Page 68 of Postscript

‘I’m not here to take sides,’ I say gently. ‘I don’t know what happened and I’m not judging. He asked me to deliver this to you and I promised him I would.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you what happened. And unlike them, I’ll tell you the truth. I spent every day with our mother when she was sick, brought her to every hospital appointment, bathed her, nursed her, moved in with her to care for her, and they all thought I was doing it to get the house.’ She raises her voice as though it was me who accused her. ‘What kind of sick people would think that? People who only want the house themselves, that’s who. Money, it was all about money to them. I moved in here because the care worker Rita organised was stealing from Mammy. Stole her toilet roll! Have you ever heard the likes of it? Paid for helping an old woman and you steal her toilet roll?! And I save us all the money by doing it myself and I’m the thief?’ She points her finger at me, poking the air to send home every point. ‘They painted me as a con artist, a thief. Spread nasty rumours that the likes of everyone around here was talking about. Can you imagine? I never made Mammy change her will. Never. That was all her own doing. They make it sound like I held her hand and forced her to write. Rita and Bert were fine, Mammy knew I needed it. She left it to me. I couldn’t change that.’ She sits back, recharging for her next outburst. ‘Then when they found out? Ah Lord be God, World War Three broke out. All of a sudden I was a monster. They wanted to make me sell the house. Thought they deserved half of the money. Sent solicitor’s letters and all kinds of scare tactics. And for what? So they could go on more holidays? Buy a new car? Pay college fees to bail out their drug addict son who failed all his exams? Oh so high and mighty, everyone knows what that boy was like, but Rita, no, she’d pretend everything was perfect, better than everyone else. She was always like that.’ She looks into the distance, her teeth gritted with anger. ‘Mammy left this house to me and I had nothing to do with putting that in her head.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ I say, wondering how to extract myself from this.

‘They all turned their backs on me. Even the kids, my own nieces and nephews, think I’m the devil. Don’t speak to mine either. Cousins who adored each other,’ she says, shaking her head angrily. ‘Ripped the family apart, Bert and Rita. I’ll never forgive them. Mammy wanted me here. Her mind was as clear as crystal when she did what she did. You can’t blame the dead. A dying wish is a dying wish.’

I find my moment. I place the envelope down on the opened TV guide where I know it will be seen. ‘And this is Bert’s.’

I get into the car with a long sigh, relieved to be out of there, feeling her words ringing in my ears. You can’t blame the dead.

‘What took you so long?’ Denise asks.

‘I’m exhausted after that. There is some bad blood there.’

‘Do you think Bert’s letter will work?’

‘I have no idea,’ I say, rubbing my eyes tiredly. ‘I hope so.’

It’s 6 p.m., it’s been a full long day, a fruitful day but a draining one. Going on somebody else’s personal journey has brought us back into our own, has made us contemplative, and reflective of our own lives.

‘I don’t suppose she’ll let me use her toilet,’ Sharon says.

I laugh. ‘I dare you to try.’

‘I’ll wait,’ she says, moving around uncomfortably in the back. ‘There’s one more envelope left, the first one.’

‘Yes,’ I say, concerned, unsure how I’m going to pull this one off.

‘Do you give it directly to Rita?’ Sharon asks.

‘Yeah, kind of,’ I say, shrugging it off.

‘So not exactly,’ Sharon says, not letting it go. ‘Where do you put the first letter, Holly?’

I clear my throat, nervously. ‘Bert wanted the first letter in his hands, for Rita to find.’

Sharon’s eyes widen. ‘In the coffin?’

Denise cracks up so much, she’s doubled over in the back seat.

‘How are you going to pull that off?’ Sharon asks.

‘What are you going to do?’ Denise asks, wiping the tears of laughter from the corners of her leaking eyes. ‘Crack open the coffin at the funeral?’

‘I don’t know, I hadn’t quite ironed that one out with Bert, but I suppose I’ll go to the funeral parlour, so that he has it in his hands when he arrives at the house.’

‘They won’t let you near him, you’re not family!’ Sharon says, and Denise continues laughing until she’s red in the face.

‘I’ll tell them it’s under his instruction. It’s what Bert wanted.’

‘Unless you have written instructions from Bert or his family, there’s no way they’re going to let a random stranger put a letter in a dead man’s hands. Holly, honestly, you’ve some ground rules to iron out before you continue with this.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly, chewing my fingernails. ‘He’s having a wake. He’ll be laid out in his house for a few days. I’ll ask for a moment alone with him and I’ll place it in his hands.’

‘You were lucky with the security guard, the hotel and the hemp shop, but I don’t think a funeral parlour is going to allow you to place a letter with unknown contents in a dead man’s hands.’

‘OK, Sharon! I get it!’