Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘On your left is Leinster House, the building that now houses the National Parliament of Ireland.’

Snappedy-snap, clickety-click, flash-flash, record.

‘Leinster House was originally known as Kildare House after the Earl of Kildare commissioned it to be built. On his becoming the Duke of Leinster, it was renamed. Parts of the building, which was formerly the Royal College of Surgeons—’

‘Science,’ I say loudly, still largely lost in thought.

‘Pardon me?’ He stops talking and heads turn once again.

‘I was just saying that,’ my face flushes, ‘it was the Royal College of Science.’

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

‘No, you said “surgeons”,’ the American woman in front of me speaks out.

‘Oh,’ he gets flustered. ‘Excuse me, I’m mistaken. Parts of the building, which was formerly the … the Royal College of,’ he looks pointedly at me, ‘ Science , have served as the seat of the Irish government since 1922 …’

I tune out.

‘Remember I told you about the guy who designed the Rotunda hospital?’ I whisper to Dad.

‘I do. Dick somebody.’

‘Richard Cassells. He designed this too. It’s been claimed that it formed a model for the design of the White House.’

‘Is that so?’ Dad says.

‘Really?’ The American woman twists around in her seat to face me. She speaks loudly. Very loudly. Too loudly. ‘Honey, did you hear that? This lady says the guy who designed this, designed the White House.’

‘No, I didn’t actually—’

Suddenly I notice the tour operator has stopped talking and is currently glaring at me with as much love as a Viking Dragon for a Sea Cat. All eyes, ears and horns are on us.

‘Well, I said it’s been claimed that it formed a model for the design of the White House. There aren’t any certainties as such,’ I say quietly, not wanting to be dragged into this. ‘It’s just that James Hoban, who won the competition for the design of the White House in 1792, was an Irishman.’

They stare expectantly at me.

‘Well, he studied architecture in Dublin and would have more than likely studied the design of Leinster House,’ I finish off quickly.

The people around me ooh, aah and talk amongst one another about that titbit of information.

‘We can’t hear you!’ someone at the top of the bus shouts out.

‘Stand up, Gracie.’ Dad pushes me up.

‘Dad …’ I slap him away.

‘Hey, Olaf, give her the microphone!’ the woman shouts to the tour operator. He grudgingly hands it over and folds his arms.

‘Eh, hello.’ I tap it with my finger and blow into the mike.

‘You have to say, “Testing one, two, three,” Gracie.’

‘Eh, testing one, two—’

‘We can hear you,’ Olaf the White snaps.

‘OK, well,’ I repeat my comments, and the people up front nod with interest.

‘And this is all part of your government’s buildings too?’ the American woman points to the buildings either side.

I look uncertainly at Dad and he nods at me with encouragement. ‘Well, actually no. The building to the left is the National Library and the National Museum is on the right.’ I go to sit down again and Dad whooshes my backside back up. They are all still looking at me for more. The tour guide looks sheepish.

‘Well, a bit of interesting information may be that the National Library and the National Museum were originally home of the Dublin Museum of Science and Art, which opened in 1890. Both were designed by Thomas Newenham Deane and his son Thomas Manly Deane after a competition held in 1885 and were constructed by the Dublin contractors J. and W. Beckett, who demonstrated the best of Irish craftsmanship in their construction. The Museum is one of the best surviving examples of Irish decorative stonework, woodcarving and ceramic tiling. The National Library’s most impressive feature is the entrance rotunda. Internally this space leads up an impressive staircase to the magnificent reading room with its vast vaulted ceiling. As you can see for yourselves, the exterior of the building is characterised by its array of columns and pilasters in the Corinthian order and the rotunda with its open veranda and corner pavilions framing the composition. In the—’

Loud clapping interrupts my talk – single, loud clapping, coming only from one person: Dad. The rest of the bus is silent. A child, asking her mother if they can roar again, breaks it. An imaginary piece of tumbleweed blows down the aisle, landing at a grinning Olaf the White.

‘I, em, I wasn’t finished,’ I say quietly.

Dad claps louder in response, and one man, who is sitting alone in the back row, joins in nervously.

‘And … that’s all I know,’ I say quickly, sitting down.

‘How do you know all that?’ the woman in front asks.

‘She’s an estate agent,’ Dad says proudly.

The woman’s brow creases, she makes an ‘oh’ shape with her mouth and turns around again to face an extremely satisfied-looking Olaf. He grabs the microphone from me.

‘Now everybody, let’s roooooooaaaaaar!’

The silence is broken as everybody comes to life again, while each muscle and organ in my body cringes into a foetal position.

Dad leans into me and crushes me against the window. He moves his head close to whisper in my ear and our helmets knock against one another.

‘How did you know all that, love?’

As though I’d used all of my words up in that tirade, my mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. How on earth did I know all of that?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My ears immediately sizzle as soon I enter the school gymnas ium that same evening, and spy Kate and Frankie huddled together on the bleachers, looking deep in conversation with concern etch-a-sketched across their faces. Kate looks as though Frankie’s just told her that her father’s passed away, a face I’m familiar with as I was the one to give her that look, with that very news, five years ago at Arrivals in Dublin airport when she’d cut short her holiday to rush to his side. Now Kate is talking and Frankie looks as though her dog’s been hit by a car, a face I’m also familiar with, as I was once again the one to deliver the news, and the blow, that broke three of the sausage dog’s legs. Now Kate looks as though she’s been caught in the act as she glances in my direction. Frankie freezes too. Looks of surprise, then guilt and then a smile to make me think they’ve just been discussing the weather, rather than the events in my life, which are as changeable as.

I wait for the usual Lady of Trauma to fill my shoes. To give me a little break while she offers the usual insightful comments that keep inquisitors at bay; explaining one’s recent loss as more of a continuous journey rather than a dead end, giving one the invaluable opportunity to gain strength and learn about oneself, and thereby turning this terribly tragic affair into something hugely positive. Usual Lady of Trauma does not arrive, knowing this is no easy gig for her. She is well aware the two people who currently hug me tight can see through her words and right to the heart of me.

My friends’ hugs are longer and tighter; consist of extra squeezes and pats, which alternate between a circular rubbing motion and a light pitter-pattering on the back, both of which I find surprisingly comforting. The pity in their faces hammers home my great loss and my stomach feels queasy and my head fully loaded again. I realise that swaddling myself in a nest with Dad does not hold the super healing powers I’d hoped for, for every time I leave the house and meet somebody new, I have to go through it over again. Not just the entire rigmarole, but I have to feel it all, all over again, which is a far more tiring thing than words. Wrapped in Kate and Frankie’s arms I could easily morph into the baby that they in their minds are coddling, but I don’t, because if I start now, I know I’ll never stop.