The Night the Angels Came

by Cathy Glass

  Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I opened the door and got out. Other mourners were also getting out of their cars. Small groups gradually formed and then moved forward to wait a short distance from the hearse. I too went forward. Jack saw me and came over with Nora, and shook my hand warmly.

  ‘How are you, love?’ Jack asked.

  ‘All right, thank you, and yourselves?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Jack said. I noticed Nora didn’t say anything and looked very close to tears.

  My gaze went again to Michael, who was now out of the limousine and standing between Colleen and Eamon near the back of the hearse. Eamon had a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder and Colleen was holding Michael’s other hand. Michael looked so smart in his Sunday suit and I knew Pat would be proud of him.

  The pall-bearers began raising the rear door of the hearse, and then slowly very slowly slid out the coffin. I felt my pulse quicken and I looked at Michael, who was staring at the coffin, his face sad and empty. With one movement the pall-bearers effortlessly lifted the coffin on to their shoulders and, turning, faced the chapel. The mourners moved forward in pairs, ready to form a procession and follow the coffin into the chapel. Jack offered me his arm so that I wouldn’t have to walk into chapel alone, which was thoughtful of him. Nora took his other arm, and Jack guided us to stand behind Eamon, Michael and Colleen. I felt touched and honoured that I was being included at the head of the procession with the other chief mourners.

  Michael turned and looked at me and I managed a reassuring smile. What an ordeal for a child of eight to have to go through, I thought. I wanted to reach out and hug him. We waited in silence as the other mourners lined up behind us; then the chapel doors opened. Organ music came from inside and our procession began to move slowly forward. The coffin rode high in front and appeared to lead the way. We went to the front of the chapel and the pall-bearers placed the coffin on the raised plinth. Michael, Eamon and Colleen crossed themselves and then slid into the first row of chairs. Nora, Jack and I, together with Father Murphy, slid into the second row. Once all the mourners were in the chapel it was full, with some standing at the back. I estimated there were over a hundred people present: a sign of just how popular and liked Patrick had been. The organ music stopped and the service began.

  Having never been to a Roman Catholic funeral before and therefore not knowing what to expect, I found I was soon caught up in the relative formality of the service, which placed emphasis on the resurrection of Christ. It wasn’t until the priest leading the service, who was also the priest from the Sacred Heart Church where Pat and Michael worshipped, began a tribute that I felt my eyes well and my lip tremble. Because the priest knew Patrick and Michael personally his words were warm and sincere as he spoke. He spoke of Pat as being an honest, kind and trustworthy person as well as a good practising Catholic. The priest praised the way Pat had brought up Michael and said he was a fine example of what a father could and should be. As he spoke I reached for my tissue; so too did Colleen and Nora, and I could hear other mourners behind me clearing their throats and blowing their noses. It was the personal tribute in an otherwise formal ceremony that stood out and was so poignantly touching.

  Michael was very brave until near the end of the service when the priest gave the final blessing and Michael realized it would be the last time he would be with his father. He buried his head in Colleen’s side and sobbed; Colleen had her arm around him and held him close. The doors opened and mourners were starting to leave. Colleen said something to Michael and I saw him nod. With her arm around Michael the two of them took the few steps to where the coffin rested. Michael put his hands together and closed his eyes and his lips moved in silent prayer. Opening his eyes, he crossed himself and taking a stop forward he kissed the coffin. I felt my eyes well and Nora, standing beside me, cried openly. The image of Michael standing so small and reverent beside his father’s coffin is one I shall carry with me for ever.

  I followed Nora and Jack out of the chapel and once outside I walked away to a corner of the shrubbed car park to compose myself. I wasn’t the only one; others were taking a few minutes out – walking or standing alone – and those who smoked had formed a small group and were lighting up and inhaling deeply.

  Presently Jack came over to me. ‘Are you all right, love?’ he asked kindly, touching my arm.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Is Nora?’

  ‘She’s in the car waiting. You are coming back to Colleen and Eamon’s for refreshments?’

  ‘I told Colleen I would,’ I said.

  ‘Good. You know where they live?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We’ll see you there, then.’

  Jack went over to the limousine and climbed in beside Nora. Colleen and Michael were already in the car and Eamon was now getting in, having been talking to other mourners. I went to my car and waited inside for the two limousines to leave; then I started the engine and reversed out of the parking space. It was nearly 12.30 p.m. and Paula would be at home now, enjoying the attention of her nana and grandpa. I wished I was with them.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive to Colleen and Eamon’s house and when I arrived their street was already full of cars. I found a place to park in the next road and, getting out, I straightened my skirt and then made my way round to their house. Arriving alone instead of in a couple was something I was having to get used to, but it was at times like this – when I could have done with a reassuring arm – that I really felt it. Had it not been for Michael I think I would have gone straight home.

  I rang the doorbell and someone I didn’t recognize, but who clearly knew me, answered. ‘Hello, Cathy,’ the man said warmly. ‘Come in, love. I’m Sean, Eamon’s brother.’

  We shook hands as I stepped into the hall. The house was teeming with people and the air buzzed with conversation. It was more like a party than a gathering after a funeral, and I guessed most of those who had been at the crematorium were now crammed into the house. Sean showed me through tothe front room, where small groups of people with glasses in their hands were chatting and even laughing. A drinks table with bottles and glasses, and another table with a cold buffet, stretched round the bay window. Sean introduced me to his wife and grown son and daughter, and also to another brother and sister-in-law, who were together talking in one group. They all shook my hand warmly and said how pleased they were to meet me.

  ‘What can I get you to drink, love?’ Sean asked me.

  I don’t usually drink at lunchtime but after the morning I felt ‘in need’ of a drink. ‘A small white wine, please,’ I said to Sean.

  Sean poured me a generous measure and I stood chatting with him and his family. As with many people I meet, once they know I foster they ask about fostering, as often it’s something they’ve considered doing. We talked for a while about the ups and downs of fostering and children in general and then Colleen entered the room, and came to me. ‘If you don’t mind, Cathy,’ she said, ‘Michael would like to show you his room. Is that OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen him since I arrived.’

  Leaving my wine glass on a coaster on the bureau, I followed Colleen out of the front room, squeezed past people standing in the hall, and to where Michael was waiting, near the foot of the stairs at the rear of the house. He grinned when he saw me, and was clearly relieved the ordeal of the funeral was over. He threw his arms around my waist and hugged me hard.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ I said, kissing the top of his head.

  ‘Come and see my room,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s great. I’ve got all my things here.’ Colleen, who was standing beside us, smiled with pride.

  ‘Lead the way,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Colleen said, and went off to tend to her other guests as I followed Michael upstairs.

  The house appeared to be a three-bedroom townhouse which had been extended into the loft to make a fourth bedroom. Michael’s room was at the very top, up two flights of
stairs, but as we entered his room I gasped. It wasn’t so much a bedroom as a suite. Colleen and Eamon had never boasted about Michael’s room, but it was huge; the room together with the en-suite bathroom took up the entire top floor.

  ‘This is amazing,’ I said looking around the room. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’

  Michael nodded.

  As well as being a very big room it was light and airy, with a large dormer window overlooking the garden. The window was open and guests’ voices could be heard floating up from the garden below. Colleen had said Eamon was going to decorate Michael’s bedroom but it was already well decorated, although perhaps a little young for Michael now. The wallpaper, which matched the curtains and lampshade, were dark blue with cartoon characters from pre-school television programmes.

  ‘I used to stay here when I was little,’ Michael said, grinning. ‘I think I’m going to have Batman wallpaper now like Adrian.’

  ‘Sounds go to me,’ I said.

  The wardrobe was in the same wood as the bed frame, as were the chest of drawers and work station, which would be ideal for Michael when he had homework to do. But what impressed me most wasn’t the size of the room, nor that it had its own bathroom, but that it was full of Michael’s belongings. Colleen and Eamon must have worked very hard to bring all Michael’s possessions here and arrange them, so that when Michael arrived he would feel at home and settle more easily. His Superman duvet was on the bed, two large teddy bears – clearly old favourites – sat on the pillow, and Michael’s dressing gown hung on a hook behind the door. As Michael proudly opened the wardrobe doors I saw his clothes hanging neatly on the rail, and likewise his drawers contained his underclothes, socks and T-shirts, all neatly folded. His books lined the bookshelves, and four large toy boxes at one end of the room brimmed with his toys. But most important of all, in the very centre of the room was his Scalextric – set up and with two cars at the finishing line. ‘Uncle Eamon’s been playing with me,’ Michael said. ‘But he’s nowhere near as good as Adrian. Will Adrian come over and play some time soon?’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ I said.

  I sat on the bed while Michael showed me more of his toys, games and puzzles, obviously already feeling very comfortable in his new home. I admired everything he showed me and stayed positive, but I was acutely aware that the reason Michael was in this splendid room was that he’d lost his own home and father, as I’m sure Michael was aware. Clearly he would have swapped it all in a flash if he could have reversed the situation and had his dad back.

  After a while Eamon came up to find us. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but my brother has to go now. Could Michael come down and say goodbye?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, standing. ‘I really think I should be off now too.’

  ‘Can’t you stay a while longer?’ Eamon asked. ‘Colleen would like to introduce you to some of her family.’

  I followed Eamon and Michael downstairs, where Colleen intercepted us, so that as Eamon took Michael to say goodbye to his brother and family, I went with Colleen into the sitting room and the garden to be introduced to her family. Unlike Patrick, Colleen and Eamon came from large families with lots of nieces and nephews, which would be nice for Michael. It become apparent I was well known, for every time Colleen introduced me to one of her family the response was similar: ‘Good to meet you at last, Cathy. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re the foster carer who looked after Michael, aren’t you?’ And they began asking me about fostering.

  Presently Eamon appeared with a plate of food for me and my glass of wine, which he’d retrieved from the front room. I thanked him and suddenly realized I was hungry; it was a long time since breakfast. For the next hour or so I mingled with the guests – friends of Patrick’s and close friends and relatives of Colleen and Eamon, all of whom were lovely warm people and had known Patrick. Colleen assured me that Michael was fine and was playing Scalextric in his room with the neighbour’s children, who had just come in. Although it may seem a strange thing to say I felt it had actually turned into a pleasant afternoon. Everyone I met was very, very friendly and we were all there for the same reason 013; out of love and respect for Patrick.

  Eventually three o’clock approached and, while I knew Mum and Dad would collect Adrian from school, I felt it was time to go. I said goodbye to the couple I was talking to and then, leaving my plate and glass in the kitchen, I found Colleen in the garden. I told her I really needed to be going now and she understood.

  ‘I’ll fetch Michael to say goodbye,’ she said, and we went into the house. I waited in the hall while Colleen went up the first flight of stairs and called Michael. He appeared with Eamon beside him and we made our way to the front door.

  ‘Thanks again for everything,’ Eamon said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘We won’t say goodbye as we’ll be seeing each other regularly, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, most definitely,’ I said.

  Colleen also thanked me and then kissed my cheek. I hugged and kissed Michael. ‘See you soon,’ I said.

  Eamon opened the front door and the three of them came down the front-garden path with me and on to the pavement. ‘See you soon,’ they chorused, as I began walking down the street. I waved, and then before I turned the corner to the road where my car was parked, I looked back. The sun had at last broken through and was shining down on them. Michael stood between Colleen and Eamon and was waving madly. I gave a final wave and then turned the corner; it was time to leave Michael safely with his family and return to mine.

  Epilogue

  We saw Michael regularly –

  every couple of weeks for the first year, and then as time passed and the boys went to secondary school and then to college less frequently, but we still kept in touch. When the boys were younger Michael slept over at our house sometimes and Adrian slept at Michael’s house. Paula was always pleased to see Michael when he stayed and the boys included her in their games. Sometimes we all went on family outings together: Colleen, Eamon, Michael, Adrian, Paula, me and the child(ren) we were fostering at the time.

  Approximately three months after Patrick died I was opening the morning’s mail when a cheque fell out of the envelope I’d just opened. I picked it up and saw it was for £200, made payable to me and drawn on the account of E. Doyle. Puzzled, I read the handwritten note, which I saw was from Colleen:

  Dear Cathy,

  As you know, Eamon and I are the executors of Patrick’s will. All the monies from his estate, including the sale of his house, will go into a trust fund for Michael for when he is older. However, Pat added a codicil to his will. It was Patrick’s wish that you be given £200 to buy your children an electric racing car set. He knew how much Adrian and Paula liked playing with Michael’s Scalextric and he hopes you will all have years of enjoyment from one of your own. Please find enclosed cheque. See you soon. Love and best wishes Colleen, Eamon and Michael. xxx

  Needless to say, I was so touched I was in tears by the end of the letter. ‘Thank you, Pat,’ I said out loud. &x2018;How very kind and thoughtful of you! But then of course you always were.’

  When I collected the children from school that afternoon (Paula had left nursery and was now at Adrian’s school) I explained about Patrick’s bequest. They were as touched as I was, and also very excited when, the following Saturday, we went shopping and brought the Scalextric. As Patrick anticipated, it has given my family (and me) many years of enjoyment – we still play with it now sometimes all these years later.

  Then one cold evening in late January the following year I was in the sitting room, feeling pretty low. Adrian and Paula were ill in bed with flu, and the child I was fostering was also in bed but had been very naughty during the day and I’d continually had to tell him off. To make matters worse I was trying to make sense of the wad of papers that had arrived that morning from my solicitor in respect of my divorce. There were forms that had to be filled in; a lengthy letter from my solicitor with lots of legal terms; his interim bill, which was a sho
ck; and an affidavit outlining the grounds for my divorce. It was all getting on top of me. Then my phoned bleeped with a text from a friend asking if I’d like to meet up for coffee. I replied: Yes please! and pressed send. As I did, a message popped up saying my inbox had 198 read texts and was nearly full. I decided to clear it out in preference to doing the legal paperwork. I began running down the texts quickly, deleting them one at a time, until I got to Patrick’s, when I opened and read each one.

  It was strange and very moving seeing his texts, almost as if they’d just been sent, although most were trivial and run-of-the-mill: C u l8 x or Have u had a good day? or How are u? etc. Then I came to the message Pat had sent after he’d made the decision not to see my children again and I’d been forced to acknowledge just how ill he really was; when I’d sat alone in my car crying and the text had come through. It read: Stars are openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones shines through. Look to the stars Cathy and don’t be sad. I read it now as I read it then and felt my spirits lift. It was as though I was receiving the message afresh and with it Pat’s philosophy to make the very best of life.

  Dumping the legal correspondence from the solicitor to one side, I stood and crossed to the French windows and looked out at the night sky. It was a cold clear night and the stars and moon shone brightly against the inky-black sky. I thought of Michael and all the times we’d stood side by side at what had been his bedroom window and gazed up at the heavens. I remembered the comfort and strength he had drawn from seeing the stars: the little boy who’d firmly believed his daddy was going to join his mummy in heaven. I thought of Michael’s strength and courage, and all my previous worries evaporated as I heard Patrick’s mellow voice with its soft Irish accent saying: ‘Look to the stars, Cathy, and don’t be sad.’

  I still have that text. When I bought a new phone I transferred it to the new SIM. If I’m feeling low or need to put things in a better perspective, I go to the window and look at the night sky. The glittering stars are so beautiful that I can believe they are indeed the love of our lost ones shining through. And of course the brightest star of all is without doubt Patrick’s love for Michael and possibly a little for me too.