Thanks for the Memories

by Cecelia Ahern

  Seeing him now reminds me of a tale he once told me when I was so small he seemed as gigantic as our neighbor’s oak tree that loomed over our garden wall, raining acorns onto our grass. During the months when playtime was interrupted by the gray world outside, the howling wind would blow the giant tree’s branches from side to side, leaves going swish swash, left to right, just like my dad, a pin wavering at the end of a bowling lane. But neither of them fell under the wind’s force. Not like the acorns, which leaped from their branches like panicked parachutists pushed out unawares.

  Back when my dad was as sturdy as an oak tree and when I was bullied at school for sucking my thumb, he recalled the Irish myth of how an ordinary salmon had eaten hazelnuts that had fallen into the Fountain of Wisdom. In doing so, the salmon gained all the knowledge in the world, and the first to eat the salmon’s flesh would, in turn, gain this knowledge. The poet Finneces spent seven long years fishing for this salmon, and when he’d finally caught it, he instructed his young apprentice, Fionn, to prepare it for him. When spattered with hot fat from the cooking salmon, Fionn immediately sucked on his burned thumb to ease his pain. Thus he gained incredible knowledge and wisdom. For the rest of his life, when he didn’t know what to do, all he needed was to suck on his thumb, and the knowledge would come.

  He told me that story way back when I sucked my thumb, and when he was as big as an oak tree. When Mum’s yawns sounded like songs. When we were all together. When I had no idea there would ever come a time when we wouldn’t be. When we used to have chats in the garden, under the weeping willow. Where I always used to hide, and where he always found me. When nothing was impossible, and when the three of us, together forever, was a given.

  I smile now as I watch my great big salmon of knowledge moving upstream, weaving in and out of the pedestrians pounding the pavement toward him.

  Dad looks up, sees me, gives me two fingers, and keeps walking.

  Ah.

  “Dad,” I call out the open window, “come on, get in the car.”

  He ignores me and holds a cigarette to his mouth, inhaling long and hard, so much so that his cheeks go concave. “Dad, don’t be like this. Just get in the car, and we’ll go to the hotel.”

  He continues walking, looking straight ahead, as stubborn as anything. I’ve seen this face so many times before, arguing with Mum over staying too late and too often at the pub, debating with the Monday Club gang about the political state of the country, holding his ground at a restaurant when his beef is handed to him not resembling a piece of charcoal as he wishes—the “I’m right, you’re wrong” look that has set his chin in that defiant stance, jutting outward like Cork and Kerry’s rugged coastline from the rest of the land. A stubborn chin, a troubled head.

  “Look, we don’t even have to talk. You can ignore me in the car too. And at the hotel. Don’t talk to me all night, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he huffs.

  “Honestly?”

  He looks at me.

  “Yes.”

  He tries not to smile. Scratches the corner of his mouth with his yellow-stained cigarette fingers to hide how he softens. The smoke rises into his eyes, and I think of his yellow eyes, think of how piercingly blue they used to be when, as a little girl, legs swinging, chin on my hands, I’d watch him at the kitchen table dismantling a radio or a clock or some other device. Piercing blue eyes, alert, busy, like a CAT scan sourcing a tumor. His cigarette squashed between his lips, to the side of his mouth like Popeye, the smoke drifting into his squinted eyes, staining them the yellow that he sees through now. The color of age, like old newspapers dipped in time.

  I’d watch him, transfixed, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe, afraid to break the spell he’d cast on the contraption he was fixing. Like the surgeon who’d operated on his heart during his bypass surgery ten years ago, there he was with youth on his side, connecting wires and clearing blockages, his shirtsleeves rolled to just below his elbows, the muscles in his arms tanned from gardening, flexing and unflexing as his fingers tackled the problem. His fingernails, always with a trace of dirt under the surface. His right forefinger and middle finger, yellow from the nicotine. Yellow but steady.

  Finally he stops walking. He throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with his chunky shoe. I ask the driver to stop. I throw the lifesaving ring around his body, and we pull him out of his stream of defiance and into the boat. Always a chancer, always lucky, he’d fall into a river and come out dry, with fish in his pockets. He gets in the car and sits without a word to me, his clothes, breath, and fingers smelling of smoke. I bite my lip to stop from saying anything.

  He is silent for a record amount of time. Ten, minutes, maybe fifteen. Finally words start spilling out of his mouth, as though they’d been queuing up impatiently. Fired from his heart as usual, not from his head, and catapulted to his mouth, only to bounce against the walls of his closed lips. But now the gates open, and the words fly out in all directions like projectile vomit.

  “You may have got a sherbet, but I hope you know that I haven’t a sausage.” He raises his chin, which pulls on the invisible string attached to his pride. He appears pleased with the collection of words that have strung themselves together for him on this particular occasion.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Sherbet dab, cab. Sausage and mash, cash,” he explains. “It’s the ol’ Chitty Chitty.”

  I try to work that out in my head.

  “Bang Bang, rhyming slang,” he finishes. “He knows exactly what I’m talking about.” He nods at the driver.

  “He can’t hear you.”

  “Why? Is he Mutt and Jeff?”

  “What?”

  “Deaf.”

  “No.” I shake my head, feeling dazed and tired. “When the red light is off, they can’t hear you.”

  “Like Joe’s hearing aid,” Dad responds. He leans forward and flicks the switch on the back of the seat in front of us. “Can you hear me?” he shouts.

  “Yeah, mate.” The driver looks at him in the rearview mirror. “Loud and clear.”

  Dad smiles and flicks the switch again. “Can you hear me now?”

  There is no response, and the driver quickly glances at him in the mirror, concern wrinkling his forehead while he keeps an eye on the road.

  Dad chuckles.

  I bury my face in my hands.

  “This is what we do to Joe,” he says mischievously. “Sometimes he can go a whole day without realizing we turned his hearing aid off. He just thinks that no one’s saying anything. Every half hour he shouts, ‘Jaysus, it’s very quiet in here!’” Dad laughs and flicks the switch again. “’Allo, guv,” Dad says pleasantly.

  “All right, Paddy,” the driver responds.

  I wait for Dad’s gnarled fist to go through the slit in the window. It doesn’t. His laughter filters through instead.

  “I feel like being on my tod tonight. I say, could you tell me where there’s a good jack near my hotel, so I can go for a pig without my teapot?”

  The young driver studies Dad’s innocent face in the mirror, but he doesn’t respond and continues driving.

  I look away so Dad isn’t embarrassed, but I feel rather superior and hate myself for it. Moments later, at a set of traffic lights, the hatch opens and the driver passes a piece of paper through.

  “Here’s a list of a few, mate. I’d suggest the first one, that’s my favorite. Does good loop and tucker right about now, if you know what I mean.” He smiles and winks.

  “Thank you.” Dad’s face lights up. He studies the paper closely as though it’s the most precious thing he’s ever been given, then folds it carefully and slides it into his top pocket proudly. “It’s just that this one here is being a merry ol’ soul, if you know what I mean. Make sure she gives you a good bit of rifle.”

  The driver laughs and pulls over at our hotel. I examine it from th
e cab and am pleasantly surprised. The three-star hotel is right in the heart of the city, only ten minutes’ walk from the main theaters, Oxford Street, Piccadilly, and Soho. Enough to keep us out of trouble. Or put us right in it.

  Dad gets out of the car and pulls his case up to the revolving doors at the hotel entrance. I watch him while waiting for my change. The doors are going around so fast, I can see him trying to time his entrance. Like a dog afraid to jump into the cold sea, he inches forward, then stops, jerks forward again and stops. Finally he makes a run for it, and his suitcase gets stuck outside, jamming the revolving doors and trapping him inside.

  I take my time getting out of the cab. I lean in the passenger’s side window to the sound of Dad rapping on the glass of the revolving doors.

  “Help! Someone!” I hear Dad call.

  “By the way, what did he call me?” I ask the driver, calmly ignoring the calls behind me.

  “A merry old soul?” he asks with a grin. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Tell me,” I prompt.

  “It means arsehole.” He laughs and then pulls away, leaving me at the side of the street with my mouth gaping.

  I notice the knocking has quieted and turn to see that Dad has been freed at last. I hurry inside.

  “I can’t give you a credit card, but I can give you my word,” Dad is saying slowly and loudly to the woman behind the reception desk. “And my word is as good as my honor.”

  “It’s okay, here you go.” I join them and slide my credit card across the counter to the young lady.

  “Why can’t people just pay with paper money these days?” Dad says, leaning farther over the counter. “It’s more trouble that the youth of today are getting themselves into, debt after debt because they want this, they want that, but they don’t want to work for it, so they use those plastic thingies. Well, that’s not free money, I can tell you that.” He nods his head with finality. “You’ll only ever lose with one of those.”

  The receptionist smiles at him politely and taps away at her computer. “You’re sharing a room?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I respond with dread.

  “Two Uncle Teds, I hope?” Dad says.

  She frowns.

  “Beds,” I say quietly. “He means beds.”

  “Yes, they’re twin beds.”

  “Is it an en suite?” He leans in again, trying to see her name badge. “Breda, is it?” he asks.

  “Aakaanksha. And, yes, sir, all our rooms are en suite,” she says politely.

  “Oh.” He looks impressed. “Well, I hope your lifts are working, because I can’t take the apples, my Cadbury’s playin’ up.”

  I squeeze my eyes together tightly.

  “Apples and pears, stairs. Cadbury snack, back,” he says.

  “I see. Very good, Mr. Conway.”

  I take the key and head toward the elevator, hearing him muttering phrases over and over as he follows me through the foyer. I hit the button for the third floor, and the doors close.

  The room is standard, and it’s clean, and that’s good enough for me. Our beds are far enough apart for my liking, and there’s a television and a minibar, which hold Dad’s attention while I run a bath.

  “I wouldn’t mind a drop of fine,” he says, his head disappearing into the minibar.

  “You mean wine.”

  “Fine and dandy, brandy.”

  When I finally slide down into the hot soothing bathwater, the suds rise like the foam atop an ice-cream float. They tickle my nose and cover my body, overflow and float to the ground, where they slowly fade with a crackling sound. I lie back and close my eyes, feeling tiny bubbles all over my body pop as soon as they touch my skin. I’m relaxing for the first time in ages…Then there’s a knock at the door.

  I ignore it.

  Then it goes again, a little more loudly this time.

  Still I don’t answer.

  Bang! Bang!

  “What?” I shout.

  “Oh, sorry, thought you’d fallen asleep or something, love.”

  “I’m in the bath.”

  “I know that. You have to be careful in those things. Could nod off and slip under the water and drown. Happened to one of Amelia’s cousins. You know Amelia. Visits Joseph sometimes, down the road. But she doesn’t drop by as much as before on account of the bath accident.”

  “Dad, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence.

  “Actually, it’s not that, Gracie. I’m just wonderin’ how long you’ll be in there for?”

  I grab the yellow rubber duck sitting at the side of the bath, and I strangle it.

  “Love?” he asks in a little voice.

  I hold the duck under the water, trying to drown it. Then I let go, and it bobs to the top again, the same silly eyes staring back at me. I take a deep breath, breathe out slowly.

  “About twenty minutes, Dad, is that okay?”

  Silence. I close my eyes again.

  “Eh, love. It’s just that you’ve been in there twenty minutes already, and you know how my prostate is—”

  I don’t hear any more, because I’m climbing out of the bath with all the gracefulness of a piranha at feeding time. My feet squeak on the bathroom floor, splashing water in all directions.

  “Everything okay in there, Shamu?” Dad laughs uproariously at his own joke.

  I throw a towel around me and open the door.

  “Ah, Willy’s been freed.” He smiles.

  I bow and hold my arm out to the toilet. “Your chariot awaits you, sir.”

  Embarrassed, he shuffles inside and closes the door behind him. It locks.

  Wet and shivering, I browse through the half bottles of red wine in the minibar. I pick one up and study the label. Immediately an image flashes through my mind, so vivid, I feel like my body has been transported.

  A picnic basket with a bottle inside, with this identical label, a red-and-white-checked cloth laid out on the grass, a little girl with blond hair twirling, twirling in a pink tutu. The wine swirling, swirling in a glass. The sound of laughter. Birds twittering. Children’s laughter far off, a dog barking. I am lying on the checked cloth, barefoot, trousers rolled above my ankles. Hairy ankles. I feel heat beating down on my skin. The little girl dances and twirls before the sun, sometimes blocking the harshness of light, other times spinning in the other direction to send the glare into my eyes. A hand appears before me, a glass of red wine in it. I look to her face. Red hair, lightly freckled, smiling adoringly. At me.

  “Justin,” she’s singing. “Earth to Justin!”

  The little girl is laughing and twirling, the wine is swirling, the long red hair is blowing in the light breeze…

  Then it’s gone. I’m back in the hotel room, standing before the minibar, my hair dripping bathwater onto the carpet. Dad is now out and watching me curiously, hand suspended in the air as though he’s not sure whether to touch me or not.

  “Earth to Joyce,” he’s singing.

  I clear my throat. “You’re done?”

  Dad nods, and his eyes follow me to the bathroom. On the way there, I stop and turn. “By the way, I’ve booked a ballet show for tonight if you’d like to come. We need to leave in an hour.”

  “Okay, love.” He nods softly, and watches after me with a familiar look of worry in his eyes. I’ve seen that look as a child, and I’ve seen it as an adult—and a million times in between. It’s as though I’ve taken the training wheels off my bicycle for the very first time, and he’s running along beside me, holding on tight, afraid to let me go.

  Chapter 24

  DAD BREATHES HEAVILY BESIDE ME and links my arm tightly as we make our way to Covent Garden. Using my other hand I pat down my pockets, feeling for his heart pills.

  “Dad, we’re definitely getting a taxi back to the hotel. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Dad stops and stares ahead.

  “Are you okay? Is it your heart? Should we sit down? Stop and
take a rest? Go back to the hotel?”

  “Shut up and turn round, Gracie. It’s not just my heart that takes my breath away, you know.”

  I spin round, and there it is, the Royal Opera House, its columns illuminated for the evening performance, a red carpet lining the pavement outside and crowds filing through the doors.

  “You have to take your moments, love,” Dad says, soaking in the sight before him. “Don’t just go headfirst into everything like a bull seeing red.”

  Having booked our tickets so late, we are seated almost at the top of the tremendous theater. The position is unlucky, yet we are fortunate to have gotten tickets at all. And while the view of the stage is restricted, the view of the boxes opposite is perfect. Squinting through the binoculars situated beside my seat, I spy on the people filling the boxes. No sign of my American man. Earth to Justin? I hear the woman’s voice in my head and wonder again if Frankie’s theory about seeing the world from his eyes is correct.

  Dad is enthralled by our view. “We’ve got the best seats in the house, love, look.” He leans over the balcony, and his tweed cap almost falls off his head. I grab his arm and pull him back. He takes the photograph of Mum from his pocket and places her on the velvet balcony ledge. “Best seat in the house, indeed,” he says, his eyes filling.

  The voice over the intercom system signals that the ballet is about to begin, prompting the cacophony of the tuning orchestra to die down. The lights dim, and there is silence before the magic begins. The conductor taps, and the orchestra plays the opening bars of Tchaikovsky’s ballet. Apart from Dad snorting when the male principal dancer appears onstage wearing tights, it runs smoothly, and we are both entranced by the story of Swan Lake. I look away from the prince’s coming-of-age party and again study those sitting in the boxes. Their faces are lit, their eyes dancing along with the dancers they follow. It’s as though a music box has been opened, spilling music and light, and all those watching have been enchanted, captured by its magic. I continue to spy through my opera glasses, moving from left to right, seeing a row of strange faces until…My eyes widen as I reach the familiar face, the man from the hair salon I now know from Bea’s biography in the program to be Mr. Hitchcock. Justin Hitchcock? He watches the stage, entranced, leaning so far over the ledge it looks as though he’ll topple over. I can’t stop watching him; I study his face, his eyes, his lips. He’s so close in my view that I feel like I can reach out to touch him. The excitement rushes through me at just seeing him, the feeling of a childhood crush suddenly alive inside me.