by Jane Tulloch
There was a silence while they thought about this.
“We can’t,” Noreen protested again.
“No,” agreed Helen and Sandra stoutly.
“Well, look on it this way,” continued Irene. “Some families might be very glad to swell the numbers, make the deceased seem more popular somehow. We could be appreciated for turning up.”
“It’s a thought,” agreed Sandra “But still…”
Ever practical, Helen chipped in, “If we did go, and I’m not saying we should, what would our story be? What would we say to the family?”
“I’ve thought of that,” replied Irene quickly. “We could say we knew the person from work. If we’re careful which ones we attend we could do some checking first. Maybe only go to ladies’ funerals? Maybe choose ones with few relatives specifically mentioned in the intimation? What do you think, girls?” she paused “How about we give poor Ina McDougall a fond farewell? We could use it as a practice and not necessarily go back to the Royal Hotel? Although the timing implies that lunch might be on the go?” her voice trailed off ruefully.
There was a silence.
“Tuesday?” Helen pondered “I’ve not got much on this Tuesday. It’s a possibility. The crematorium is it? The bus could take us right there – Oh, let’s do it. It’s time we did something naughty.”
“Helen, I’m surprised at you!” Sandra burst out. “But I see your point. I’m game,” she said, surprised at herself. “I’ll wear my blue coat with my good gloves and shoes,” she continued practically, always concerned with outward appearance.
Noreen said nothing but looked worried. She was torn. She didn’t want to go but also didn’t want to be left out of what now seemed a definite plan. The others assumed her agreement as usual. She really was a restful companion.
The others began to make definite plans and agreed to meet at a central point and all get the same bus. “It would look more convincing,” as Helen said now, having appropriated the plan as her own idea. Irene didn’t mind. Her thoughts were more on the possibility of a sit-down lunch versus ham sandwiches and sausage rolls. Rich fruit-cake was always acceptable, she thought comfortably.
The next Friday morning saw the girls in high spirits as they congregated in the Tea Room.
“Well, that went well,” started Helen.
“I know,” said Sandra. “I couldn’t believe how glad they were to see us and I really enjoyed the service. She sounded such a nice old thing. I’m almost sorry I never knew her.”
“I always feel the better of a rousing version of ‘Abide With Me’,” contributed Irene who possessed a fine loud, if unreliable, soprano voice. “And the lunch!” She conveyed her complete satisfaction with the catering arrangements with a beaming smile and rubbed her tummy childishly.
“It was a lovely service,” said Noreen finally, feeling that she had to say something. She had really enjoyed it she had found to her surprise. It mattered to mark a person’s life and Ina sounded like she had been worth it.
“Right, where’s next week’s one?” said Helen producing the paper. “Ooh look, Margaret Draper’s away.”
“Do you know her?” enquired Sandra.
“No,” said Helen “but her funeral is on Wednesday at 11am so there should be lunch.” She read on, “Or if you fancy trying out an afternoon tea, there’s Audrey Phillip’s one at 2.30. What do you think?”
And so it continued. Each week they attended one, or occasionally more, fond farewells and the passing of many dear departed was lamented in a dignified way by this group of ladies who seemed to know an improbably large number of people ‘from their work’.
Their attendance at so many funerals meant that they became expert connoisseurs of how such things should be. On balance, they preferred a cremation service to a graveyard or church one. “So chilly.” Certain ministers gained their approbation for the gravity and deftness of touch in their running of services. “Such a sincere speaker.” Florists’ offerings were ruthlessly disparaged “Chrysanthemums again from Spencers. So unimaginative and such dull colours.” All felt that Howdens were the funeral directors of choice. “A cut above,” they all agreed. And so it continued.
The girls became progressively unimpressed by the refreshments respectfully provided by the Royal Hotel and other local purveyors of post-funeral comestibles and began to cast their nets slightly wider.
At one such event in the Scottish Borders (“a nice day out girls,” Helen had said), they became aware of the puzzled frown of the funeral director. They had actually become on nodding terms with several of them.
“Surprised to see you lot down here,” he said in an undertone. “Don’t tell me you knew this ‘late one’ from her work!” They tactically ignored him and caught the next bus to town. Irene lamented their missing what had promised to be a fine tea at the Rose and Crown.
“We can’t risk it,” Helen had told them tersely. “We’ll need to give it a miss for a while. We’re getting too well known.”
Noreen agreed. She had gone along with the plans and had enjoyed all the services at various churches and crematoria but had found the wakes an ordeal, always expecting to be exposed as the frauds that they undoubtedly were.
They let a few weeks go by then Helen produced the paper one Friday and they were off again. Noreen didn’t always attend any more, telling them that she had various other things to do.
One Friday she didn’t turn up in the Tea Room. No one had seen her in the previous week but they assumed that something had come up and thought no more about it as they got lost in their plans for the next week’s solemn events. One was to be ‘afterwards at the Balmoral Hotel’. Irene was very excited.
Several further Fridays passed without Noreen and they had just agreed to phone her when Helen’s eye fell on an intimation in the paper:
“Noreen McGlinchy, dear mother of Norbert and Estelle, passed away quietly at home on the etc, etc, Funeral on Tuesday at 11.30.”
There was a stunned silence. It had to be her. Only she had children called Norbert and Estelle. Helen suppressed the malicious thought that Hugh had not been mentioned in the notice. Irene ignobly thought 11.30? Lunch? Then was furious at herself. Noreen was their lifelong friend. The first of them to go. Now they were three. A lump formed in her throat and several of her chins quivered.
Looking over, Alan saw that a stunned silence had fallen at the window table. Sandra was sobbing openly and Helen and Irene looked pale and close to tears themselves. He took it upon himself to take over a fresh pot of tea. “Something up, girls?” he asked chattily.
“It’s Noreen,” faltered Sandra. “She’s, she’s…”
“Not well?” he offered. They shook their heads sorrowfully. “Don’t say she’s passed away?” he said cautiously in hushed tones, aware that this was beyond mere illness.
“No,” said Helen shortly, “she’s dead.” She hated this now common wishy-washy phraseology referring to death as ‘passing on’ or ‘away’ or ‘over’. Like a parcel, she thought to herself.
It was Alan’s turn to look stunned. “I’m so sorry, ladies,” he said, backing away. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He turned back to the counter making a face at the assistants’ enquiring expressions. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “More scones,” he barked. “Now.” The assistants exchanged glances.
It was a church service that pleased all. Norbert had finally contacted them to inform them of his mother’s demise. “It was so sudden; she just faded away before our eyes. It’s not as if she was in pain or even particularly ill. She just went.” He was clearly shaken by it all.
On the day, there was a sparse congregation. Norbert and Estelle and their grown-up children as well as a few neighbours or people from church were there. On their arrival the girls were very much cheered to catch sight of Alan nodding to them from a side aisle. “Nice of him,” voiced Irene for them all. Despite that, the low numbers didn’t show much for a life really. Just after the service had started the
door opened and several more people pushed through it and sat down in a pew at the back. Helen turned and glared at them. They fumbled noisily with the hymn-books but were ready to sing out at the surprising choice: Noreen’s favourite was seemingly ‘For Those In Peril On The Sea.’ No one had been aware of any nautical inclination on Noreen’s part but it made a nice change from the perennial funeral favourites.
At the end of the service the minister informed the little gathering that the family would like to invite them to a small lunch party at the nearest hotel. The Royal, thought Irene. I might have known.
Back at the hotel, the girls shared memories of the younger Noreen with her grandchildren. They had found it hard to reconcile the naughty schoolgirl of their stories with the quiet withdrawn lady they knew her as. “Hugh had a lot to answer for,” said Helen darkly. Sandra shushed her.
Across the room the small group of latecomers were tucking in to the lavish buffet that Noreen had stipulated in her will should be provided. Waving away a waiter with a loaded tray to his obvious amazement Irene asked, “Who are these ladies?”
The funeral director was just passing at this point and heard the question. “Oh just people who knew her from her work,” he said with a malicious smile.
Chapter 10
Barry’s Crusade
Of all the people affected by Jamie’s death, and there were many, Barry, his old boss was the most stricken. The awful events of that day were imprinted on his memory. The first intimation that something had happened, the frantic call to the canteen where he had been relaxing (or hiding as others unkindly put it), the dash down the back stairs to the Grand Hall, the sudden stop as he perceived in one agonised glance what had happened. These were replayed in his mind time and again. He grew to dread nightfall as he couldn’t avoid the memory flooding back as he woke with a jerk in the long, silent, early hours.
It wasn’t much better during the day but for different reasons. He tried to keep himself busy, which surprised his more immediate colleagues. They couldn’t be said to be friends. He couldn’t derive any support from other staff members in the way he saw that others could. He had seen how various departments had clubbed together to buy a small memorial to Jamie: a little plaque on the back wall of the Grand Hall. The meetings to discuss this had taken place at the bar across the road after work. Barry hadn’t been invited but had caught sight of the sad little committee talking about Jamie and how much they had liked him. Somehow the death of someone so young and full of life had touched everyone.
Barry wasn’t entirely sure why he felt so bad. He felt a mixture of guilt and sorrow, which had somehow built up to profound feelings of self-loathing. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror one evening. His large open face stared back hopelessly. If only he’d been nicer to Jamie, if only he’d done more to help him if only, if only… the ‘if onlys’ grew and grew. If only he had been a better person, less lazy and preoccupied with food. If only he had a better job, if he’d tried harder, if he was slimmer, kinder and on and on. He reviewed his life. It had not gone well. His early marriage to Anne had seemed the right thing to do at the time. His career was off to a good start and his sergeant was pleased with him. After the kids were born and he was drawn more and more into police life, Anne had changed. Maybe he’d been the one who’d changed, he now pondered. Of course it was all his fault. Of course he’d done everything wrong. He was fat, lazy Barry. Anne had finally had enough of his being ‘on duty’ when he was in the pub frittering away the family’s income. There had finally been no one willing to join him for one last pint. Barry sweated, remembering his flirtation with alcoholism. He’d just avoided it but too late for his marriage and career. He was surprised, given how bitter she was about the police, that Anne had found refuge in the arms of his sergeant. But it was only to be expected, he thought – he was, after all, Barry the slob. The tidal waves of negativity continued to wash over him.
He’d like to think that he missed the children, plump little Joan who had looked so like him when she was younger, the twins Johnny and Frankie as tots blinking up at him through their tiny spectacles. They’d grown though and now regarded him with chilly disinterest. To them he was an occasional source of cash at the cost of a brief embarrassing meal out in some restaurant well away from anywhere that their friends might see them. He struggled to make conversation with them and they clearly couldn’t get away fast enough. He hadn’t seen Joan since he had remonstrated with her about her asking Tom, his old sergeant and now her stepfather, to give her away at her wedding. “After all,” she’d said, “it’s not as if you’d know anybody.” This was true enough, he’d grudgingly acknowledged. His own mother had died years before and his sister, Joan’s only aunt, lived in Australia and wouldn’t be attending. The guests would be largely made up of Joan’s friends, the groom’s family whom he’d never met and friends of Anne and Tom who were mostly ex-colleagues of Barry’s. Too embarrassing. It wasn’t as if he could bring a ‘plus one’. He’d wondered briefly about asking Mrs Pegram to accompany him but had discounted that thought. As if she would want to come with him.
The cold wind howled around the block of flats. Barry had originally rented a temporary home there from which he had been too dispirited to move on. That October night, his misery finally came to a head. This was it, he told his now drooping face in the mirror. I can’t go on like this. I don’t have to. He eyed the razor lying in front of him and the bath invitingly filled with soothing water, a bottle of whisky standing to hand. I could do this, the thought flared. I could end it right now. He looked himself in the eye in the misting mirror. From somewhere a last vestige of professionalism rumbled into life and reminded him that he should consider all the alternatives before taking such drastic action. He stirred. What else could he do? Where was his note-pad? The habit of carrying a note-pad lingered from his time in the force. He drew it out of his pocket with less resistance than he expected. He’d lost a lot of weight over the past weeks and his trousers, formerly stretched almost to danger level, now hung on him. Absent-mindedly he picked up the whisky bottle and walked through to the tiny lounge to find a pen.
Taking the top off the bottle he settled back into the chair. Without drinking he started to write up some headings on the first page: The first: (1) Reasons to end it all, then weakly, for he couldn’t think of a better heading: (2) Reasons not to. Somehow he found himself more attracted to the ‘Reasons not to’ heading and he began to write. It would be upsetting for people, it could affect Joan’s wedding (he scored that one off). It would somehow mean that he was a complete failure and that his life had counted for nothing. This was all true he admitted to himself yet he was ashamed about that. He was surprised at feeling this sudden sense of shame. He thought about it. Shame. He was ashamed of himself. He heard his mother and grandmother admonishing him as they had used to: “you should be ashamed of yourself, son,” said his mother. “I’m black affrontit at ye,” said his granny. His early transgressions had ranged from such crimes as “showing me up in public” (Mum) or picking his nose in church (Granny). He grinned ruefully. What would they have said about all this, he wondered? But not for long. He knew what they would have thought. There was no way he could take such a cowardly way out. But the problem remained. How could he address this feeling? How could he feel better about himself? Suddenly, he actually did feel better. A positive thought had finally clicked into place. He got up and, leaving the bottle behind, made his way to the bathroom stripping off his clothes as he went. He’d always thought better in a bath.
A new set of headings suggested themselves as he lay gently steaming in the bath: Things to do: (1) be better at my job; (2) try to be more like Jamie. He faltered at that one. How could he do that? He decided (3) be friendlier with other people, make a positive effort to talk to people; (4) be nice; a bit feeble, he thought, but he knew what he meant.
Getting out of the bath and drying himself perfunctorily he decided to start at once – he rooted through the wardrob
e and found his best suit. Removing the worst of the stains on it, ironing a good shirt and polishing his shoes took up the rest of the time until he went to bed.
The next morning he startled a woman at the bus stop with his cheery ‘good morning’ and continued to surprise, and even unnerve, colleagues and staff at work. He’d had breakfast at home so his usual bacon and black pudding roll lay glutinously uneaten waiting for him in the canteen. “Wonder where Barry is?” ruminated the cook then went back to stirring the day’s vat of macaroni.
Back in his office Barry reviewed the latest set of figures. Footfall, the number of customers entering the shop, had actually increased. Ghoulish people wanting to see the scene of the ‘incident’ (as he always called it to himself), he wondered. He discounted this then brightened up at the information that shoplifting had markedly reduced. How strange, he thought. What had changed? There had been less availability of security staff since Jamie was no longer around yet less stuff had been nicked, as he put it to Mrs Pegram over a coffee in her office. They had met to discuss the necessity of replacing Jamie; perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary after all?
In the meantime Barry’s resolution to be nicer and friendlier and generally more like Jamie swung into action. He now visited each department every day to the visible alarm of departmental staff throughout the store. Suspicions were raised and discussed avidly in quiet corners. What was he up to, they all wondered? Did he suspect them of stealing the stock? One or two shifted uneasily remembering, for example, a pilfered butter dish (chipped and unsaleable but still…) or a stained silk tie (the mark hardly showed but it couldn’t go on display) reasoned a few.
Barry was seriously dismayed to discover just how unpopular he actually was. His charming smiles seemed to disturb people and as he entered most departments he was painfully aware of even the most senior members of staff scurrying away to back offices or to suddenly devote their attention to startled customers. In the Linens department he had always relied on receiving a warm welcome from Violet P. Now, though, she always seemed to be too busy to talk to him. He had enjoyed cosy chats with her in the past and had poured out his woes to her on previous occasions as she had commiserated on his failing to reduce the level of ‘shrinkage’ of stock. He missed her soothing company.
