Page 59 of Postscript

‘If you write the letters well …’ I begin.

‘Yes, defender of all letters written ever,’ he teases, ‘but my kids can’t read yet. I want to do something a little more modern, more in tune with what the kids are drawn to, and they love TV.’

I’m surprisingly disappointed, but I drop it. Not everybody cherishes letters as I do and I suppose Paul is right, his young children, born in this generation, would probably prefer to see and hear their dad. It’s another lesson that this process needs to be shaped exactly as the person wishes, for the people they love; bespoke messages from the once living to the still living.

‘First things first.’ He leads me through the kitchen to a conservatory. ‘A piano lesson.’

The conservatory overlooks the back garden. A children’s playhouse, swing set, lopsided goalposts, bikes, scattered toys. A doll abandoned in the soil, the head of a Lego man stuck between the cracks of the patio. The barbecue is covered up, unused since the winter, garden furniture needs to be sanded and painted. Colourful birdhouses nailed to the fence. A fairy door by the foot of a tree. The setting paints the picture of their daily life. I can imagine the activity, the mayhem, the laughter and screams. The conservatory feels like it belongs in another home. There aren’t any toys, nothing that would link it to the surroundings of the rest of the house. It’s an oasis. A light grey marble tiled floor. Light grey walls, a sheepskin rug. A chandelier hangs from the centre of the ceiling, low and hovering just above the piano. And that’s it, no other furniture.

Paul is displaying it grandly, proudly.

‘This,’ he grins, ‘was my first baby before the monsters were born. I put it in here for the acoustics. Do you play?’

I shake my head.

‘Started when I was five. Practised every morning from eight to eight thirty before I went to school. It was the bane of my life until I left school, started college and then realised being a piano player at parties is a babe magnet.’

We laugh.

‘Or at least, the centre of all entertainment.’ He starts playing. It’s jazz. Free. Fun.

‘“I’ve Got the World on a String”,’ he tells me, still playing.

He gets lost in his own world, playing along, head down, shoulders up. No despair, just joy. He stops suddenly, and we’re plummeted into silence.

I stand up quickly and go to his side. ‘Are you OK?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Paul, are you OK?’ I look him in the eye. Headaches, nausea, vomiting, double vision, seizures. I know what Paul experiences. I’ve seen it. But he can’t be experiencing it now; the tumour is gone. He’s in remission, he beat it. This is all precautionary. Of all the people I am spending time with, Paul has the most cause for optimism.

‘It’s back,’ he says, choked up.

‘What?’ I ask. I know exactly what he means, but my brain can’t compute it.

‘I had a five-hour seizure. Doctor said it’s back with a bang.’

‘Oh Paul, I’m so … sorry.’ It’s too weak, the words are not enough. ‘Fuck.’

He smiles sadly. ‘Yeah. Fuck.’ He rubs his face tiredly and I give him a moment, my mind racing. ‘So what do you think?’ he asks, looking me in the eye. ‘About the piano lesson?’

What do I think? I think I’m unsure about whether to push him more. I think I’m afraid something will happen to him, in my presence, and I’m afraid of that happening and I don’t know how I’d explain that to his wife. I think that instead of him spending time with me here, he should be with his wife and children, making actual memories, not ones for the future.

‘I think … that you’re right. This works much better on camera than in a letter.’

He smiles, relieved.

I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze encouragingly. ‘Let’s show your babies exactly who you are.’

I hold my phone up and begin recording. He looks straight into the camera and the energy is back, a playful look in his eyes.

‘Casper, Eva, it’s me, Daddy! And today, I’m going to teach you both how to play the piano.’

I smile and watch, zoom in on his fingers as he teaches the scales, trying not to laugh as he jokes and makes deliberate mistakes. I am not in the room. I am not here. This is a man, speaking to his children, from his grave.

After basic scales and ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’, we move to the kitchen.

He opens the fridge and removes two cakes. One is chocolate for Casper and the other is sponge with pink icing, for Eva. He rummages through a shopping bag and retrieves a pink candle; a number three.