Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

Deflated, Justin looks hopefully at his daughter. ‘Did she sound like a fruit cake?’

‘I dunno,’ Bea shrugs. ‘What does a fruit cake sound like?’

Justin, Al and Bea all turn to stare at Doris.

‘What?’ she squeals.

‘No,’ Bea shakes her head wildly at her father. ‘Nothing like that, at all.’

‘What’s this for, Gracie?’

‘It’s a sick bag.’

‘What does this do?’

‘It’s for hanging your coat up.’

‘Why is that there?’

‘It’s a table.’

‘How do you get it down?’

‘By unlatching it, at the top.’

‘Sir, please leave your table-top up until after take-off.’

Silence.

‘What are they doing outside?’

‘Loading the bags.’

‘What’s that yoke?’

‘An ejector seat for people who ask three million questions.’

‘What’s it, really?’

‘For reclining your chair.’

‘Sir, could you stay upright until after take-off, please?’

Silence.

‘What does that do?’

‘Air conditioning.’

‘What about that?’

‘A light.’

‘And that one?’

‘Yes, sir, can I help you?’

‘Eh, no, thanks.’

‘You pressed the button for assistance.’

‘Oh, is that what that little woman on the button is for? I didn’t know. Can I have a drink of water?’

‘We can’t serve drinks until after take-off, sir.’

‘Oh, OK. That was a fine display you did earlier. You were the image of my friend Edna when you had that oxygen mask on. She used to smoke sixty a day, you see.’

The air stewardess makes an oh shape with her mouth.

‘I feel very safe now, but what if we go down over land?’ He raises his voice and the passengers around us look our way. ‘Surely the life jackets are hopeless, unless we blow our whistles while we’re flying through the air and hope someone below hears us and catches us. Do we not have parachutes?’

‘There’s no need to worry, sir, we won’t go down over land.’

‘OK. That’s very reassuring, indeed. But if we do, tell the pilot to aim for a hay stack or something.’

I take deep breaths and pretend that I don’t know him. I continue reading my book, The Golden Age of Dutch Painting: Vermeer, Metsu and Terborch , and convince myself this was not the bad idea it’s turning out to be.

‘Where are the toilets?’

‘To the top and on the left but you can’t go until after takeoff.’

Dad’s eyes widen. ‘And when will that be?’

‘In just a few minutes.’

‘In just a few minutes, that,’ he takes the sick bag out from the seat pocket, ‘won’t be used for what it’s supposed to be used for.’

‘We will be in the air in just a few minutes more, I assure you.’ The stewardess quickly leaves before he asks another question.

I sigh.

‘Don’t you be sighing until after take-off,’ Dad says, and the man next to me laughs and pretends to turn it into a cough.

Dad looks out the window and I revel in the moment of silence.

‘Oh oh oh,’ he sings, ‘we’re moving now, Gracie.’

As soon as we’re off the ground, the wheels moan as they’re brought back up and then we are light in the air. Dad is suddenly quiet. He is turned sideways in his chair, head filling the window, watching as we reach the beginning of the clouds, mere wisps at first. The plane bumps around as it pushes through the clouds. Dad is agog as we’re surrounded by white on all sides of the plane, his head darts around looking at every window possible, and then suddenly it is blue and calm above the fluffy world of clouds. Dad blesses himself. He pushes his nose up against the window, his face lit by the nearby sun, and I take a mental photograph for my own hall of memories.

The seatbelt fasten sign goes off with a bing and cabin crew announce that we may now use electronic devices, the facilities, and that food and refreshments will be served shortly. Dad takes down the table-top, reaches into his pocket and takes out his photograph of Mum. He places her down on the table, facing out the window. He reclines his chair and they both watch the endless sea of white clouds disappear further below us and don’t say a word for the remainder of the flight.

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘Well, I must say, that was absolutely marvellous. Marvellous indeed.’ Dad pumps the pilot’s hand up and down enthusiastically.

We are standing by the just-opened door of the plane, with a queue of hundreds of irritated passengers huffing and puffing down our necks. They are like greyhounds whose trap has opened, the bunny has been fired off ahead of them and all that blocks their path is, well, Dad. The usual rock in the stream.

‘And the food ,’ Dad continues to the cabin crew, ‘it was excellent, just excellent.’

He’s eaten a ham roll and a cup of tea.

‘I can’t believe I was eating in the sky,’ he laughs. ‘Well done again, just marvellous. Nothing short of miraculous, I’d say. My Lord.’ He pumps the pilot’s hand again, as though he’s meeting JFK.

‘OK, Dad, we should move on now. We’re holding everybody up.’

‘Oh, is that so? Thanks again, folks.’ Bye now. Might see you on the way back,’ he shouts over his shoulder, as I pull him away.

We make our way through the tunnel adjoining the plane to the terminal and Dad says hello and tips his hat to everyone we pass.

‘You really don’t have to say hello to everybody, you know.’

‘It’s nice to be important, Gracie, but it’s more important to be nice. Particularly when in another country,’ says the man who hasn’t left the province of Leinster for ten years.

‘Will you stop shouting?’

‘I can’t help it. My ears feel funny.’

‘Either yawn or hold your nose and blow. It will help your ears to pop.’

He stands by the conveyor belt, purple-faced, with his cheeks puffed out and his fingers over his nose. He takes a deep breath and pushes. He lets out a fart.

The conveyor belt jerks into motion and like flies around a carcass, people suddenly swoop in front of us to block our view, as though their life depends on grabbing their bags this very second.

‘There’s your bag.’ I step forward.

‘I’ll get it, love.’

‘No, I will. You’ll hurt your back.’

‘Step back, love, I can do it.’ He passes over the yellow line and grabs his bag, only to realise that the strength he once had is gone and he finds himself walking alongside it, while tugging away. Ordinarily I would rush to help him but I’m doubled over laughing. All I can hear is Dad saying, ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ to people who are standing over the yellow line, as he tries to keep up with his moving luggage. He does a full lap of the conveyor belt and by the time he gets back to where I stand (though I’m still doubled over) somebody has the common sense to help the out-of-breath grumbling old man.

He pulls his bag over to me, his face scarlet, his breathing heavy.

‘I’ll let you get your own bag,’ he says, pulling his cap further down over his eyes with embarrassment.

I wait for our bags while Dad wanders around baggage claim ‘acquainting himself with London’. After the incident at Dublin airport, the satellite navigational voice in my head has continuously nagged at me to make a U-turn right now but somewhere inside, another part of me is under strict orders to soldier on, feeling convinced this trip is the right thing to do. Now I’m wondering what exactly this is. As I collect my bag from the belt, I am aware that there is not a clear purpose for this trip at all. A wild-goose chase is all it is. Instinct alone, caused by a confusing conversation with a girl named Bea, has caused me to fly to another country with my seventy-five-year-old father, who has never left Ireland in his life. Suddenly what seemed like the ‘only thing to do’ at the time, has now occurred to me as being completely irrational behaviour.