Thanks for the Memories Read Online Free PDF

are you lot from, then?” Dad repeats. “Not from around here, I see.” Dad’s voice is cheery and pleasant. No insults intended. No insults ever intended.
    “We are from Nigeria,” the man responds.
    “Nigeria,” Dad replies. “Where would that be, then?”
    “In Africa.” The man’s tone is pleasant too. Just an old man starved of conversation, trying to be friendly, he realizes.
    “Ah, Africa. Never been there myself. Is it hot there? I’d say it is. Hotter than here. Get a good tan, I’d say, not that you need it.”
    He laughs. “Do you get cold here?”
    “Cold?” The African smiles.
    “Yes, you know.” Dad wraps his arms around his body and pretends to shiver. “Cold?”
    “Yes.” The man laughs. “Sometimes I do.”
    “Thought so. I do too, and I’m from here,” Dad explains.
    “The chill gets right into my bones. But I’m not a great one for heat either. Skin goes red, just burns. My daughter, Joyce, goes brown. That’s her over there.” He points at me, and I close my eyes quickly.
    “A lovely daughter,” the man says politely.
    “Ah, she is.” Silence while I assume they watch me. “She was on one of those Spanish islands a few months back and came back black, she did. Well, not as black as you, you know, but she got a fair ol’ tan on her. Peeled, though. You probably don’t peel.”
    The man laughs politely. That’s Dad. Never means any harm but has never left the country in his entire life, and it shows. A fear of flying holds him back. Or so he says.
    “Anyway, I hope your lovely lady feels better soon. It’s an awful thing to be sick on your holliers.”
    With that I open my eyes.
    “Ah, welcome back, love. I was just talking to these nice neighbors of ours.” He seesaws up to me again, his cap once more in his 3 4 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
    hands. Rests on his right leg, goes down, bends his left leg. “You know, I think we’re the only Irish people in this hospital. The nurse that was here a minute ago, she’s from Sing-a-song or someplace like that.”
    “Singapore, Dad.” I smile.
    “That’s it.” He raises his eyebrows. “You met her already, did you? They all speak English, though, the foreigners do. Much better than being on your holidays and having to do all that sign-languagey stuff.” He puts his cap down on the bed and wiggles his fingers around.
    “Dad”—I smile—“you’ve never been out of the country in your life.”
    “Haven’t I heard the lads at the Monday Club talking about it? Frank was away in that place last week—oh, what’s that place?”
    He shuts his eyes and thinks hard. “The place where they make the chocolates?”
    “Switzerland.”
    “No.”
    “Belgium.”
    “No,” he says, frustrated now. “The little round ball-y things all crunchy inside. You can get the white ones now, but I prefer the original dark ones.”
    “Maltesers?” I laugh, but feel pain and stop.
    “That’s it. He was in Maltesers.”
    “Dad, it’s Malta.”
    “That’s it. He was in Malta.” He is silent. “Do they make Maltesers?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe. So what happened to Frank in Malta?”
    He squeezes his eyes shut again and thinks. “I can’t remember what I was about to say now.”
    Silence. He hates not being able to remember. He used to remember everything. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 3 5
    “Did you make any money on the horses?” I ask, changing the subject.
    “A couple bob. Enough for a few rounds at the Monday Club tonight.”
    “But today is Tuesday.”
    “It’s on a Tuesday on account of the bank holiday,” he explains, seesawing around to the other side of the bed to sit down.
    I can’t laugh. I’m too sore, and it seems some of my sense of humor was lost in the accident.
    “You don’t mind if I go, do you, Joyce? But I’ll stay if you want, I really don’t mind, it’s not important.”
    “Of course it’s important. You haven’t missed a Monday night for twenty years.”
    “Apart from