Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

Justin’s heart immediately leaps to his mouth as he catches sight of the familiar envelope. He throws the pile of clothes down on the dust sheet and rips off the envelope.

‘Be careful! These have just been pressed.’ Doris takes them and hangs them from the door frame.

He opens the envelope and gulps hard, reading the note.

‘What does it say?’ Al asks.

‘It must be a death threat, look at his face,’ Doris says excitedly. ‘Or a begging letter. Some of those are so much fun. What’s wrong with them and how much do they want?’ she giggles.

Justin takes out the card he received on the muffin basket earlier, and he holds the two cards together so that they make a complete sentence. Reading the words causes a chill to run through his body.

Thank you … For Saving My Life .

CHAPTER THIRTY

I lie in the skip, breathless, heart beating at the speed of a humming bird’s wings. I’m like a child playing hide and seek, with intense nervous excitement rolling around my tummy; like a dog on its back trying to rid itself of fleas. Please don’t find me, Justin, don’t find me like this, lying at the bottom of the skip in your garden, covered in plaster and dust. I hear his footsteps move further away, back down the steps to his basement flat and the door closes.

What on earth have I become? A coward. I chickened out and rang the doorbell to stop Justin telling the story about his father to Al and then, afraid of playing God to two strangers, I ran, leaped and landed in the bottom of a skip. How metaphorical. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to speak to him. I don’t know how I’ll ever find the words to explain how I’m feeling. The world is not a patient place: stories such as this are mostly for the pages of the Enquirer or double-page spreads in certain women’s magazines. Beside my story would be a photograph of me, in my dad’s kitchen, looking forlornly at the camera. With no make-up. No, Justin would never believe me if I told him – but actions speak louder than words.

Lying on my back, I stare up at the sky. Lying face down, the clouds stare right back down at me. They pass over the woman in the skip with curiosity, calling the stragglers behind them to come see. More clouds gather, eager to see what the others are grumbling about. Then they too pass over, leaving me staring at blue and the occasional white wisp. I almost hear my mother laughing aloud, imagine her nudging her friends to come have a look at her daughter. I imagine her peeping over a cloud, hanging over too far like Dad in the balcony at the Royal Opera House. I smile, enjoying this now.

Now, as I brush dust, paint and wood from my clothes and clamber out of the skip, I try to remember what other things Bea mentioned her father wanted to have done, by the person he saved.

‘Justin, calm down, for creep’s sake. You’re making me nervous.’ Doris sits on a stepladder and watches Justin pace up and down the room.

‘I can’t calm down. Do you not understand what this means?’ He hands her the two cards.

Her eyes widen. ‘You saved someone’s life?’

‘Yeah.’ He shrugs and stops pacing. ‘It’s really no big deal. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.’

‘He donated blood,’ Al interrupts his brother’s failed attempt at modesty.

‘ You donated blood?’

‘It’s how he met Vampira, remember?’ Al refreshes his wife’s memory. ‘In Ireland when they say, “Fancy a pint?” beware .’

‘Her name is Sarah not Vampira.’

‘So you donated blood to get a date.’ Doris folds her arms. ‘Is there nothing you do for the greater good of humanity or is it all just for yourself?’

‘Hey, I have a heart.’

‘Though a pint lighter than it was,’ Al adds.

‘I have donated plenty of my time to helping organisations – colleges, universities and galleries – which are in need of my expertise. Something I don’t have to do, but which I have agreed to do for them .’

‘Yeah and I bet you charge them per word. That’s why he says “oops-a-daisies” instead of “shit” when he stubs his toe.’

Al and Doris dissolve into laughter, thumping and hitting each other in their fit.

Justin takes a deep breath. ‘Let’s get back to the matter at hand. Who is sending me these notes and running these errands?’

He begins pacing again and biting his nails. ‘Maybe this is Bea’s idea of a joke. She’s the only person I had the conversation with about deserving thanks in return for saving a life.’

Please, don’t be Bea .

‘Man, you are selfish,’ Al laughs.

‘No.’ Doris shakes her head, her long earrings whip against her cheeks with each movement, her back-brushed hairsprayed hair as still as a microphone head. ‘Bea wants nothing to do with you until you apologise. No words can describe how much she hates you right now.’

‘Well, thank God for that.’ Justin continues pacing. ‘But she must have told somebody or this wouldn’t be happening. Doris, find out from Bea who she spoke to about this.’

‘Huh.’ Doris lifts her chin and looks away. ‘You said some pretty nasty things to me before. I don’t know if I can help you.’

Justin falls to his knees and shuffles over to her.

‘Please, Doris, I’m begging you. I am so, so sorry for what I said. I had no idea how much time and effort you were putting into this place. I underestimated you. Without you, I’d still be drinking from a toothbrush holder and eating from a cat bowl.’

‘Yeah, I meant to ask you about that,’ Al interrupts his grovelling. ‘You don’t even have a cat.’

‘So I’m a good interior designer?’ Doris lifts her chin.

‘A great designer.’

‘How great?’

‘Greater than …’ he stalls. ‘Andrea Palladio.’

Her eyes look to the left, look to the right. ‘Is he better than Ty Pennington?’

‘He was an Italian architect in the sixteenth century, widely considered the most influential person in the history of Western architecture.’

‘Oh. OK. You’re forgiven.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Give me your phone and I’ll call Bea.’

Moments later they are all seated around the new kitchen table listening to Doris’s half of the phone conversation.

‘OK, Bea told Petey, and the costume supervisor for Swan Lake . And her father.’

‘The costume supervisor? Do you guys still have the programme?’

Doris disappears to her bedroom and returns with the ballet programme. She flicks through the pages.

‘No,’ Justin shakes his head on reading her biography, ‘I met this woman that night and it’s not her. But her father was there? I didn’t see her father.’

Al shrugs.

‘Well, these people aren’t involved in this, I certainly didn’t save her life or her father’s. The person must be Irish or have received medical attention in an Irish hospital.’

‘Maybe her dad’s Irish, or was in Ireland.’

‘Give me that programme, I’m calling the theatre.’

‘Justin, you can’t just call her up.’ Doris dives for the programme in his hand, but he dodges her. ‘What are you going to say?’

‘All I need to know is if her father is Irish or was in Ireland during the past month. I’ll make the rest up as I go along.’

Al and Doris look at each other worriedly while he leaves the kitchen to make the call.

‘Did you do this?’ Doris asks Al quietly.

‘No way.’ Al shakes his head, his chins wobbling.

Five minutes later Justin returns.

‘She remembered me from last night and, no, it’s not her or her father. So either Bea told somebody else or … it must be Peter fooling around. I’m gonna get that little kid and—’