by Lynda Renham
‘Can you see your wife?’ she asked.
Henry heard the tremble in her voice.
They were about fifty yards from the church gates now and Henry could see people were milling around the entrance. He strained his neck but couldn’t see their faces. They stood there, Henry and Rita, the odd couple, not quite going forward and not quite going backwards. Henry convinced that this was someone else’s funeral and Rita praying it was someone else’s funeral. They were still standing there when the hearse drove into the church gates. Rita grasped Henry’s hand. It was baby smooth, the nails short and clean, unlike her jagged bitten ones. The hearse moved so slowly that Henry wondered if it would ever reach them. As it drew closer, his wide eyes alighted on the coffin and the large spray of flowers atop it. He was afraid to look but knew he had no choice. Spelt out in snowy white petals was the name Henry. He could smell the heady scent of the lilies as the car passed. He blinked several times but still the flowers read Henry. Maybe it was another Henry, he told himself. Odd, he thought, how many Henrys have died recently. It certainly was not a good week for Henrys.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ uttered Rita.
Henry was so focused on the hearse that at first he didn’t notice the black car following it. He felt a pain in his side and realised Rita had nudged him.
‘Do you know those people?’ she asked urgently, nodding at the car.
Henry’s eyes met Imogen’s as she looked out of the window. They were watery with tears and the skin around them puffy and red, but it was Imogen all right.
‘This is insane,’ muttered Henry.
He rushed to the car.
‘Imogen,’ he shouted, tapping on the window. ‘What’s going on love?’
She stared impassively at him and then turned her head to glance at Rita before facing the front again. At her side, Henry saw his parents. They were grief-stricken. His mother’s face was buried in her hands, her emotions overwhelming her.
‘I’m not dead,’ he yelled. ‘I’m here, look. Please mother, look.’
But she kept her face in her hands. In the seat opposite were Imogen’s parents and a wave of anger washed over Henry, followed by a sudden pang of loss he never expected to feel. His children should be seated there, not Imogen’s parents.
Rita felt helpless and watched with a heavy heart as Henry’s cortege travelled along the drive to the church. She wanted to comfort Henry but didn’t know how. She was starting to wish she hadn’t come. Part of her had been convinced, just like Henry, that this would be someone else’s funeral.
‘They can’t see me,’ groaned Henry. ‘What am I going to do? I can’t possibly let the funeral go ahead.’
However, Henry knew, even if he lay in front of the hearse it would do no good.
‘Tell them I’m not dead Rita,’ he said turning anxiously to her.
‘What do I say?’ asked Rita nervously.
‘Tell them you can see me. That I’m not dead, that it’s all a big mistake.’
Rita chewed her fingernail and Henry sighed.
‘I’m not sure they’ll believe me,’ said Rita.
‘No, of course they won’t. I’m being ridiculous. They’d just throw you out thinking you’re a mad woman.’
‘Perhaps we are mad,’ said Rita softly. ‘No one goes to their own funeral. How can this be possible?’
‘It’s not us,’ said Henry firmly. ‘It’s everyone else,’ and realised at that moment he sounded very much like a mad man.
Another cortege began to make its way out of the cemetery. It’s like a conveyer belt, thought Rita. She could almost hear the vicar calling ‘next’ like the cashier did at the supermarket. She really doesn’t want this to happen to her. It doesn’t seem fair that she has no choice in the matter. She knew that death lurked in the darkness. Always there, following you. The closer he gets the sooner he will take you as his own. It all seemed so wrong. If Rita had been given the choice, she would have declined life. If she’d known it came with a death sentence, she would most certainly have said, no thank you. Rita shivered, as though the chill of death had tickled the back of her neck. Sometimes she would lie awake at night counting how many years she had left. Figuring she must make it to seventy-five at least. She read an article once that said people were living longer now. She may even make it to ninety-five. That gave her years, unless a bus knocked her over or …
‘Come on,’ Henry said, interrupting her thoughts. He was walking towards the church, but Rita hesitated.
Rita remembered how Imogen had looked at her from the car window. Her face had been grief-stricken. She didn’t look fat, Rita noted, and for a second rather hated her for it.
‘You can say you’re a colleague from work,’ said Henry, trying to hurry her along. He didn’t want to miss anything.
‘But your work colleagues might be here, and they’ll know I’m not.’
‘You can say I helped you with your insurance policy,’ he said and then realised how suspect that sounded.
‘If anyone asks, which they probably won’t,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll say I knew you from the supermarket. That’s the truth isn’t it?’
Henry nodded and ushered her forward. People were going into the church and the pallbearers were preparing themselves for carrying in the coffin. Henry looked into the hearse and gasped.
‘A wicker coffin,’ he exclaimed. ‘I would never have wanted a wicker coffin.’
That smacked of cheapness didn’t it? Henry didn’t believe in spending money for money’s sake, admittedly, but this was his last journey. It’s not like he’d be spending any more. He had imagined himself seen off in oak or even pine but most certainly not wicker. What would people think?
The mourners were entering the church and Henry followed. Inside it smelled of musty prayer books and stale incense. Rita noticed everyone had their heads bowed and wondered if it was out of respect for Henry or because they couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the coffin. Rita knew exactly how they felt.
‘I’m going to see who’s here,’ said Henry.
Rita nodded and made her way to a pew at the back. From there she could watch everyone without being noticed.
Henry was rather disappointed to see the turnout was quite sparse. Surely, he knew more people than this? Still, the service hadn’t started yet. There was still time for people to arrive. Travelling on the bus, he’d visualised a packed church with people spilling out of the doors. Of course, he hadn’t known the church would be this big. All the same, it was something of a disappointment. He strolled down the aisle until he reached the first five rows that seated the mourners.
‘Trevor Michaels,’ he gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’
Trevor didn’t look up but continued studying the order of service in front of him. He’s lost his hair, thought Henry, staring in wonder at Trevor’s receding hairline. He sat uncomfortably on the pew, his long legs cramped in the small space. His chin was pushed onto his breast as he looked down at the booklet in his hands. Beside him sat a woman, her perfume pervading the air around them. She kept her eyes ahead and chewed on her lip nervously. Henry wrinkled his nose. Trevor always was partial to a blonde bombshell. Most likely it was these women that had contributed to his hair loss. This must be the latest one, thought Henry, considering her. He couldn’t imagine what Trevor saw in her. Mutton dressed as lamb if ever Henry saw it. I would never have asked her to my funeral, Henry thought crossly. I’ve never clapped eyes on the woman before. What had possessed Imogen to invite them? Henry had always disliked his cousin. He was a conceited show off. They never saw him from one year to the next. Now that Henry came to think about it, Trevor never even sent them a Christmas card.
He turned away in disgust and looked to Helen who was sitting the other side of Trevor. She was studying her mobile phone. So rude, thought Henry, while at my funeral too. I hope she puts it away when they carry me in. No doubt, she won’t bother. Technology had a lot to answer for, if you wanted his opinion. Still, Helen had alway
s been rude to him whether alive or dead, so at least she was being consistent. Sam, who was sitting next to her, had the decency to look sad. He was wearing the same suit he wore to the office every day, Henry noted.
Imogen sat in the front row beside her mother who was, dressed in a grey dress with a black shawl draped over it. She had her arm comfortingly around Imogen’s shoulders. Imogen was wearing the same raincoat he’d saw the other Imogen wearing earlier. That couldn’t be right. Imogen wouldn’t be meeting another man on the day of his funeral. He forced himself not to look at his parents. It would upset him even more. If only he could tell his mother that it was all a big mistake. He couldn’t bear to see her so distressed.
There was his neighbour too. But, hadn’t she seen him that morning? The memory of her milky white breasts flashed through his mind. Henry knew her vaguely but not enough to ask her to his funeral. She gripped the order of service tightly and looked behind her. For one wonderful moment, Henry thought she could see him but then she waved tearfully to the milkman who was seated behind her. Henry gaped at him. What was the milkman doing here? Henry barely knew him. Goodness, Henry thought miserably. Imogen must have been scraping the barrel if she had to ask the milkman. Did he know so few people? But hadn’t he and Imogen preferred it that way? All the same, thought Henry miserably, the milkman? He should have written out some instructions for his funeral, a list of people to invite for a start. There was another man sitting beside the milkman, but Henry couldn’t place him at all. Something about his demeanour unnerved Henry but he couldn’t fathom why. A strange chill ran through his body and he quickly turned away. He must know him, else why would he be at his funeral? He saw his friend Jack, from the badminton club and Larry, who ran the club’s bar. He had never seen either of them in a suit before. He moved nearer to hear their conversation.
‘All those imaginary ailments,’ Jack was saying, shaking his head. ‘It just goes to show. It’s never what you imagine is going to take you.’
‘Well, let’s be honest,’ said Larry with a small laugh. ‘He had so many imaginary ailments it would have been a lottery to work out which one would take him.’
‘Imaginary?’ repeated Henry, affronted. He’d never had an imaginary illness in his life.
‘He was a martyr to his health,’ smiled Jack.
‘I was not,’ argued Henry. Jack was a fine one to talk, Henry thought crossly. All he ever talked about was his frozen shoulder, which conveniently explained why he often lost to Henry.
‘My frozen shoulder gave me a few twinges during the game,’ he’d say. The presumption being that Henry would never have won otherwise.
‘A sad day, nevertheless,’ said Larry.
‘He wasn’t a great player,’ said Jack. ‘But you couldn’t hold that against him. He was good company.’
Henry shook his head angrily ‘I was ... I am a good player,’ he corrected. He must get out of the habit of referring to himself in the third person.
‘Never thought we’d be seeing old Henry off though, who’d have thought it,’ said Larry.
‘It just shows you never know people,’ nodded Jack.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Henry.
There was the clip-clopping of heels on the hard stone floor. Henry turned to see it was Alice from the greengrocer’s. She walked straight towards Imogen, a fake fur coat over her shoulders. She shrugged it off dramatically in the manner of Lisa Minelli and Henry rolled his eyes. Always the drama queen, he thought.
‘Darling, I’m here, how are you coping?’ she asked, as though the whole funeral party had been waiting just for her.
‘Alright,’ said Imogen, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
‘Are the flowers alright?’
The arrogance in her voice clearly indicated that she expected an affirmative.
‘They’re beautiful, thank you Alice.’
‘It was so very kind of you,’ said Imogen’s mother.
‘I hope you didn’t pay for them,’ said Henry glancing at the flowers. ‘They look half dead to me.’
Imogen knew full well, that Henry thought cut flowers were a waste of money. What’s more, they cost an arm and a leg at Alice’s shop. The vicar walked in and Alice quickly took a seat behind Imogen. Henry looked around and wondered where his other friends were. Frank, for instance. He’d known Frank since school. They’d have a pint together sometimes. Perhaps he was on holiday, thought Henry. People went away in September to get some sunshine. He would have expected his bosses to attend. Maybe Frank had sent flowers. He’d have a look on the way out. Henry had felt certain he’d known more people. He tried to think who they were, when the organ began to play a mournful tune, and the pallbearers standing at the entrance raised the coffin. Six well-built men and yet they seemed to buckle under the weight. I’m not that heavy, thought Henry, affronted. They don’t have to make a song and dance about it. He listened to the organ, its sounds assaulting his eardrums. What a dreadful piece of music. What on earth was it? It certainly wasn’t by one of his favourite composers. He would have chosen something a bit more upbeat, not this sorrowful racket. Oh dear, this was not at all how he’d pictured his funeral. If this was the end, it was a sorry sight, was all he could say.
Chapter Fourteen
Rita pulled off her coat and sat stiffly on the pew, its coldness reaching through her skirt. She wondered how long you could sit on a cold damp pew before you got piles. It was a lovely church, but not worth getting piles. She looked at the order of service. There were two pictures of Henry on the cover. One was of Henry as a young man and Rita looked at it admiringly. He’d had thick curly hair and smooth skin then. What a thief time was, thought Rita. It stole so much and never gave anything in return. Several grey hairs had sneaked past her when she hadn’t been looking. Age sneaks up on you, thought Rita, and like a mugger steals everything you value. She must not forget to put the order of service into her handbag. Perhaps she could take two. That way if she cut out the photos she would still have another copy, and no one would notice if she took two. No doubt, Imogen had ordered over the amount she needed. It was better to have too many than not enough. There was a whisper of fabric as people shifted in their seats. She glanced fleetingly at the cushioned kneeling pad and then looked away as memories of sore knees assailed her and instead gazed up at Jesus on his cross. She shivered and then shifted her gaze to the back of Imogen’s head. She wasn’t pretty, at least not in Rita’s opinion. She wasn’t exactly ugly either. Just ordinary really, thought Rita. She didn’t match up to her name which Rita thought quite decadent and unusual. Her hair had a reddish glow to it and was quite flyaway. She needed a good product, thought Rita. If Rita didn’t use products her hair would fly all over the place. There was nothing worse than static in one’s hair. She watched now as Imogen removed her raincoat, revealing a black jersey dress and cream scarf. Rita thought the scarf was much too bright for a funeral. Henry was peering at the mourners and Rita hoped he wasn’t disappointed at how few people there were. Rita had waited expectantly for Imogen to scream in horror at the sight of her husband, but she hadn’t, and Rita had let out a sigh of relief. How awful though for Henry, she thought sadly, that his own wife couldn’t see him. Rita wondered how Henry had died. She would ask him once they were away from here. She shivered again and it wasn’t from the cold but the sound of the organ. At her father’s funeral the opening dirge had gone on and on, the coffin passing slowly, occasionally stopping so people could put their lips to it or touch it with their hands. Rita had wanted to cover her ears to silence the sound of wailing. Eleanor had kept her head down as it passed, and Rita had bitten down hard on her lip making it bleed. She shook her head to shake away the memories and stood up. She saw Henry’s wife, Imogen, struggle to her feet. A man who sat a few pews behind, hurried to her aid, resting a comforting arm on her shoulder. Imogen gave him a weak smile and Rita thought, she is quite pretty after all, and felt a pang of jealousy. She couldn’t see her own husband though, but I ca
n, thought Rita gleefully. Henry squeezed past the coffin and took his place beside Rita on the pew.
‘They are going much too fast,’ he grumbled, and Rita had to agree with him.
Funeral processions were supposed to go much slower. It was as if, they somehow had to drag out the deceased final moments. He’d had his lot, everyone agreed, but no need to rush him on his way. It was so final, death. No one really wanted to hurry it. There was nothing to hurry for, after all.
‘Yes,’ she agreed and wondered why Imogen didn’t do something.
Rita felt Henry’s anguish as if it were her own. She struggled not to wring her hands. It was so unfair. The sun should be shining through the stained-glass windows. The church ought to be overflowing with people, a river of tears flooding it. There certainly should have been more flowers. Rita had thought the church would be heady with the fragrance of Henry’s tributes. Rita blamed his wife. She couldn’t have let people know. Henry surely knew more people than this. He was a popular person. At least Rita thought he must be. A woman was crying uncontrollably, and Rita wished she could comfort her.
The vicar watched solemnly as the coffin approached and then bowed before it.
‘Please be seated,’ he said.
There was rustling and a few sniffs as the congregation took their seats; their bums hitting the hard pews. Rita began to wish she had worn those thermal panties she’d bought from an online catalogue. They weren’t terribly attractive when on, but they would have been ideal for a cold church and would certainly have prevented piles.
‘Welcome everyone and thank you for supporting Henry’s family. It’s very nice to see Henry’s friends here today,’ said the vicar in a soft voice which Rita thought was ideal for a funeral and had she been sitting with the other mourners at the front it would have been easier to hear. As it was, seated right at the back, she was now anxious that she might miss something important.
‘How does he know they’re my friends?’ grumbled Henry.
