anger. ‘So they are coming here.’

‘They?’

‘The club members. There was a girl earlier. She’d been in here before, she was looking at me oddly. Accused me of accusing her of stealing. She must be with them too.’

‘No …’ Ciara studies me with concern. ‘I mean, you can’t think that everyone in here that looks at you is from the club.’

‘The woman said they had five members, four members left. My ghost of Christmas past, of present and today of future have all paid me a little visit. They’re never going to leave me alone, are they?’ I ask, the anger pumping through me at this invasion of my nice normal stable happy moving-on life. ‘You know what, I’m going to meet with them. I’m going to meet this little club and tell them in no uncertain terms to leave me alone. Where is that woman’s number?’ I start rifling through the drawers.

‘Joy?’ Ciara asks, concerned. ‘Maybe you’d be better to leave it, Holly, I think they’ll get the message eventually.’

I find the slip of paper and grab my phone. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ I hurry to the door, I need to make this call outside.

‘Holly,’ Ciara calls after me. ‘Remember, they’re sick. They’re not nasty people. Be kind.’

I step outside, close the door and walk away from the shop, dialling Joy’s number. I’m going to tell this club to leave me alone once and for all.