Page 102 of Postscript

‘I won’t,’ he whispers conspiratorially.

As soon as we walk back to the dinner table, he grabs my hand and lifts it high in the air. ‘She has a client!’

They roar in celebration.

‘Hello, Holly,’ Maria Costas says, greeting me at the main door of St Mary’s hospice. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

‘No problem, I’m glad Philip called.’

‘He told me he wanted to leave something behind for his friends but couldn’t think what. That’s when I told him about you and the club. I wasn’t sure if you were going to continue it, after our chat.’

‘You gave me a lot to think about after we talked, but it was always about growing it, not ending it. Since we last met I’ve been implementing plans to develop the PS, I Love You Club, with more of a structure, and a team. If you have time after this, we can talk about it?’

‘I’d like that.’ We stop walking. ‘This is Philip’s room.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘He’s seventeen, he was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, which is a type of bone cancer. He’s been through a lot, he’s had limb salvage surgery to replace his left femur, he’s had three cycles of chemo, but the cancer is aggressive.’

We enter Philip’s room and he looks younger than seventeen. He’s tall and broad but shrunken in his own body, his skin has a yellowish tinge. His brown eyes are deep, large in his shrunken sockets.

‘Hey, Philip,’ Maria says coolly, going to him with a hand held up for a high five.

‘Hey, Maria, the Greek goddess.’

Maria laughs. ‘I’m a Cypriot, actually, and no royal blood in my veins, unless you count my granddad’s home-grown olive oil. I brought a present for you. Holly, this is Philip. Philip, this is Holly.’

‘I prefer a boom,’ I say, holding my fist out.

‘Oh, she’s a boom-type girl,’ Maria says, smiling as Philip and I tap fists.

I sit beside him and notice the inside of his locker is covered in photos of friends. Boys his age, groups of them messing, laughing, posing, in rugby gear, a rugby team. A group holding a trophy. I recognise Philip instantly, a broad, muscular young teenager before the cancer took hold.

After spending an hour brainstorming with Philip, we part and Maria and I leave him alone. ‘Well?’ I ask, feeling that I was auditioning in there for her.

‘For your club to work, you’d need a therapist who can have the psychological needs of your clients in mind, particularly one who understands the natural course and treatment of the illness, and has a flexible approach in accordance with the medical status of the patient.’

‘Where could I find one of those?’ I muse.

She looks in the window at Philip and takes a moment. ‘I’m in,’ she says.

38

Two months later, I sit on stage alongside teachers of Belvedere College, a secondary school in Dublin, while the principal makes a speech to the leaving cert students who will be sitting their final exams in the summer. He’s motivating them to study harder, believe in themselves, give themselves one big push, because it means something. It’s their future. I scan the faces of the young men of seventeen and eighteen years of age, I see hope, determination, I see stifled yawns, mischievous private jokes. All kinds.

‘But there’s another reason why we’re all gathered here today.’

Silence. Intrigue. They murmur amongst themselves, trying to guess, but they won’t.

‘Today is Philip O’Donnell’s eighteenth birthday. We want to remember our student and friend, who we sadly lost a few months ago.’

A cheer goes up, louder in the middle section. Philip’s friends.

‘We have been joined by a special guest, Holly Kennedy, who will introduce herself and tell us why she is here. Please welcome Holly Kennedy to the podium.’

Polite applause.

‘Hello, everybody. I’m sorry to have dragged you away from your classes, I’m sure you all want to get back as quickly as possible so I won’t take up too much of your time.’