Marianne touches my arm and I realise I’m staring blankly at the wall. Always painfully aware of what’s acceptable, she’s embarrassed on my behalf. She has no idea just how peculiar you’re allowed to be in proximity to death and its associated rituals.
“No,” I say. “Nothing else to go with the coffin.”
Chapter Eight – Lily
My mother calls twelve an awkward age. A label used for everything from the speed I grow at, to whose decision it is about cochlear implants, to whether I am, or am not, allowed to watch Drop the Dead Donkey. I don’t feel awkward. What I feel like is a cocoon about to split, my whole self folded tight and uncomfortable into a space that was once sufficient, but is no longer. I can’t wait to crack open my shell and spread myself out to dry. I can’t wait to see who I’m going to be. Does Lily sense this potential in me? Or does she still see the child she’s loved so fiercely?
Adolescence has re-set my body clock. I read until late, fall asleep around midnight, have to be shaken awake each morning, and at weekends gorge myself on slumber, sometimes not getting up until noon. Night-time in Lily’s house is a new territory. As I tiptoe down the corridor from the bathroom I imagine myself expanding like a telescope. Will I one day outgrow my visits to Lily with the same ease I’ve outgrown last summer’s clothes? My summers with her, which once seemed as enduring as the seasons, are already drawing to an end. Five more, perhaps, and my childhood will be entirely behind me. With every year I grow taller, Lily grows one year closer to death. What will happen then? Where will I go when I need sanctuary?
The sight of Lily, seated at her desk in the window, brings me back to my senses. My eighteenth birthday is so far in the future it’s like another world. This house, this room, my grandmother at her desk, the lamp all rosy and bright, is as real as it is unchanging. Her hair is in a knot at the nape of her neck and she’s bending over some papers on her desk. The clock over the mantelpiece show it’s nearly midnight. This makes me think of the phrase the witching hour, as does the sternness of Lily’s profile. If this was my mother, or my father, I wouldn’t dare stand watching like this. They still want me tidied away into storage by half past seven. But Lily surely won’t mind.
As far as I can tell, I’m not doing anything to make noise, but somehow she knows I’m there anyway. She turns in her chair and for a moment, I see fear in her eyes and the leap of her hand as she presses her heart back into her chest. Then she smiles, takes off her glasses and beckons me forward.
“You look like a little ghost,” she says. “You frightened me.”
“Are you all right? Is your heart all right?”
“Good Lord, why are you worrying about my heart? My heart is fine. Do you need anything? A drink? Something to eat?”
What I want is to look at what she’s doing. I can sense she’s not quite willing to let me see, and with a spoiled child’s contrariness I’m determined to find out. Trying not to be too obvious, I peer over her shoulder. I’m disconcerted to see myself looking back.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, dull old-lady things. Would you like some cake?”
“No, thank you, but can I see?”
“It’s really nothing interesting.”
“Is that me? Is it a photo of me? When did you take it? I promise I’ll be careful.”
She’s reluctant, but I’m her spoiled and beloved granddaughter and we both know I’m going to win. Graceful in surrender, she puts her arm around my waist and draws me into the pool of light.
This year at the beach, someone’s moored a diving raft a hundred feet from the shore. I’m standing on the edge, looking down at the water. I’m ambivalent about the shapes my body makes these days, but somehow Lily’s managed to capture me in the act of appearing – if not beautiful – then at least acceptable. The raft was crowded that afternoon, but clever framing makes me appear alone. As I look, my feet remember the sandpaper roughness. I feel the sun on my back, and shiver in anticipation of the cold waves. On the desk beside the photo is a heavy leather album, open at a pristine creamy page, and Lily has begun to lay out a spray of pressed flowers, white-petalled with yellow hearts and flat leaves that make me think of elephants’ ears. Four tiny white corners show where the photograph will sit. Beneath the empty space are the words:
On the cusp
“I didn’t know you did this,” I say, aware that I must sound accusing. “How long have you been doing this?” I start to turn the pages to look back at the rest of the album, but Lily takes my hand and stops me.
“Don’t do that. It’s not dry.”
“But are there more? Of me?”
“One for every summer,” she says. “I’ll show you another time, if you like.”
The album is thick and heavy; there are many more than twelve pages. “And who are the rest of?”
“Nobody in particular. Just people,” she adds as if this tells me anything more.
“What people? Family people?”
“Some of them. You know, Jen, it’s nearly midnight. Maybe we should go to bed.”
“What flower is this? Is it a daisy?”
“Its Latin name is Sanguinaria.” She spells the word carefully, giving me time to follow what she’s saying. The name makes me think of sanguine, a word I’ve learned reading Mansfield Park at school. I wait for more – for Lily, plants always have a reason – but she seems oddly embarrassed.
“Sanguine? Like hope?” I ask, pleased to have the chance to show off. “Is it to do with hope?”
“Why,” says Lily, laughing a little, “I suppose in a way it is.” She glances at the clock. “Look at that. Here comes tomorrow. Would you like to sleep in while I go to church?”
“No, I’ll come with you.”
“Then I’ll wake you at half past eight.”
I glance one more time at the ordered clutter on her desk, at the album so like a spell book, at the space where my image will go.
“Lily,” I say, fired with a sudden impulsive courage, “if you believe in all of… you know… all of this, why do you go to church?”
Her look is roguish. “So you don’t believe that God made all creation? Plants and herbs and all?”
I’m not sure if I believe in the power of either gods or vegetation, but whichever side Lily’s on, I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“It never hurts to be sure,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s mocking or serious. “And besides, the Lord’s a busy man. A wise woman takes care of her own. Sweet dreams, my darling.”
My sleep that night is restless and heavy. I dream I’m becoming a plant, drawing up moisture from the soil. It pools in my belly and spills out over my thighs. Waking a scant six hours later, I find for the first time in my life that the sheets bunched between my legs are stained and slimy with blood.
Chapter Nine – Saturday
Morning gorgeous wife xxxx
Hey there lovely husband xxxxx
So this is it! The big day.
Well, I suppose that’s one way to put it.
By the way, I read last night that it’s not compulsory to wear black to funerals any more.
What? What, what? Are you sure?
Yep, definitely sure. I read it on Emily Post.
As if that makes a difference. I’ve already done enough to earn the wrath of everyone who knew Lily. A friend of hers once talked for an hour about a woman from down the road who went to her son’s wedding in a cream trouser suit, although Lily herself maintained an enigmatic silence.
Well I’ll bear that in mind for the next funeral I go to.
You’ve still got time to get changed for this one :)
Come on, put on your best knickers and a party frock and celebrate a bit.
Celebrate?
Yes, celebrate! This is a good thing! Ding dong, the witch is dead? We’re rich thanks to her, remember?
I take a deep breath and remind myself that Daniel and Lily never liked each other. I could tell him he doesn’t have to se
e the black suit because he’s not here, but that would only remind him how much he hates us being apart. I could lie and tell him I’ve got changed, but he might ask for a photograph.
Well I haven’t packed any party frocks so I’ll have to stick with the black suit. Sorry.
It’s all right, I’ll forgive you. As long as you wear your best knickers. And send me a picture later.
What’s Marianne wearing?
Marianne is curled quietly into a corner of the sofa, earphones peeking out from beneath her curls. She’s also in black, but because she’s had to improvise, nothing quite matches and the overall effect is both romantic and incongruous, as if a very beautiful wandering Goth has accidentally crashed a funeral.
She looks lovely.
Is she all in black too?
Well yes, actually.
She could wear that red dress she had for Liz and Owen’s wedding. Why don’t you tell her to get changed?
A red dress at a funeral. I imagine the expression Lily’s long-ago friend would be making. Apparently the noise that accompanies it is called a snort.
Well I’ll ask her, but I’m sure she doesn’t have it
It’s her best dress, she’ll have it
No, Daniel, she just calls it her best dress, to give her an excuse to not wear it ever again, after you bought it without checking and then went on and on and bloody on about how beautiful she looked so she felt like she didn’t have a choice. What you’re remembering is her not wearing it. As in, I can’t wear my red dress, Dad, it’s my best and I’m saving it. Your daughter is far more clever, not to say far more tactful, than you realise
Where on earth did all of that come from? I delete the words as fast as I can so he doesn’t get suspicious.
Okay, I’ll check but if she doesn’t have it then we’ll have to wait for the next funeral. Anyone in your family showing signs of dying?
Not yet, but you never know. Okay, got to get to rehearsal, hope it all goes okay. And don’t flirt with the minister :) xx
I put my phone away and smooth the skirt of my single, precious and sinfully expensive Armani suit over my knees. It was the first year I got a bonus, and I was going to put half the money into paying our credit card bill, and the rest towards buying Daniel the new keyboard he needed. Then I was sent to London for a training course and a colleague dragged me for a dizzying visit to Oxford Street. Daniel said it was the most corporate thing he’d ever seen me wear. I never dared tell him how much it cost or where I got the money from.
“Do I look all right?” Marianne asks, taking out her earphones and tugging at the ribbed sleeves of her cardigan.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, because she does.
“I don’t look as smart as you. I’m sorry, I did my best.”
“You’re young. You’re not supposed to dress the same as your mother. Do I look all right?”
Marianne studies me carefully. “You look like you’re going to a really posh wedding. Only without a hat.”
Is this a good thing? And would black to a wedding have been more, or less, outrageous than the cream trouser suit? “Well, thank you. I think.”
“Mum, are you supposed to wear a hat to a funeral?”
“According to your dad you don’t even have to wear black, so I doubt it. He thought you might wear your red dress. You know, the one you had for Liz and Owen’s wedding.”
“No, I think I should definitely wear black, I’d rather be traditional. Anyway I don’t think I brought it with me. Did I? Or did Dad… I mean, did it get packed anyway?”
“Don’t worry, it’s back at home.”
“I do really love it,” Marianne says. “I just don’t think I should wear such a lovely dress to a funeral. It’s for parties. Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.” I feel mean for teasing her. Let her think she’s successfully kept her secret.
“You could wear a hat if you wanted to, though, couldn’t you?” Marianne asks. “It wouldn’t be rude or anything?”
“Why do you keep mentioning hats?”
“Could I try something?”
“I don’t know. What is it you want to try?”
“Wait a minute.”
She disappears into Lily’s bedroom. A minute later she re-appears carrying a cream leather hatbox with a brass clasp.
“Oh, I really don’t think—”
“Please try it, Mum.” Marianne already has the lid off. “Just to see how it looks. If you don’t like it you can take it off again.”
“It’ll mess up my hair.”
“I’ll sort it out for you afterwards.” I hesitate; she knows how much I like having my hair fiddled with. “Come on, Mum, free hairdressing! And all you have to do is try a hat on. It’s the nicest one in the cupboard, I promise.”
The hat sits in her hands like a neat little black cat, smooth and round and soft, inviting you to touch. The veil at the front makes me think of whiskers. I sit down so she can put it on me. She draws down the veil so it covers my eyes, frowning in concentration as she tucks strands of hair neatly away and settles the hat into place. Then she steps away so she can admire the effect.
“How does it look?”
“You need to see this,” says Marianne, with a fervour that does nothing to warn me if I look nice or ridiculous.
“If it looks daft I don’t want to see.”
“Come and look,” Marianne repeats, leading me to the mirror over the mantelpiece.
I sigh, then give in to the inevitable and look in the mirror. I see myself, looking out from beneath the veil of a hat that, despite my best efforts, somehow suits me, making me look mysterious and dramatic in a way that I never knew I could, and that I can’t decide whether or not is appropriate for a funeral. But for a moment, before I focus properly and remember what my face looks like, I see Lily.
Wearing my hat, I stand in the window, behind the curtain, watching for the cortege. It shouldn’t take two cars to transport three people three-quarters of a mile, especially when one of them is dead. But standard funeral protocol is that the dead person gets one car to themselves while close family follow in another, and going with the flow seemed easier than thinking of an alternative, so that’s what we’re doing. Sunlight flashes off windscreens as two polished limousines pull up on the stately gravel half-circle.
There’s Colin Lightfoot again, doing a ninety-eight-point turn. I’m surprised they let him keep his licence. A non-driver herself, Lily still felt perfectly qualified to comment on the relative competency of other people. And now there she is in the back of the very largest car I’ve ever seen, travelling in state and splendour.
The door opens and Mr Corrigan climbs out, followed by the swirl of his frock coat. It suits him much better than the ugly old-fashioned suit he wore for our meeting. We’re supposed to wait here until he’s crossed the yielding gravel (accumulating dust on his immaculately polished shoes), climbed the shining stone staircase, trodden the hallway to Lily’s front door; but suddenly I can’t bear the thought of inviting him in. I’d rather go to meet him on the stairs, like a strangely over-eager date.
“Let’s go,” I say to Marianne. “Come on, let’s go!” I repeat, as she wraps her earphones into a careful coil. She smiles tolerantly, so I flap my hands to shoo her along. “Go, go, go, go, go! Abandon ship! Women and children first!”
“But we are women and children.”
“So move! Quick! Before we drown!”
As we leave, Marianne adds the final touch to her outfit; a black knitted beanie hat, worn on the back of her head so the end flops over like the peak of a little black hood.
“Does this look all right? I don’t want to be scruffy.”
Marianne’s dark eyes look very big against the dual frame of her thick spirally curls and her soft black hat. She looks like one of the girls you see on stationery for moody teenagers; like a waif or a pixie. Lily would have adored her, in the fierce protective way she adored me.
“You look perfect,”
I say.
Mr Corrigan meets us on the stairs. He’s carrying a top hat under his arm. When he sees me, his eyes widen a little. I have to resist the temptation to take his arm. He walks behind us down the stairs and across the hall, then takes three quick strides across the gravel to open the car door.
Lily always liked to encourage me into flirtations with boys, no matter how wildly unsuitable they were as long-term prospects. Holidays are for having fun. You’re young, you should enjoy yourself. How very unlike my mother, who was alarmed by any sign of my taking an interest and did all she could to discourage it. Months of famine, and then a brief smorgasbord of sun-soaked and grandmother-sanctioned romances; no wonder I grew up so baffled by my own capacity for desire. If I hadn’t married Daniel in a brief moment of sanity, who knows what might have become of me?
The door closes and Marianne and I sink into the impersonal air-conditioned comfort of the back seat. The driver wears a peaked cap and a sombre dark suit. In front of us, the hearse trembles like a horse waiting for the signal to depart. I’m expecting Mr Corrigan to join us but instead he puts on his top hat and walks in front of the cars, his head bowed, his hands behind his back, leading the procession towards the gateway.
In your face, James Moon, I think as we pass his flat. The view from his windows must be both chilling and magnificent.
“Do they always do that?” Marianne asks me.
In the mirror, the driver is discreetly watching us.
“I don’t know,” I confess.
“Well, I think it’s…” Marianne considers. “Really elegant.”
Elegant. Yes, that’s exactly the word for it.
Lily, are you watching? Is this what you wanted?
The distinctive smell of the church – clean stone, hymn books, old wood – coils around my brain, whispering of long-vanished summer Sundays. There’s a respectable sprinkling of people gathered in the lobby, mostly women and mostly elderly. Twenty or thirty pairs of eyes bore painfully into us, trying to work out who we are and then trying not to look like they’re staring, realising none of them are sure if or how to introduce themselves. Marianne moves closer to me.
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