Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘That’s the UK.’

‘Why on earth did you do that? Were you trying to trick me? Christ, that alone was enough to give me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry, Dad.’ I lower myself to the bottom stair, feeling shaky. ‘I don’t know where I got that number from.’

‘Well, that sure taught me a lesson,’ he says insincerely. ‘I’ll never smoke again. No siree, Bob. Give me those cigarettes and I’ll throw them out.’

I hold my hand out, feeling dazed.

He snaps the packet up and shoves it deep into his trouser pocket. ‘I hope you’ll be paying for that phone call because my pension certainly won’t be.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘I’m going to London,’ I blurt out.

‘What?’ His eyes almost pop out of his head. ‘Christ Almighty, Gracie, it’s just one thing after another with you.’

‘I have to find some answers to … something. I have to go to London. Come with me,’ I urge, standing up and stepping towards him.

He begins to walk backward with his hand held protect ively over his pocket containing the cigarettes.

‘I can’t go,’ he says nervously.

‘Why not?’

‘Sure, I’ve never been away from here in my life!’

‘All the more reason to go away now,’ I urge him intensely. ‘If you’re going to smoke, you might as well see outside of Ireland before you kill yourself.’

‘There are numbers I can call about being spoken to like that. Don’t you think that I haven’t heard about all of that abuse carry-on that children do to their elderly parents?’

‘Don’t play the victim, you know I’m looking out for you. Come to London with me, Dad. Please.’

‘But, but,’ he keeps moving backward, his eyes wide, ‘I can’t miss the Monday Club.’

‘We’ll go tomorrow morning, be back before Monday, I promise.’

‘But, I don’t have a passport.’

‘You just need photo ID.’

We’re approaching the kitchen now.

‘But we’ve nowhere to stay.’ He passes through the door.

‘We’ll book a hotel.’

‘It’s too expensive.’

‘We’ll share a room.’

‘But I won’t know where anything is in London.’

‘I know my way; I’ve been plenty of times.’

‘But … but,’ he bumps into the kitchen table and can move back no further. His face is a picture of terror. ‘I’ve never been on a plane before.’

‘There’s nothing to it. You’ll probably have a great time up there. And I’ll be right beside you, talking to you the whole time.’

He looks unsure.

‘What is it?’ I ask gently.

‘What will I pack? What will I need for over there? Your mother usually packed all my going-away bags.’

‘I’ll help you pack,’ I smile, getting excited. ‘This is going to be so much fun – you and me on our first overseas holiday!’

Dad looks excited for a moment, then the excitement fades. ‘No, I’m not going. I can’t swim. If the plane goes down, I can’t swim. I don’t want to go over the seas. I’ll fly with you somewhere but not over the seas.’

‘Dad, we live on an island; everywhere we go outside of this country, has to be over the sea. And there are life jackets on the plane.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yeah, you’ll be fine,’ I assure him. ‘They show you what to do in case of emergencies, but believe me there won’t be one. I’ve flown dozens of times without so much as a hiccup. You’ll have a great time. And imagine all the things you’ll have to tell the gang at the Monday Club? They’ll hardly believe their ears, they’ll want to hear your stories all day.’

A smile slowly creeps onto Dad’s lips and he concedes, ‘Big mouth Donal would have to listen to someone else tell a more interesting story, for a change. I think Maggie might be able to clear a spot for me in the schedule, all right.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Fran’s outside, Dad. We have to go!’

‘Hold on, love, I’m just making sure everything’s OK.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ I assure him. ‘You’ve checked five times already.’

‘You can never be too sure. You hear these stories of televisions malfunctioning and toasters exploding and people coming back from their holidays to a pile of smouldering ashes instead of their house.’ He checks the socket switches in the kitchen for the umpteenth time.

Fran beeps the horn again.

‘I swear one of these days I’m going to throttle that woman. Beep, beep, beep yourself,’ he calls back, and I laugh.

‘Dad,’ I take his hand, ‘we really have to go now. The house will be fine. All your friends that live around will keep an eye on it. Any little noise outside and their noses are pressed up against their windows. You know that.’

He nods and looks about, his eyes watering.

‘We’ll have great fun, really we will. What are you worried about?’

‘I’m worried about that damn Fluffy cat, comin’ into my garden and pissin’ on my plants. I’m worried that the stranglers will suffocate my poor petunias and snapdragons, and that there’ll be no one to keep an eye on my chrysanthemums. What if there’s wind and rain when we’re away? I haven’t staked them yet and the flowers get heavy and might break. Do you know how long the magnolia took to settle? Planted it when you were a wee one, while your mother was lying out catchin’ the sun on her legs and laughin’ at Mr Henderson, God rest his soul, who was peekin’ out the curtains at her from next door.’

Beep, beeeeeeep. Fran presses down on the horn.

‘It’s only a few days, Dad. The garden will be fine. You can get to work on it as soon as you get back.’

‘OK, so.’ He takes a last look around and makes his way to the door.

I watch his figure swaying. Dressed in his Sunday finest; a three-piece suit, shirt and tie, extra-shined shoes and his tweed cap, of course, which he’d never be seen without outside the house. He looks as though he’s jumped straight from the photographs on the wall beside him. He stalls at the hall table and reaches for the photograph of Mum.

‘You know your mother was always at me to go to London with her.’ He pretends to wipe a smudge on the glass but really he runs his finger over Mum’s face.

‘Bring her with you, Dad.’

‘Ah, no, that’d be silly,’ he says confidently, but looks at me unsurely. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

‘I think it’d be a great idea. The three of us will go and have a great time.’

His eyes tear up again and with a simple nod of the head, he slides the photo frame into his overcoat pocket and exits the house to more of Fran’s beeping.

‘Ah, there you are, Fran,’ he calls to her as he sways down the garden path. ‘You’re late, we’ve been waiting for you for ages.’

‘I was beeping, Henry – did you not hear me?’

‘Were you now?’ He gets into the car. ‘You should press it a little harder the next time; we couldn’t hear a thing in there.’

As I slide the key into the lock the phone sitting just inside the hall begins ringing. I look at my watch. Seven a.m. Who on earth would be calling at seven a.m.?

Fran’s car beeps again and I turn round angrily and see Dad leaning over Fran’s shoulder, pushing his hand down on the steering wheel.

‘There you go now, Fran. We’ll hear you the next time. Come on, love, we’ve a plane to catch!’ he laughs uproariously.

I ignore the ringing phone and hurry to the car with the bags.

‘There’s no answer.’ Justin paces the living room in a panic. He tries the number again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday, Bea?’

Bea rolls her eyes. ‘Because I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal. People get wrong numbers all the time.’