Thanks for the Memories

by Cecelia Ahern

  Bea freezes. “Oh, gee, great.”

  “I know we’ll have such fun!”

  Justin eyes his daughter. “That’s what you get for withholding information.”

  “What information? What’s going on?” Doris ties her hair up in a cerise pink scarf and makes a bow at the top of her head.

  “Dad is having a conniption fit,” Bea explains.

  “I told him to go to the dentist already. He has an abscess, I’m sure of it,” Doris says matter-of-factly.

  “I told him too,” Bea agrees.

  “No, not that. The woman,” Justin says intensely. “Remember the woman I was telling you about?”

  “Sarah?” Al asks.

  “No!” Justin responds impatiently.

  “Who can keep up with you?” Al shrugs him off. “Certainly not Sarah, when you’re running at top speed after Viking buses and leaving her behind.”

  Justin cringes. “I apologized.”

  “To her voice mail,” Al chuckles. “She is never going to answer your calls again.”

  I wouldn’t blame her.

  “Are you talking about the déjà vu woman, Justin?” Doris gasps, realizing.

  “Yes.” Justin gets excited. “Her name is Joyce, and she called Bea yesterday.”

  “She may not have.” Bea’s protests falls on deaf ears. “A woman named Joyce rang yesterday. But I do believe there’s more than one Joyce in the world.”

  Ignoring her, Doris gasps again. “How can this be? How do you know her name, Justin?”

  “I heard somebody call her that on the Viking bus. And yesterday Bea got a phone call on her emergency number, a number that no one has but me, from a woman in Ireland.” Justin pauses for dramatic effect. “Named Joyce.”

  There’s silence. Justin nods his head knowingly. “Yep, I know. Spooky, huh?”

  Frozen in place, Doris widens her eyes. “Spooky, all right.” She turns to Bea. “You’re eighteen years old, and you’ve given your father an emergency number?”

  Justin groans in frustration and starts dialing again.

  Bea’s cheeks are pink. “Before he moved over, Mum wouldn’t let him call at certain hours because of the time difference. So I got another number. It’s not technically an emergency number, but he’s the only one who has it, and every time he calls he seems to have done something wrong.”

  “Not true,” Justin objects.

  “Sure,” Bea responds breezily, picking up and flicking through a magazine. “And I’m not moving in with Peter.”

  “You’re right, you’re not. Peter”—he spits out the name—“picks strawberries for a living.”

  “I love strawberries.” Al offers his support. “If it wasn’t for Petey, I wouldn’t get to eat ’em.”

  “Peter is an IT consultant.” Bea shrugs her shoulders in confusion.

  Choosing this moment to butt in, Doris turns to Justin. “Sweetie, you know I’m rooting for you and the déjà vu lady—”

  “Joyce, her name is Joyce.”

  “Whatever, but you got nothing but a coincidence. And I’m all for coincidences, but this is…well, it’s a pretty dumb one.”

  “I have not got nothing, Doris, and that sentence is atrociously wrong on so many grammatical levels, you wouldn’t believe. I have got a name, and now I have a number.” He walks over to Doris and squeezes her face in his hands, pushing her cheeks together so that her lips puff out. “And that, Doris Hitchcock, means that I got something!”

  “It also makes you a stalker,” Bea says under her breath.

  You are now leaving Dublin. We hope you enjoyed your stay.

  Dad’s rubber ears go back on his head, his bushy eyebrows lift upward, as we reach the airport.

  “You’ll tell all the family that I said good-bye, won’t you, Fran?” Dad says a little nervously.

  “Of course I will, Henry. You’ll have a great time.” Fran’s eyes smile at me knowingly in the rearview mirror.

  “I’ll see them all when I come back,” Dad adds, closely watching a plane as it disappears to the skies. “It’s off behind the clouds now,” he says, looking at me unsurely.

  “The best part.” I smile.

  He relaxes a little.

  Fran pulls over at the drop-off section, busy with people conscious that they can’t stay for more than a minute and quickly unloading bags, hugging, paying taxi drivers. Dad stands still and takes it all in, like the rock thrown into the stream again, as I lift the bags from the trunk. Eventually he snaps out of it and turns his attention to Fran, suddenly filled with warm affection for a woman he usually can’t stop bickering with. Then he surprises us all by offering her a hug, awkward as it is.

  Once inside, in the hustle and bustle of one of Europe’s busiest airports, Dad holds on to my arm tightly with one hand and with the other pulls along the weekend bag I’ve lent him. It took me the entire day and night to convince him it wasn’t anything like the tartan rolling suitcases Fran and all the other older ladies use for their shopping. He looks around now, and I see him registering men with similar bags. He looks happy, if still a little confused. We go to the computers to check in.

  “What are you doing? Getting the sterling pounds out?”

  “It’s not an ATM, this is check-in, Dad.”

  “Do we not speak to a person?”

  “No, this machine does it for us.”

  “I wouldn’t trust this yoke.” He looks over the shoulder of the man beside us. “Excuse me, is your yokey-mabob working for you?”

  “Scusi?”

  Dad laughs. “Scoozy-woozy to you too.” He looks back at me with a grin on his face. “Scoozy. That’s a good one.”

  “Mi dispiace tanto, signore, la prego di ignorarlo, è un vecchio sciocco e non sa cosa dice,” I apologize to the Italian man, who seemed more than taken aback by Dad’s comments. I have no idea what I’ve said, but he returns my smile and continues checking in.

  “You speak Italian?” Dad looks surprised, but I haven’t time to consider my new skill while an announcement is being made. “Shhh, Gracie, it might be for us. We better hurry.”

  “We have two hours until our flight.”

  “Why did we come so early?”

  “We have to.” I’m already getting tired now, and the tireder I get, the shorter my answers get.

  “Who says?”

  “Security.”

  “Security who?”

  “Airport security. Through there.” I nod in the direction of the metal detectors.

  “Where do we go now?” he asks once I retrieve our boarding passes from the machine.

  “To check our bags in.”

  “Can we not carry them on?”

  “No.” I walk us toward the counter

  “Hello,” a woman immediately greets us, then takes my passport and Dad’s ID.

  “Hello,” Dad says chirpily, a saccharine smile forcing itself through the wrinkles of his permanently grumpy face.

  I roll my eyes. Always a sucker for the ladies.

  “How many bags are you checking in?”

  “Two.”

  “Did you pack your own bags?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Dad nudges me and frowns. “You packed my bag for me, Gracie.”

  I sigh. “Yes, but you were with me, Dad. We packed it together.”

  “Not what she asked.” He turns back to the lady. “Is that okay?”

  “Yes.” She continues, “Did anybody ask you to carry anything for them on the plane?”

  “N—”

  “Yes,” Dad interrupts me again. “Gracie put a pair of her shoes in my bag because they wouldn’t fit in hers. We’re only going for a couple of days, you know, and she brought three pairs. Three.”

  “Do you have anything sharp or dangerous in your hand luggage—scissors, tweezers, lighters, or anything like that?”

  “No,” I say.

  Dad squirms and doesn’t respond.

  “Dad”—I elbow him—“tell her no.”
r />   “No,” he finally says.

  “Well done,” I snap.

  “Have a pleasant trip.” She hands us back our IDs.

  “Thank you. You have very nice lipstick,” Dad adds before I pull him away.

  I take deep breaths as we approach the security gates, and I try to remind myself that this is Dad’s first time in an airport, and that if you’ve never heard the questions before, particularly if you’re a seventy-five-year-old, they might indeed seem quite strange.

  “Are you excited?” I ask, trying to make the moment enjoyable. “Delirious, love,” he says sarcastically.

  I give up and keep to myself.

  I collect a clear plastic bag and fill it with my makeup and his pills, and we make our way through the maze that is the security queue.

  “Just do what they say,” I tell him when we get to the security gates. “You won’t cause any trouble, will you?”

  “Trouble? Why would I cause trouble? What are you doing? Why are you taking your clothes off?”

  I groan quietly. “Dad, you don’t understand. I really have to get to London. I can’t explain it to you now because you won’t understand, I barely do, but I have to be there, so please, please just comply. This is what we’re supposed to do, okay?” I give him a forced smile as I take off my belt and my coat.

  “Sir, could you please remove your shoes, belt, overcoat, and cap?”

  “What?” Dad laughs at him.

  “Remove your shoes, belt, overcoat, and cap.”

  “I will do no such thing. You want me walking around in my socks?”

  “Dad, just do it,” I tell him.

  “If I take my belt off, my trousers will fall down,” he says angrily.

  “You can hold them up with your hands,” I snap.

  “Christ Almighty,” he says loudly.

  The young security officer looks round to his colleagues.

  “Dad, just do it,” I say more firmly now. An extremely long queue of irritated seasoned travelers who already have their shoes, belts, and coats off is forming behind us.

  “Empty your pockets, please.” An older and angrier-looking security man steps in.

  Dad looks uncertain.

  “Oh, my God, Dad, this is not a joke. Just do it.”

  “Can I empty them away from her?” Dad nods at me.

  “No, you’ll do it right here.”

  “I’m not looking.” I turn away, baffled.

  I hear clinking noises as Dad empties his pockets.

  “Sir, you were told you could not bring these things through with you.”

  I spin round to see the security man holding a lighter and toenail clippers in his hands, as well as the packet of cigarettes in the tray with the photograph of Mum. And a banana.

  “Dad!” I say.

  “Stay out of this, ma’am.”

  “Don’t speak to my daughter like that. I didn’t know I couldn’t bring them. She said scissors and tweezers and water and—”

  “Okay, we understand, sir, but we’re going to have to take these from you.”

  “But that’s my good lighter! And what’ll I do without my clippers?”

  “We’ll buy new ones,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now just do what they say.”

  “Okay, okay”—he waves his hands rudely at them—“keep the damn things.”

  “Sir, please remove your cap, jacket, shoes, and belt.”

  “He’s an old man,” I say to the security guard in a low voice so that the gathering crowd behind us doesn’t hear. “He needs a chair to sit on to take off his shoes. And he shouldn’t have to take them off as they’re corrective footwear. Can you not just let him through?”

  “The nature of his right shoe means that we must check it,” the man begins to explain, but Dad overhears and explodes.

  “Do you think I have a bomb in my shoe? What kind of eejit would do that? Do you think I have a bomb sittin’ behind my belt? Is my banana really a gun, do you think?” He waves the banana around at the staff, making shooting sounds. “Have you all gone loony in here?”

  Dad reaches for his cap. “Or maybe I’ve a grenade under my—”

  He doesn’t have the opportunity to finish his sentence as everything suddenly goes crazy. He is whisked away right in front of my eyes before I can do anything.

  Then I am taken to a small cell-like room and ordered to wait.

  Chapter 19

  AFTER FIFTEEN MINUTES OF SITTING alone in the sparse interrogation room with nothing but a table and chair, I hear the door in the next room open, then close. I hear the squeak of chair legs, and then Dad’s voice, as always, louder than everyone else’s. I move closer to the wall and press my ear up against it.

  “Who are you traveling with?”

  “Gracie.”

  “Are you sure about that, Mr. Conway?”

  “Of course! She’s my daughter, ask her yourself!”

  “Her passport tells us her name is Joyce. Is she lying to us, Mr. Conway? Or are you the one lying?”

  “I’m not lying. Oh, I meant Joyce, I meant to say Joyce.”

  “Are you changing your story now?”

  “What story? I got the name wrong, is all. My wife is Gracie, I get confused.”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “She’s not with us anymore. She’s in my pocket. I mean, the photograph of her is in my pocket. At least, it was in my pocket until the lads out there took her and put her in the tray. Will I get my toenail clippers back, do you think? They cost me a bit.”

  “Mr. Conway, you were told sharp items and lighter fluid are not permitted on the flights.”

  “I know that, but my daughter, Gracie—I mean, Joyce—got mad at me yesterday when she found my pack of smokes hidden in the Sugar Puffs, and I didn’t want to take the lighter out of my pocket or she’d lose her head again. I apologize for that, though. I wasn’t intending to blow up the plane or anything.”

  “Mr. Conway, please refrain from using such language. Why did you refuse to take off your shoes?”

  “I have holes in me socks!”

  Silence.

  “I’m seventy-five years old, young man. Why on earth do I have to take my shoes off? Did you think I was going to blow the plane up with a rubber shoe? Or maybe it’s the insoles you’re worried about. Maybe you’re right to arrest me, you can never tell the damage a man can do with a good insole—”

  “Mr. Conway, please don’t use such language, and refrain from smart-aleck behavior, or you will not be allowed on the plane. You haven’t been arrested. We just need to ask you some questions. Behavior such as yours is prohibited at this airport, so we need to ascertain if you are a threat to the safety of our passengers.”

  “What do you mean, a threat?”

  A man clears his throat. “Well, it means finding out if you are a member of any gangs or terrorist organizations before we reconsider allowing you through.”

  I hear Dad roar with laughter.

  “You must understand that planes are very confined spaces, and we can’t allow anybody through that we aren’t sure of. We have the right to choose who we allow on board.”

  “The only threat I’d be in a confined space is when I’ve had a good curry from my local. And terrorist organizations? I’m a member of one, all right. The Monday Club. We meet every Monday except on bank holidays, when we meet on a Tuesday. A bunch of lads and lasses like me gettin’ together for a few pints and a singsong is all it is. Though if you’re lookin’ for juice, Donal’s family was pretty heavily involved in the IRA—”

  I hear the man clear his throat again.

  “Donal?”

  “Donal McCarthy. Ah, leave him alone, he’s ninety-seven, and I’m talkin’ about way back when his dad fought. The only rebellious thing he’s able to do now is whack the chessboard with his cane, and that’s only because he’s frustrated he can’t play. Arthritis in both his hands. Could do with g’ttin’ it in his mouth, if you ask me. Talkin’ is all he does. Annoys Peter to n
o end, but they’ve never gotten along since he courted Peter’s daughter and broke her heart. She’s seventy-two. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? Had a wandering eye, she claimed, but sure, Donal’s as cockeyed as they come. His eye wanders without him even knowing it. I wouldn’t blame the man for that, though he does like to dominate the conversations every week. I can’t wait for him to listen to me for a change.” Dad laughs and sighs in the long pause that follows. “Do you think I could get a cuppa?”

  “We won’t be much longer, Mr. Conway. What is the nature of your visit to London?”

  “I’m going because my daughter dragged me here, last minute. She gets off the phone yesterday morning and looks at me with a face as white as a sheet. I’m off to London, she says, like it’s somethin’ you just do last minute. Ah, maybe it is what you young people do, but not me. Not what I’m used to at all, at all. Never been on a plane before, you see. So she says, Wouldn’t it be fun if we both go away? And usually I’d say no, I’ve loads to be doin’ in my garden. Have to put down the lilies, tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths in time for the spring, you see, but she says live a little, and I felt like peltin’ her because it’s more livin’ I’ve been doing than her. But because of recent—well, troubles, shall we say—I decided to come with her. And that’s no crime, is it?”

  “What recent troubles, Mr. Conway?”

  “Ah, my Gracie—”

  “Joyce.”

  “Yes, thank you. My Joyce, she’s been goin’ through a rough patch. Lost her little baby a few weeks back. Had been trying to have one for years with a fella that plays tennis in little white shorts and things finally looked great but she had an accident. Fell, you see, and she lost the little one. Lost a little of herself too, if I’m to be honest with you. Also lost the husband just last week, but don’t you be feelin’ sorry for her about that—she somehow got a little somethin’ in the process she never had before. Can’t put my finger on exactly what, but whatever it is, I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. Generally things aren’t goin’ right for her, and sure, what kind of a father would I be to let her go off on her own in this state? She’s got no job, no baby, no husband, no mother, and soon no house, and if she wants to go to London for a break, even if it is last minute, then she sure as hell is entitled to go without any more people stopping her from what she wants.