Page 104 of Postscript

‘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.

‘Hello?’ Joy answers.

‘It’s December eighth.’ The unofficial start of Christmas. It’s a holy day, apparently, the feast of the immaculate conception. People from all around the country used to travel to Dublin to do their Christmas shopping, before their towns grew, before travel became easier, before society and culture changed. These are old traditional beliefs, not followed by all any more, but one thing hasn’t changed, it’s also the day that many traditional people decorate their homes for Christmas.

‘Holly, is that you?’

‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘Joy, it’s December eighth!’

‘Yes, I know, you said so, but I don’t understand.’

‘Is Joe going to buy a Christmas tree today? Is he going to decorate the house?’

‘Oh,’ she realises, and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘He can’t go up to the attic,’ I say, quickly getting out of bed, and hurrying around naked, looking for clothes.

‘Oh dear, what am I going to do? I can’t get up there.’

‘Of course not. That’s why I’m calling: I put them up there, now I’m going to take them down.’ I pause, smiling. ‘Joy. You made it.’

‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘I did.’

39

The family solicitor who handled the purchase of our house ten years ago retired, transferring all my paperwork to a new firm that I’ve had no business dealings with since. I visit the office to finally finalise the paperwork for the sale of the house.

‘Nice to see you today, Holly. I’ve spent time familiarising myself with your property and the deeds. I came across something unusual and I contacted Tony about it. He told me all was correct and in place.’

‘Please tell me there’s nothing wrong, it’s taken so long to get to this point. I just need to sign the paperwork,’ I say, exhausted from the experience.

‘There’s nothing wrong. A personal note was attached to the files. It was given to Tony Daly with a note explaining that this letter should be handed to you in the event that Holly Kennedy sells the property.

Instant palpitations. My hope surges but I know it’s stupid after all this time. It’s been eight years since Gerry died, seven years since I read his last note. There were ten letters, I read them all. It would be greedy to hope for more.

She reaches into the files and slides out an envelope.

‘Oh my God,’ I say, hands to my mouth. ‘That’s my late husband’s handwriting.’

She holds it to me but I don’t take it. I keep looking at it, held by her in the air, his writing. She eventually places it down on the desk before me.

‘I’ll give you some time alone,’ she says. ‘Would you like water?’

I don’t answer.