Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(13)

‘Me neither,’ says Ciara. ‘And I don’t want it to be all my fault if it goes wrong.’

‘It’s not about you,’ Mathew mutters, frustrated.

‘No, I know. But she’s my sister and I don’t want to be the one to be responsible for—’

‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ Richard’s voice calls out from the hall. He appears at the door. He looks around at us all, sensing something. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ we say in unison.

I’m alone in the shop, behind the desk. Sitting on a stool, staring into space. Ciara and Mathew have gone out to collect donations from a family nearby who are moving house. The shop is empty of customers, and has been for the past hour. I’ve emptied every bag and box I could, setting precious things aside and making phone calls to their owners to arrange for collection. I’ve tidied every rail, moved things an inch to the left or an inch to the right. There’s nothing left to do. The bell rings as the door opens and a young girl, a teenager, steps inside. She’s tall, wearing a striking black-and-gold turban on her head.

‘Hello,’ I attempt cheerily.

She smiles shyly and self-consciously, so I look away. Some customers want attention lavished on them, others like to be left alone. I watch her while she’s not looking. She’s carrying a baby in a baby carrier. The baby, who’s only a few months old, is facing outward, pudgy legs squeezed into a pair of leggings that kick spontaneously. Her mother – if she is her mother, as she seems so young to have a child, but what do I know – has mastered the craft of standing sideways so that the child can’t reach anything on the rails. The teenager keeps glancing at me and then back to the rails. She’s looking at the clothes but not really looking, she’s more intent on keeping an eye on me. I wonder if she’s going to steal something; sometimes shoplifters have that look, checking out my whereabouts rather than the items. The baby cries out, practising her sounds, and the teenager reaches for the baby’s hand; little fingers wrap around her finger.

I wanted a baby once. It was ten years ago and I wanted a baby so much my body was calling out to me every day to provide one. That longing vanished when Gerry became sick. It became a longing for something else: for him to survive. It put all its energy into making him survive, and when he was gone, the longing for a child died with him. I had wanted a baby with him, and he was no longer here. Looking at her beautiful bouncy baby, something chimes inside me, a reminder of what I once wanted. I’m thirty-seven years old, it could still happen. I’m moving in with Gabriel, but I don’t think either of us are quite there yet. He’s too busy working on the relationship with the daughter he has.

‘I’m not going to steal nothing,’ she says, snapping me out of my trance.

‘Pardon?’

‘You keep staring. I’m not going to steal nothing,’ the teenager says defensively, annoyed.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t, I didn’t mean to … I was daydreaming,’ I say. I stand up. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

She looks at me, a long stare as if deciding something, as if weighing me up. ‘No.’

She walks to the door, the bell rings, it closes. I stare at the closed door and I remember, she’s been in here before. A few weeks ago, maybe last week, perhaps a few times, doing the same thing, browsing with her baby. I remember because Ciara complimented her on her turban and then, fashion-inspired, wore a red and white polka-dot headscarf for a week. The girl has never bought anything. It’s no big deal, people always browse through second-hand shops, people like to see what others once owned and gave away, how others once lived. There’s an extra something attached to objects that have once had an owner. Some think they’re more precious, others think used means dirty, and then there are those who have a desire to be around these things. But she was right, I hadn’t trusted her.

Mathew and Ciara’s van pulls up outside the shop. Ciara leaps out, wearing an eighties spangly jumpsuit and trainers. They open the back doors and start sliding out the goods.

‘Hello, David Bowie.’

She grins. ‘Man did we find some treasures over there, you’re going to love them. Anything exciting happen here?’

‘No. It’s been quiet.’

Mathew races by with two rolled-up carpets under his arm, announcing in his thick Australian accent, ‘We’ll have more rugs than a bald man’s house.’

Bald. I think of Angela’s funeral, her display of wigs, the letters hidden beneath for her family.

She studies me. ‘You good?’

‘Yes, Ciara.’ She asks me at least every ten minutes.

She waits for Mathew to disappear into the stockroom. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. Again. I really feel responsible for everything that’s happened.’

‘Ciara, stop—’

‘No, I won’t. If I’ve set you back, if I’ve fucked up everything, I’m so so sorry. Please, tell me what I can do to fix it.’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong, things happened, and it’s not your fault. But if Joy or anyone else from the club comes by, tell them I’m not interested, OK?’

‘Yeah. Of course. I told that guy yesterday not to come back.’

‘What guy?’

‘He said he was from the club. His name was … doesn’t matter what his name is. He’s not coming back, I made it very clear to leave you alone, especially at your place of work, it’s not right.’