Thanks for the Memories. Cecelia Ahern
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‘What is it about fart jokes, Bea?’
‘Oh, hi, Dad.’
‘What kind of a greeting is that?’
‘Oh, gee whizz, wow, Dad, so great to hear from you. It’s been, what, ah shucks, three hours since you last phoned?’
‘Fine, you don’t have to go all porky pig on me. Is your darling mother home yet from a day out at her new life?’
‘Yes, she’s home.’
‘And has she brought the delightful Laurence back with her?’ He can’t hold back his sarcasm, which he hates himself for but, unwilling to withdraw it and incapable of apologising, he does what he always does, which is to run with it, therefore making it worse. ‘Laurence,’ he drawls, ‘Laurence of A—inguinal hernia.’
‘Oh, you’re such a geek. Would you ever give up talking about his trouser leg,’ she sighs with boredom.
Justin kicks off the scratchy blanket of the cheap Dublin hotel he’s staying in. ‘Really, Bea, check it next time he’s around. Those trousers are far too tight for what he’s got going on down there. There should be a name for that. Something-itis.’
Balls-a-titis.
‘There are only four TV channels in this dump, one in a language I don’t even understand. It sounds like they’re clearing their throats after one of your mother’s terrible coq-au-vins. You know, in my wonderful home back in Chicago, I had over two hundred channels.’ Dick-a-titis. Dickhead-a-titis. Ha!
‘Of which none you watched.’
‘But one had a choice not to watch those deplorable house-fixer-upper channels and music channels of naked women dancing around.’
‘I appreciate one going through such an upheaval, Dad. It must be very traumatic for you, a sort-of grown man, while I, at sixteen years old, had to take this huge life adjustment of parents getting divorced and a move from Chicago to London all in my stride.’
‘You got two houses and extra presents, what do you care?’ he grumbles. ‘And it was your idea.’
‘It was my idea to go to ballet school in London, not for your marriage to end!’
‘Oh, ballet school. I thought you said, “Break up, you fool.” My mistake. Think we should move back to Chicago and get back together?’
‘Nah.’ He hears the smile in her voice and knows it’s OK.
‘Hey, you think I was going to stay in Chicago while you’re all the way over this side of the world?’
‘You’re not even in the same country right now,’ she laughs.
‘Ireland is just a work trip. I’ll be back in London in a few days. Honestly, Bea, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,’ he assures her.
Though a Four Seasons would be nice.
‘I’m thinking of moving in with Peter,’ she says far too casually.
‘So what is it about fart jokes?’ he asks again, ignoring her. ‘I mean what is it about the sound of expelling air that can stop people from being interested in some of the most incredible masterpieces ever created?’
‘I take it you don’t want to talk about me moving in with Peter?’
‘You’re a child. You and Peter can move into the wendy house, which I still have in storage. I’ll set it up in the living room. It’ll be real nice and cosy.’
‘I’m eighteen. Not a child any more. I’ve lived alone away from home for two years now.’
‘One year alone. Your mother left me alone the second year to join you, remember.’
‘You and Mum met at my age.’
‘And we did not live happily ever after. Stop imitating us and write your own fairy tale.’
‘I would, if my overprotective father would stop butting in with his version of how the story should go.’ Bea sighs and steers the conversation back to safer territory. ‘Why are your students laughing at fart jokes, anyway? I thought your seminar was a one-off for postgrads who’d elected to choose your boring subject. Though why anybody would do that, is beyond me. You lecturing me on Peter is boring enough and I love him.’
Love! Ignore it and she’ll forget what she said.
‘It wouldn’t be beyond you, if you’d listen to me when I talk. Along with my postgraduate classes, I was asked to speak to first-year students throughout the year too, an agreement I may live to regret, but no matter. On to my day job and far more pressing matters, I’m planning an exhibition at the Gallery on Dutch painting in the seventeenth century. You should come see it.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Well, maybe my postgrads over the next few months will be more appreciative of my expertise.’
‘You know, your students may have laughed at the fart joke but I bet at least a quarter of them donated blood.’
‘They only did it because they heard they’d get a free KitKat afterward,’ Justin huffs, rooting through the insufficiently filled mini-bar. ‘You’re angry at me for not giving blood?’
‘I think you’re an asshole for standing up that woman.’
‘Don’t use the word “asshole”, Bea. Anyway, who told you that I stood her up?’
‘Uncle Al.’
‘Uncle Al is an asshole. And you know what else, honey? You know what the good doctor said today about donating blood?’ He struggles with opening the film on the top of a Pringles box.
‘What?’ Bea yawns.
‘That the donation is anonymous to the recipient. Hear that? Anonymous. So what’s the point in saving someone’s life if they don’t even know you’re the one who saved them?’
‘Dad!’
‘What? Come on, Bea. Lie to me and tell me you wouldn’t want a bouquet of flowers for saving someone’s life?’
Bea protests but he continues.
‘Or a little basket of those, whaddaya call ’em muffins that you like, coconut—’
‘Cinnamon,’ she laughs, finally giving in.
‘A little basket of cinnamon muffins outside your front door with a little note tucked into the basket saying, “Thanks, Bea, for saving my life. Anytime you want anything done, like your dry cleaning picked up, or your newspaper and a coffee delivered to your front door every morning, a chauffeur-driven car for your own personal use, front-row tickets to the opera …” Oh the list could go on and on.’
He gives up pulling at the film and instead picks up a corkscrew and stabs the top. ‘It could be like one of those Chinese things; you know the way someone saves your life and then you’re forever indebted to them. It could be nice having someone tailing you everyday; catching pianos flying out of windows and stopping them from landing on your head, that kind of thing.’
Bea calms herself. ‘I hope you’re joking.’
‘Yeah, of course I’m joking.’ Justin makes a face. ‘The piano would surely kill them and that would be unfair.’
He finally pulls open the Pringles lid and throws the corkscrew across the room. It hits a glass on top of the minibar and it smashes.
‘What was that?’
‘House-cleaning,’ he lies. ‘You think I’m selfish, don’t you?’
‘Dad, you uprooted your life, left a great job, nice apartment and flew thousands of miles to another country just to be near me, of course I don’t