Frank McCabe was well into his stride, he must’ve circled Con’s coffin a dozen times, tossing the incense about like there wasn’t a budget to consider. The time for Communion came and he stopped and stared at her. Kathy stared back. Behind her Rentacrowd waited for the bereaved daughter to take the host first, but the bereaved daughter returned the priest’s stare with one of her own, and then added the sweetest of smiles to her coquettishly batting eyelashes, as the seconds ticked by. Behind her Jamie moved towards the altar, then others followed him, and the moment was over. There was another bizarre episode that she caught from the corner of her eye, when everyone turned to those on each side and shook hands. She couldn’t remember anything like that. She was sitting in the front pew with Jessie, who had placed herself far to the left, out of the reach of all but the most determined germs, so she knew she could count on her not to attempt shaking hands, but she couldn’t be as sure of the rest of the congregation, so she kept her back firmly turned to them. ‘Just let one of them try it,’ she thought savagely. ‘Just let them try it!’ and was almost disappointed when no one did. What she needed at that moment was the chance to take a swing at someone, the feeling of fist on chin, but her lack of enthusiasm for the hand-shaking innovation had doubtless been put down to her deep level of grief, and a communal decision had obviously been taken not to intrude. There was a great deal of hymn singing, which was fair enough when you thought about it; you couldn’t book a turn then only let them loose with a few choruses of ‘God Save the Pope’ to sing, after all. Then Frank McCabe was at it again, this time soaking the entire area as he circled the coffin dispensing holy water held by an altar girl! Kathy did a double take and then smiled slyly, catching Frank McCabe’s eye. In her day only boys were allowed to assist at mass, but it wasn’t, she suspected, as much a case of gender equality, as a lack of lads willing to take part that had let the girls in to this once jealously guarded male closed shop. The girl held a silver bowl into which the priest dipped a metal implement with a wire gauze head, then he vigorously shook it in the direction of Con’s coffin, chanting as he did so. ‘Dear God!’ Kathy muttered audibly as he passed close by. ‘Throw in some carbolic soap an’ we’ll gie him a quick scrub! Let it go at that, gie it a rest, wee man!’ The priest’s stride was broken for the briefest of nanoseconds before he reloaded and defiantly threw yet more water about, but the slight hesitation was enough to cheer her. Then the undertaker’s men walked forward, moved the candles, lifted the coffin from the bier and performed a perfect about-turn. This was traditionally the hardest part of any funeral service, when the body was taken away; for genuine mourners it was the beginning of the final act. When they had carried Lily down this same aisle all those years ago, it was as if Kathy suddenly wakened from a trance and instead of following behind she had kept in step with the front pallbearers, desperately fighting the urge to get in front and demand that they stop right now and take her mother back. The-moment had come too soon, she wasn’t ready, but then she never would be. There was no such feeling about Con being taken away, it had all gone on far too long a time as far as she was concerned, not too short. Still, she went through the motions, falling in step behind the coffin, Frank McCabe in the lead, a prayer book and a rosary held in his hands, and the rest of the congregation following on behind her. Once outside, the undertaker took firm hold of her elbow and tried to guide her into a large, sleek limo behind the hearse. ‘Ever broken an arm at a funeral?’ she asked in a quiet, pleasant tone of voice, picked up from those masters of the conversational insult, Bunty and Angus Macdonald. The undertaker looked confused. ‘Well this could be the day, sunshine!’ she hissed, making sudden, savage eye contact with him while pulling her arm free. It was probably her own fault, she mused. She hadn’t thought about the details, she had thought in gigantic leaps: Con in his box, Con in the chapel, Con out of the chapel, Con at the crematorium, she simply hadn’t thought of protocol, like the big cars and who went in them. Her cousin, the guru, appeared at her elbow. ‘My mother says you’ve to come with us,’ he announced. In deference to the occasion he was wearing a crisp white shirt over his medallion, and he had ditched the shiny white suit in favour of an identically shiny one in bright fuchsia, with an all-over pattern of tiny spiders weaving tiny webs. There was no sign of a black tie, but black was represented in a pair of patent leather Doc Martens instead of the usual sandals; Harry, it seemed, preferred to wear his grief on his feet. Still, she was only too happy to follow the apparition to Jessie’s Mercedes and sink gratefully into a deep leather backseat beside her aunt. She noticed without the slightest offence that Jessie moved further over in her own seat, all the better to keep bacteria at bay, the ever-present hankie held to her nose and mouth with the white, cotton-gloved hands. They exchanged brief, conspiratorial smiles, or at least Kathy thought Jessie was part of the exchange, though who could tell behind the hankie? As they moved off from outside the chapel, though, Kathy looked back at the defunct limo that had been earmarked for the chief mourner, and she threw back her head and laughed loudly. Beside her, Jessie did the same.
The Linn Crematorium was on the South Side of the city, which meant that East Enders in the cortege had entered a foreign land. They may spend their holidays trekking the Sahara, ski-ing down Mont Blanc and paddling a canoe down the Orinoco in the 1990s, but for all Glaswegians the other side of their home town would for ever be regarded as truly ‘abroad’. But if Con was to be cremated, and Kathy had decided that he was, the Linn in Lainshaw Drive was the nearest place where it could be done, and it gave the mourners a look at the alien landscape as they drove along. Old Con was bound for the St Mungo Chapel, the larger of the two in the Linn, and walking in Kathy was sure it would’ve met his need for the theatrical. At one end was a huge stained glass window in the shape of a Maltese Cross, bathing the chapel in shades of brilliant blues and yellows as the sun streamed through. There had been some heated discussion beforehand about what should happen to Con’s ashes, with Father McCabe insisting that they be buried beside his wife, mother and sisters in St Kentigern’s, and Kathy making it very clear to the undertaker that they must be dispersed in the crematorium’s garden of remembrance as soon as possible. Even so, the undertaker had called again after receiving yet another demand from Frank McCabe, and Kathy had left him in even less doubt that he would take his orders from the one paying the bill. But she knew Father McCabe well of old, and so when they arrived she had buttonholed the undertaker and sought out the manager of the Linn, who both assured her that no one could countermand her instructions. After the initial cremation Con’s remains would be put through a cremulator to grind the larger bones to dust, and by nine o’clock the next morning, his ashes would be dispersed without a priestly hand being laid on the urn. Still, she thought, she’d phone and make sure. She turned to the undertaker.
‘Ye heard that, Mac, did ye?’ she asked.
‘Miss Kelly,’ the undertaker protested, ‘I had no intention of letting Father McCabe have his way. I’m not a Catholic, if that helps any.’
Kathy smiled. ‘Why did ye no’ say that at the start?’ she asked. ‘It woulda saved a’ this aggravation, son.’
The undertaker dropped his gaze. ‘However,’ he said, ‘there is the question of who should say a few words before the actual, um, service. He did say you were happy for him to do it. I suppose that is acceptable?’
Kathy nodded. ‘No’ acceptable exactly, but, aye, Ah said the wee swine could get his oar in.’ The undertaker looked relieved. ‘But a’ the same, Ah think Ah’ll make sure he understands the rules.’
Frank McCabe was standing below the lectern, readying himself for his speech, when Kathy grabbed his sleeve.
‘Listen, wee man,’ she said sternly. ‘We’ll have nae histrionics up there, understand?’
He glared at her in silence.
‘What we’re lookin’ for on this sad occasion,’ she continued glibly, ‘is gettin’ oota here double quick. Comprendez? Think minimal, that’s
what Ah’m sayin’, nae embroidery. OK?’
He made no reply, but turned and climbed up behind the microphone. Kathy sat in the pew at the front, immediately below the lectern, with Jessie and the guru at the other end, a large gap between them.
‘We are here today,’ intoned Frank McCabe, ‘to bid farewell to our dear friend Cornelius Patrick Kelly, a good man who suffered much in his life.’
‘Christ!’ Kathy thought, ‘the auld bastard musta written his ain funeral address in advance!’
‘Widowed in 1968, he bore the loss of his wife, Lily, with all the fortitude that we had come to expect of him, and thereafter he devoted his life to caring for their only daughter.’
Inside Kathy’s head alarm bells were ringing furiously as she entered into a frantic conversation with herself. ‘Ye knew the wee bastard would double-cross ye! Why did ye let him up there in the first place?’
‘Well, what dae Ah dae noo, then? If Ah keep ma mooth shut it’ll be ower in a coupla minutes, then Ah’ll gub him wance we’re ootside.’
‘Aye, well, that’s wan option. But listen tae him!’
‘Does it matter, really? OK, so it’s no’ the tyin’ up o’ the loose ends that ye’d prefer, but does it really matter?’
‘Beloved of his family and the community of which he has long been a pillar …’ the priest droned on.
‘Aye,’ she said out loud, getting up from her seat and advancing on the lectern. ‘It bloody does matter! Right, you, sunshine,’ she said, grabbing Father McCabe by the arm. ‘Oota there right now!’
There was a short tussle before the priest gave way, and she decided the matter by stamping hard on his slippered feet then pushing him roughly out to the side. Looking down from that position, the stunned faces before her seemed a very long way off, and she had no idea what she was going to say. Would ‘The wee priest’s a bloody liar!’ do, she wondered? She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she smiled uncertainly, then she paused, breathed out, ditched the perfect English and spoke, as some would say, from the heart. ‘Look, Ah’ve looked efter Auld Con these last months, but don’t let anybody be under any illusions here. In fact, ye wouldnae be the people Ah think ye are if ye were. Ah didnae come back an’ look efter him for him, Ah did it because ma Mammy would’ve wanted me tae dae it. So noo Ah’m gonny dae somethin’ else for her, though Ah can hear her voice sayin’ “Don’t say anythin’, Kathy, let it lie!” That’s how she spent her life wi’ ma Da, trying tae keep the peace, scared o’ what he’d be like if any wee thing upset him, an’ everybody here that knew her knows she didnae deserve that, she was a good wee wumman, too good for him. Everybody knows tae what ma Da was really like. He wasnae a good man, he was a drunk, an’ no’ a happy drunk, but a maudlin drunk at that. An’ nae-body could call him an’ wee Lily soulmates either. He gied ma Mammy a life o’ hell, her only escape was bein’ burned tae death, but Ah bet it was preferable tae spendin’ another thirty or forty years wi’ him. Her entire life was spent trying to keep me an’ ma brother fed and clothed, hidin’ every penny frae him, payin’ for his booze, payin’ his debts, an’ payin’ the pawn back for everythin’ he’d hawked for booze money. He pawned her weddin’ ring that many times she had it oan a bitta elastic, though it always beat me why she wanted it back in the first place.’
There was total silence in the chapel.
‘He was a rotten faither tae. When Ah was growin’ up Ah thought it was perfectly normal for a wee lassie tae help carry her Daddy tae his bed every night, stinkin’ o’ booze, then mop up his vomit before she could go tae bed hersel’.’ She looked round the congregation. ‘No’ such a good laugh, no’ such a rerr character noo, Auld Con, is he? But that’s the truth, an’ everybody knows it, everybody’s always known it, so let’s stop kiddin’ on here.’
Again silence.
‘So we’ll go back tae the beginnin’, only the wee man there,’ she nodded in Frank McCabe’s direction, ‘won’t be doin’ the honours. This,’ she said, gesturing towards the coffin, ‘is what’s left o’ ma Da. He was a famous martyr, a victim who never suffered in silence. He caused his family a lotta pain an’ misery, but he was true to the Catholic Church. Noo, some o’ ye might think that cancels oot everythin’ else, but personally, Ah don’t. Take frae that what ye want.’ She looked around at the undertaker. ‘Where’s the button on this thing Ah havtae press?’ she asked.
The undertaker raced forward and made to press the button sending Con to his cremation.
‘Naw, naw, son,’ she smiled. ‘Ah want tae dae it.’ As she pressed the button the coffin began slowly to descend and she looked up, catching Father McCabe’s eye. ‘Game over,’ she said firmly.
‘That,’ he announced gravely, in a voice that rumbled around the four walls and the pretty glass window, ‘was a disgraceful thing to do!’
‘Christ, does he never gie up?’ she thought furiously. She grabbed the microphone again. ‘Oh, afore everybody goes,’ she said, ‘Ah havtae pay tribute tae the priest here. For years noo he’s been lookin’ efter thousands o’ pounds that ma Da got when Lily died, stoppin’ him frae drinkin’ it. Wasn’t that good o’ him? An’ noo he’s gonny gie it back tae the family.’ Instantly she regretted it. In one sense it was entirely in character, but in another she had broken one rule of a lifetime, she had let Frank McCabe get to her. She looked across at Jessie, whose eyes above the hankie showed deep disappointment. Kathy shrugged her shoulders in apology, and after a moment Jessie gave an answering ‘What the hell? Canny be helped noo’ shrug in reply.
Frank McCabe was standing at the lectern, shocked into silence as the mourners began filing out, and as Jessie passed him her muffled voice muttered, ‘So me an’ the lassie’ll be roond tae collect later then, Father!’
As they left the chapel Frank McCabe was still standing there, trying to regain his composure. If Kathy had let him get to her, she had certainly returned the compliment. ‘And not even a hymn to see him away!’ he called out, rallying his spirits.
Kathy turned round. ‘Aye, well,’ she said. ‘We did thinka his usual anthem, “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall”, or even “Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen”, but tae be honest, either wan woulda turned ma stomach. But you can sing a wee song o’ yer ain if ye like. “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” Somethin’ like that?’ As she turned towards the exit she called after her, ‘An’ we’ve got the receipt ye gave Con for the money, by the way. Ah think ye’re up shit creek withoot a paddle, son.’ Then she swanned out with casual ease and made her way back to the guru’s car.
‘Is that true?’ Jessie asked. ‘Did ye find somethin’ then?’
‘Naw,’ Kathy replied with a laugh. ‘Turned the place inside oot last night, couldnae find a sausage. But the wee swine doesnae know that, does he?’
11
They had arranged to have the reception at Lynch’s Bar, something that would have warmed Old Con’s heart; the Sarrie Heid it wasn’t, but it was still a local bar that he knew well. On the journey back from the Linn Kathy wondered how many of the original mourners would be there, given her impromptu speech in ‘honour’ of her father, but then she reasoned that everyone there had either known her, or known of her all of her life. They would just put it down to ‘that Kathy Kelly – you know what she’s like,’ but, of course, she was only ‘that Kathy Kelly’ when she was in Glasgow. Take her out of the city and she became someone else entirely, someone they wouldn’t recognise, just as the people she lived and worked among in Glenfinnan wouldn’t recognise ‘that Kathy Kelly’. Sitting down at the first table she came to, she beckoned the manager over and asked him to serve up the meal, that there would be no speeches. That way, she thought, the thing could be got over as easily as possible, and anyone who felt offended by what she had said could absent themselves from any further proceedings. It had to be said, though, that there was a reassuring murmur about the place rather than total silence, so it didn’t look like many had staged a boycott, apart from the good Fa
ther McCabe, that was, and he was no loss. He was probably back in his lair, looking out his passport and sunglasses for a quick trip to Rio, she thought, laughing at the picture that sprang into her mind of wee Frank wearing a sombrero, a gaudy shirt, Bermuda shorts and his boot slippers.
It was somewhere between the Scotch broth and the battered haddock and chips that the first approach was made. She looked up and found herself confronted by Jamie Crawford and the lady she had assumed, rightly, as it turned out, was his good lady wife. No mention was made of her alternative eulogy, Jamie simply wanted to introduce her to Angela. He was slightly heavier than she remembered and there was a hint of grey about his hair. Jessie had been right, though, that hairline definitely did start dangerously close to his eyebrows. He would be in his mid-forties now, a few years older than herself, and he had a smug, satisfied air that wasn’t there before. If she didn’t know better she would’ve thought Angela was being paraded to demonstrate what she had lost all those years ago. Angela was a thin, dark woman with nervous eyes, dressed in a neat black suit and high-necked white blouse, and somehow you had the feeling that she’d put a lot of thought into it. As she stood wringing an unfortunate pair of gloves in her hands, Kathy felt instinctively that today’s outfit had been carefully put together, and then probably checked several times. She looked so, well, respectable, really.
Chasing Angels Page 20
