Page 70 of Postscript

‘Rita hasn’t found the letter,’ Joy whispers.

‘I know. I haven’t had a chance to deliver it yet.’

‘Oh goodness,’ Joy says, worriedly, fidgeting.

‘Hello,’ Rita says, coming from the kitchen to the hallway to greet yet another visitor. ‘You’re very kind for coming over.’ She’s dressed in a black shift dress, a black cardigan with a St Bridget’s Cross brooch. She takes my hand. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. I’m seeing so many people today.’

‘Holly, and this is my sister Ciara. I’m very sorry for your loss, Rita.’

‘Thank you, both. These are Bert’s book club friends,’ she introduces me to Joy, Ginika and Paul. ‘This is, was,’ she corrects herself. ‘Bert’s reflexologist.’

Ginika’s eyes widen and I see one of her rare smiles form on her lips. She has to turn away and bury her face in Jewel’s fluffy crown to hide her smile.

‘Oh, how interesting,’ Paul says, face lighting up. ‘Where do you practise?’

I throw him a warning look and he smiles sweetly. They’re all enjoying this. Their little secret.

‘I was sent from the hospital.’

‘The hospital? Which hospital?’ Paul asks, following along as Rita leads me to the living room. Ciara trails behind.

‘Bert’s hospital,’ I reply, throwing him a look over my shoulder. He chuckles.

‘Actually, Rita, I was hoping I could have a moment with Bert, if possible,’ I ask awkwardly.

If she is unnerved by the foot doctor’s request, she doesn’t show it. She opens the door and I’m faced with thirty people crammed into the small living room surrounding the open casket in the centre. All eyes turn to me and Ciara.

Ciara, dressed in black like a black widow, wearing a beret with a black net falling across half her face, smiles tightly. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ She backs away and stands at the wall, leaving me alone.

I catch a glimpse of Paul, Joy and Ginika’s anxious faces before Rita leaves the room and closes the door gently in my face, stopping my escape. I stare at the closed door, heart drumming at the impossible task ahead of me.

‘What’s she doing, Mammy?’ a child asks, loudly. The child is hushed, Ciara urges me on, and I slowly swivel to face the room. All eyes are still on me. I smile politely.

‘Hi,’ I whisper. ‘My deepest sympathies.’

Children are sitting on the floor, toys in hand, silently playing together. Closed fists crush tear-filled tissues, everyone is dressed in black, cups of tea and coffee in hands. These, all family members and close friends of Bert’s, are wondering who I am and what place I have being here.

Much as I want to, I can’t turn around and leave. I’m cringing from the tips of my ears to the tops of my toes. I take the few steps forward and at least most of them have the decency to look away or avert their eyes to give me my moment. The murmuring starts up and the initial tension that greeted me disappears. I feel like an intruder who is about to steal something precious. I am here for Bert, I remind myself. He has instructed me to do something important. I will swallow my fear and pride, and follow through. I need to concentrate on the task at hand. Bert’s final request.

Inveniam viam. I shall either find a way or make one.

I self-consciously approach the coffin. My eyes fall upon Bert, so dapper in his best suit, navy blue, crisp white shirt and royal blue tie, with the crest of his cricket club. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, the funeral home did a good job. I didn’t know Bert very well but I know intimate things about him. The few times I met him he was struggling to breathe, now he is calm, serene.

Tears well up. Then I look down at his hands and my eyes widen. He’s holding a bible. This was not part of the plan, Bert distinctly told me to put the envelope in his hands. He never mentioned anything about a bible.

I look around to make sure nobody is watching, they’ve continued their own quiet conversations to give me my moment. With everybody distracted, I place my hand on Bert’s hand and give the bible a little tug to see how easily it will move.

‘That lady is stealing from Granddad,’ a little voice shouts.

I jump, startled, and look down to see a boy beside me pointing right at me.

There’s silence in the room again.

‘Oh, she’s only holding Granddad’s hand,’ Ciara says sweetly, with a smile, stepping forward to stand by my side.

‘Thomas, come here,’ his mother says, and he glares at me suspiciously before leaving my side. I look around again and the eyes are back on me. Less trusting now. There may be some truth to peeping Thomas’s declaration. I’m starting to sweat; can’t they just look somewhere else? I reach into my bag.

The door opens and the arrival of a new mourner steals their attention from me. I use the opportunity to remove the envelope from my bag and place it on top of Bert’s hands, but my hands are shaking and its clumsily done. The letter rests uneasily on the bible for a second, then slides down to the side of the coffin where it will never be seen.