Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘Look at that,’ Dad marvels, watching the mime trapped in an invisible box. ‘Should I give him an invisible key to get out of that box?’ He laughs again. ‘Wouldn’t that be funny, love?’

‘No, Dad.’ I examine the back of my road-rage nemesis, trying to recall the voice.

‘You know de Valera escaped prison by using a key that was smuggled in to him in a birthday cake. Someone should tell this fella that story. Now where do we go from here?’ He spins round beside me, looking about. He walks off in another direction, straight through a group of parading Hare Krishnas, without taking the slightest bit of notice.

The sandy duffel coat turns round again, throws me one last dirty look before he hurries on in a huff.

Still, I stare. If I was to reverse the frown. That smile. Familiar.

‘Gracie, this is where you get the tickets. I’ve found it,’ he shouts from afar.

‘Hold on, Dad.’ I watch after the duffel coat. Turn round one more time and show me your face, I plead.

‘I’ll just go get the tickets, so.’

‘OK, Dad.’ I continue to watch the duffel coat moving further away. I don’t – correction, can’t – move my eyes away from him. I mentally throw a cowboy’s rope around his body and begin to pull him back towards me. His strides become smaller, his speed gradually slows.

He suddenly stops dead in his tracks. Yee-ha.

Please turn. I pull on the rope.

He spins round, searches the crowd. For me?

‘Who are you?’ I whisper.

‘It’s me!’ Dad is beside me again. ‘You’re just standing in the middle of the street.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ I snap. ‘Here, go get the tickets.’ I hold out some money.

I step away from the Hare Krishnas, keeping my eye on the duffel coat, hoping he’ll see me. The crisp pale wool of his coat almost glows among the dark and gloomy colours of others around him. Around his sleeves, down his front like an autumn St Nicholas. I clear my throat and smooth down my shortened hair.

His eyes continue to search the street and then they ever so slowly fall upon mine. I remember him in the second it takes them to register me. ‘Him’ from the hair salon.

What now? Perhaps he won’t recognise me at all. Perhaps he’s just still angry that I shouted at him. I’m not sure what to do. Should I smile? Wave? Neither of us moves.

He holds up a hand. Waves. I look behind me first, to ensure it’s me that his attention is on. Though I was so sure anyway, I would have bet my father on it. Suddenly Grafton Street is empty. And silent. Just me and him. Funny how that happened. How thoughtful of everyone. I wave back. He mouths something to me.

Hungry? Horny? No.

Sorry. He’s sorry. I try to figure out what to mouth back but I’m smiling. Nothing can be mouthed when smiling, it’s as impossible as whistling through a smile.

‘I got the tickets!’ Dad shouts. ‘Twenty euro each – it’s a crime, that is. Seeing is for free, I don’t know how they can charge us to use our eyes. I’m planning to write a strongly worded letter to somebody about that. Next time you ask me why I stay in and watch my programmes I’ll have it in mind to remind you that it’s free. Two euro for my TV guide, one hundred and fifty for a yearly licence fee is better value than a day out with you,’ he huffs. ‘Expensive taxis into the town, lookin’ at things in a city I’ve lived in and have looked at for free for sixty years.’

Suddenly I hear the traffic again, see the people crowding around, feel the sun and breeze on my face, feel my heart beating wildly in my chest as my blood rushes around in frenzied excitement. I feel Dad tugging on my arm.

‘It’s leaving now. Come on, Gracie, it’s leaving. It’s a bit of a walk up the road, we have to go. Near the Shelbourne Hotel. Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost and don’t tell me you have because I’ve dealt with enough today already. Forty euro,’ he mutters to himself.

A steady flow of pedestrians gather at the top of Grafton Street to cross the road, blocking my view of him. I feel Dad pulling me back and so I begin to move with him down Merrion Row, walking backwards, trying to keep him in sight.

‘Damn it!’

‘What’s wrong, love? It’s not far up the road at all. What on earth are you doing, walking backwards?’

‘I can’t see him.’

‘Who, love?’

‘A guy I think I know.’ I stop walking backwards and stand in line with Dad, continuing to look down the street and scouring the crowds.

‘Well, unless you know that you know him for sure, I wouldn’t be stopping to chat in the city,’ Dad says protect ively. ‘What kind of a bus is this at all, Gracie? It looks a bit odd, I’m not sure about this. I don’t come to the city for a few years and look what the CIE do.’

I ignore him and let him lead the way onto the bus, while I’m busy looking the other way, searching furiously through the, curiously, plastic windows. The crowd finally move on from in front of where he stood to reveal nothing.

‘He’s gone.’

‘Is that so? Can’t have known him too well then, if he just ran off.’

I turn my attention to my father. ‘Dad, that was the weirdest thing.’

‘I don’t care what you say, there’s nothing weirder than this.’ Dad looks around us in bewilderment.

Finally I too look around the bus and take in my surroundings. Everyone else is wearing a Viking helmet, with life jackets on their laps.

‘OK, everybody,’ the tour guide speaks into the microphone, ‘we finally have everyone on board. Let’s show our new arrivals what to do. When I say the word I want you all to roooooar just like the Vikings did! Let me hear it!’

Dad and I jump in our seats, and I feel him cling to me, as the entire bus roars.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Good afternoon, everybody, I’m Olaf the White, and welcome aboard the Viking Splash bus! Historically known as DUKWS, or Ducks, as they’re more affectionately known. We are sitting in the amphibious version of the General Motors vehicle built during World War Two. Designed to withstand being driven onto beaches in fifteen-foot seas to deliver cargo or troops from ship to shore, they are now more commonly used as rescue and underwater recovery vehicles in the US, UK and other parts of the world.’

‘Can we get off?’ I whisper in Dad’s ear.

He swats me away, enthralled.

‘This particular vehicle weighs seven tonnes, is thirty-one feet long and eight feet wide. It has six wheels and can be driven in rear-wheel or all-wheel drive. As you can see, it has been mechanically rebuilt and outfitted with comfortable seats, a roof, roll down sides to protect you from the elements, because as you all know, after we see the sites around the city, we have a “splashdown” into the water with a fantastic trip around the Grand Canal Docklands!’

Everyone cheers and Dad looks at me, eyes wide like a little boy.

‘Sure, no wonder it was twenty euro. A bus that goes into the water. A bus ? That goes into the water ? I’ve never seen the likes of it. Wait till I tell the lads at the Monday Club about this. Big mouth Donal won’t be able to beat this story for once.’ He turns his attention back to the tour operator, who, like everyone else on the bus, is wearing a Viking helmet with horns. Dad collects two, props one on his head and hands the other, which has blonde side plaits attached, to me.

‘Olaf, meet Heidi.’ I pop it on my head and turn to Dad.

He roars quietly in my face.

‘Sights along the way include our famous city cathedrals, St Patrick’s and Christchurch, Trinity College, Government buildings, Georgian Dublin …’

‘Ooh, you’ll like this one,’ Dad elbows me.