Run, Mummy, Run

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Now, Mrs Williams, as I said on the phone, you mustn’t worry about any of the arrangements. We can take care of everything for you. There are a few decisions you will need to make, but the rest we can see to. Have you brought the death certificate with you?’

  Aisha delved into her coat pocket and drew out the certificate; with it came the monk’s five-pound note, she tucked the money back into her pocket.

  Eileen looked at the certificate then up at her. ‘This is the certificate of the cause of death. We need the death certificate. Have you been to the registry office and registered the death?’

  ‘No,’ Aisha said, confused.

  ‘All right, there’s no problem, but we need to do that as soon as possible though. Would you like us to take you? We can’t register the death for you, but we can send a car and accompany you. I know how gruelling all this can be.’

  Aisha nodded.

  Eileen made a note on the pad in her lap. ‘It must be done within five days of the date of death. We can collect you at nine thirty tomorrow – will that be all right?’

  Aisha nodded again.

  ‘I’ll look after this certificate for you,’ she said, tucking it into the back of her pad. ‘The registrar will need it. If you have your husband’s NHS medical number it’s helpful, though not essential. You will find it on his medical card.’

  Aisha sighed. ‘I’ll look for it. I don’t know. There seems so much to remember.’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ Eileen said quickly. ‘The only decisions you have to make now are about the type of funeral you would like. I’ll talk you through it and explain everything. And if you wish to view your husband you will be able to do so here, from the day after tomorrow.’

  Aisha stared at her, unable to believe what she had just heard. ‘See him? Here? What, dead?’

  ‘Yes, in our chapel of rest. It’s a little room at the back.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to see him. He’s not here now, is he?’ she looked anxiously around the room.

  ‘No, no, please don’t upset yourself. The body is still at the hospital. You don’t have to view it, dear; some people find it helpful but others do not. There is no compulsion.’ She flickered her half-smile of reassurance again and patted Aisha’s arm. ‘There would be no sign of the accident though, if you did change your mind. Your husband would be just as you remember him.’

  She was horrified. ‘No, I wouldn’t find it helpful, not at all,’ Aisha said, agitated. ‘Can we just get on with this, please; I’m really not feeling so well.’

  ‘All right, dear, let’s concentrate on the arrangements.’ Eileen opened the folder and spread it on the table between them. She always found it was better to get straight down to arranging the funeral if the client was very distressed, it gave them something to focus on. Some liked to talk about the deceased, share their memories, but clearly that was not the case here.

  ‘Now, all you have to do now is to make a few decisions about the type of funeral you would like – cremation or burial, the cars, music, and order of service. Some of this will depend on your budget, of course.’ She glanced at Aisha. ‘Did your husband have funeral insurance, do you know?’

  ‘Insurance? I don’t know. Probably not, I haven’t found anything in his papers.’

  ‘No, most people don’t have funeral insurance so that’s why we have an easy payment plan. I’ll give you the details later. Now, you said on the phone you were thinking of a burial. Is that definite?’

  Aisha nodded. ‘If it’s easier, yes.’

  ‘Well, in terms of form-filling, yes, but it really depends on the wishes of the deceased and next of kin.’ She looked at Aisha and waited.

  Aisha felt the woman close beside her and thought how aptly her slow, measured movements fitted with her sombre line of work. She wondered if she had always been like that, or if it was a manner she had developed over time. Either way, Aisha wished she would just get on with it.

  ‘So it’s a burial then,’ Eileen Nodes said, making a note on her pad. She opened the folder to the first page, and Aisha looked down at it. There were photographs of cars, lined up in a funeral procession, with a shiny black hearse leading gleaming black limousines.

  ‘Do you know approximately how many will be attending the funeral, Mrs Williams?’ Eileen asked.

  ‘No, but I don’t think it will be many. There are my parents, his family. I don’t know about his friends or work.’

  ‘It’s just the immediate family I need to think about for the cars. Friends and work colleagues usually make their own way to the church and cemetery – unless you would prefer otherwise?’

  Aisha shook her head.

  ‘So, how many are there in your family?’

  ‘Only my parents.’

  ‘Are your children going?’

  ‘I don’t know, I really hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘I’ll allow for them, to be on the safe side. And your husband’s family?’

  ‘His parents and one brother. Maybe an aunt and uncle, I don’t know. He wasn’t close to his family, we hadn’t seen them in years.’

  Eileen wrote on her pad while Aisha looked at the photographs of the black cars and wondered how on earth she was going to cope: the funeral on top of everything else was too much; she couldn’t start to get her mind round it.

  ‘Now, let’s take a look at the range of coffins,’ Eileen said, turning the page to a double spread of photographed coffins with various linings and handles. ‘This is our basic, economy one.’ She pointed with a well-manicured and polished nail. ‘It’s veneered wood, with a simple cotton lining and imitation brass handles. Quite adequate, but obviously not as luxurious as this, or this.’ Eileen ran her pink-glossed fingertip down and across the page. ‘Our classic is made from oak, with a real silk lining and genuine brass finishings.’

  Aisha gazed at the photographed coffins as Eileen continued with her commentary, outlining other ‘finishings’. The catalogue reminded Aisha of the one she and her mother had chosen the invitations from when they’d planned her wedding a lifetime ago. But instead of the pages being laced with white and gold, these photographs were mounted on grey, with the pages trimmed in black. The hearse was in place of the white Rolls-Royce, and the wedding invitations were now order of service sheets, with examples of hymns and prayers. Bouquets and sprays were now wreaths or flowers crafted into a name – Mum, Dad, Sister, Uncle; in fact you could have anything you liked to remember the deceased, and Aisha wondered about ‘Bastard’. But why did people go to all this trouble for someone who would never see the end result? she thought. Why spend all this time and money when they were dead? Unless there was a link between guilt and the amount you should spend on a funeral, in which case, she decided, she’d need a massive loan to send Mark off in style.

  Eileen had stopped talking and was waiting for her response.

  ‘They’re very nice,’ Aisha said, not realizing she was supposed to be making a choice. Something had started to trouble Aisha beyond all the talk of coffins and the disposal of the deceased’s remains. An odd smell, a half-familiar perfume, seemed to have come into the room while Eileen had been talking, and was becoming quite uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry,’ Aisha said, sniffing the air, ‘that perfume you’re wearing, it’s familiar. What is it?’

  Eileen smiled kindly. ‘La Chaleur. Smell can be a very poignant reminder, can’t it? It’s the most sensitive of all our senses, and also the last to leave us.’ Eileen returned to the folder and started talking again, this time about the dispersion of the flowers after the funeral, and how they could be taken to a hospital or nursing home, so that others could enjoy them rather than just leaving them on the grave and to the elements.

  Aisha sniffed the air again. Poignant reminder indeed, too poignant by half, she thought. The smell was growing stronger by the second and she doubted it was Eileen’s La Chaleur. It was the same aroma that she smelt at home and it was just like Mark’s aftershave when he’d finished spraying it in
the bathroom and had left the door open. Perhaps she’d got some on her hands when she’d thrown out all his aerosols and bottles and knotted them in the black bag? Aisha tentatively raised her fingers to her nose and sniffed, but it was no stronger on her fingers. Then she sniffed the palms of her hands, but there was nothing beyond the faintest hint of lavender from the cheap soap in the bathroom at home. Yet a smell there definitely was, and it was quickly getting worse, filling the room, permeating the air, flooding into her lungs and turning her breath sour. She pressed her chin down towards her shoulder and sniffed the material of her coat, but it only smelt slightly damp, and anyway she hadn’t been wearing her coat when she’d cleared out the bathroom cabinet. She looked at Eileen.

  ‘Do you use embalming fluid?’ Aisha asked, remembering she’d read it was something used by undertakers.

  Eileen stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Well, yes, normally. Unless there is a cultural concern?’

  ‘No, but that smell, it’s so strong. I’m sure it’s not your perfume.’

  Eileen frowned, concerned. ‘The embalming fluid is odourless and colourless,’ she said. ‘And the embalming room is at the far end of the courtyard, at the rear. We have never had a complaint before.’

  ‘And he’s definitely not here?’ Aisha said.

  ‘Your husband? No, dear. We’ll collect him from the morgue tomorrow. We need the death certificate first. Please, try not to worry, I’m sure it’s nothing.’ Eileen hesitated; then patting Aisha’s arm reassuringly, returned to the folder. ‘It’s usual to give the mourners something to eat and drink after the funeral,’ she continued. ‘A light buffet is normally sufficient. This can be at home, or we can hire a hall if it’s more convenient. We have used the same catering firm for many years. I’ll give you a leaflet, they’re quite reasonably priced and very discreet. Once we know the numbers I’ll arrange it for you.’

  The smell was overpowering now and more poignant than ever before. It was saturating the air, rushing into her throat each time she took a breath. Millions of tiny droplets of his musky aftershave, cloying her mouth and the lining of her nose, making it almost impossible to breathe or swallow. Like an asthma attack, Aisha thought although she’d never suffered from asthma even as a child. And the temperature was dropping now, like it did at home; for despite having turned up the thermostat and set the heating to constant, she had been permanently cold. Eileen seemed not to notice the fall in temperature and appeared comfortable in her thin open-neck blouse and light cotton suit. Aisha shivered and drew her coat closer around her. Eileen stopped and looked at her.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ She placed a reassuring hand on Aisha’s arm again. ‘Can I get you something? A glass of water? Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, but I can’t stay much longer, I have to go. You decide about the funeral. Whatever you think is suitable; just do it for me, please.’

  Eileen looked surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, please, you must. I really have to go now. I can’t stay any longer.’

  Eileen took her hand from Aisha’s arm. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll book the funeral for next Friday, that’s the first free day. Would you prefer a morning or an afternoon?’

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ Aisha said. ‘You decide. Whatever you think, just do it. Phone if you need anything.’ She stood and the room tilted. Eileen steadied her arm.

  The smell was indescribable now, clogging her pores, putrefying the air and lodging in her stomach. She had to get out of this dreadful room before she was sick.

  ‘We’ll pick you up tomorrow then to register the death,’ Eileen was saying. ‘At nine thirty. You can give me the deposit and let me know about the numbers expected then.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Aisha turned and fled past her, through reception, and to the door; she pulled it open and the bell clanged behind her.

  She was out on the pavement now, running, running up the High Street, gulping in the air, trying to get rid of the dreadful smell and taste. It was his aftershave, she was certain, now mingling with something even more unpleasant that could have been the smell of death. Mark had been there, she was sure, and not just because of the smell. She had sensed him, felt his presence as she did at home; when she saw a movement or shadow out of the corner of her eye and turned round to confront him, but found he had already gone. As she ran, her coat and hair flying out behind her, she glanced back over her shoulder, half-expecting to see him pursuing her. But there were only strangers who were staring at her.

  She ran past the last of the shops on the High Street and turned into her road, gulping in the fresh air, breath after breath, taking it deep into her lungs, and trying to rid herself of the awful smell and taste. She checked over her shoulder again, and seeing it was still clear, slowed to a walking pace and tried to catch her breath. Her lungs felt as though they were about to explode, and her head and eyes throbbed. But worse was the noise, the street noise, which was now so loud it seemed to surround and engulf her. The bare branches of the trees overhead chaffed against each other like sandpaper on dry wood. The engines and wheel noise of the cars that passed were deafening, and seemed designed to pummel her into the ground. Then all the colours of everything she passed started jumping out at her, startlingly vivid, and blinding her with their brilliance: the red of the bus, the blue car, the yellow piece of paper blowing in the wind. Aisha screwed her eyes shut, opened them and tried to refocus, but it made no difference.

  Concentrate on something, she told herself, something still and silent that won’t attack. That garden gate, the tree trunk, that discarded Coke can in the gutter. A dog came towards her, its paws thundering along the pavement, its tongue lolling out. She could see the string of saliva hanging from its jaw, and could almost hear it stretching, then fall to the pavement with a mighty splash. She fled past it and up the road as everything seemed to conspire against her, trying to bring her down.

  She made the last few steps to the house and flung open the gate, rushed up the path, and managed somehow to get her key into the lock. Stumbling in, she slammed the door behind her, then with one hand cupped over her mouth and nose to block out the smell, ran through the house, opening all the windows, upstairs and down. She knew he was here somewhere, she could feel his presence, smell his aftershave mingling with the warmth of his body as it had done on that first date, and then in the garage when she’d stood close to him. He was in here somewhere, hiding, waiting to pounce. He was angry, seething, and she knew it wasn’t safe to stay inside, not with him in this mood, he would kill her for sure.

  Running into the kitchen she unlocked the back door and then ran to the end of the garden, where she dropped down beside the shed. She drew her knees up to her chest and looped her arms around her legs, then rested her chin on top. She stared at the back of the house, and waited, watching for any sign of movement. Only when she was absolutely certain that he had gone, and she was finally free of him for good, would she dare to return inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man. The refrain ran through Aisha’s head over and over again. It was from a story her father knew by heart and had narrated endlessly when she was a child. It was one of her favourites and she had begged him to tell her the story over and over again. ‘Please, one more time,’ she used to say as he tucked her into bed and said goodnight. But as the gingerbread man found out to his peril, you can’t run for ever, at some point you get caught and will pay the price.

  Still at the bottom of the garden, hunched forwards, with her arms around her knees, Aisha rocked back and forth in tune to the rhythm of the refrain. The sky was beginning to darken, late afternoon was turning into night. The clouds had rolled in and the lone bird that had accompanied her all afternoon had now stopped singing and had taken refuge for the night in some distant tree. Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man. The plaintiff melody, which had confined and absorbed her thoughts whil
e she waited by the shed, slowly petered out.

  She shifted slightly, pulled her coat closer around her, and then moved her legs. They were numb from the cold and sitting in one position for so long. She flexed her toes and blew on her hands, then felt her fingers and toes start to tingle as the blood began to circulate. At some point she would have to stand and go into the house. At some point, but not yet. In a while, she thought, when she was certain he had gone, for sometimes the house appeared to be empty, but then she would catch sight of his shadow, the briefest flicker of grey as he crossed behind one of the open windows. He was a crafty one, that was for sure, lying dormant for minutes on end and then trying to slip past her when he thought she wasn’t looking – trying to catch her out. She looped her arms around her knees again and continued rocking. Run, run as fast as you can. There was a safety, a comfort in rocking, it soothed like a cradle or rocking chair, and took the edge off the pain.

  Yet it was strange, Aisha had to admit, being conscious of what she was doing, and why. To be aware that she was sitting at the bottom of the garden in the middle of winter, rocking to the rhythm of a nursery rhyme, while waiting for the house to clear of a ghost. She could see herself doing it, almost objectively, as if in third person, and knew it was quite bizarre. She’d assumed madness crept up and took you by surprise, so that everyone else knew how oddly you were behaving, apart from you. Yet here she was quite lucidly observing herself, while being unable to alter what she saw. There was a type of voyeurism in watching yourself go mad – a fly-on-the-wall documentary, where you watched but couldn’t act.

  A few minutes more, she thought, then she would risk it, stand and go in. She drew back the sleeve of her coat to check her watch, and laughed out loud. ‘You idiot! You knew it was broken. It’s not likely to have fixed itself.’ She looked up again at the back of the house. There hadn’t been any movement at any of the windows for quite a while now. She ran her eyes from the kitchen to the lounge, then up to the bathroom, and across to the box room Mark used for storage; they were all still clear.