by Sharon Owens
My father’s house was in no fit state for a wake, you see. Traditionally, in an Irish wake, the deceased person is laid out in an open coffin on their own bed in their own bedroom for two days and one night, and anyone who knew them (however briefly) comes to the house and pays their respects. And partakes of light refreshments (in truth, as much food and alcohol as they can stomach) and a forty-eight-hour session of singing and story-telling. They mean well, naturally, the mourners. And all the Catholics I ever knew thought it was a great honour if the house was stuffed to bursting point, with hopefully a good number having to queue outside on the driveway as well. The more, the merrier. It’s taken as a sign the family is popular in the community. But Dad’s place hadn’t been decorated since Mum left. He used to keep dogs and the furniture was scratched to bits. And he’s a heavy smoker. Was a heavy smoker. And he was never very handy with a bottle of Mr Sheen even before the political stuff took over his soul. So it had to be my house on Eglantine.
But it only hit me then, as the ornately carved walnut-coloured coffin was being brought into the hall, what was actually happening. And I immediately decided I wasn’t having my dead father displayed in any of the bedrooms. Oh, no, I’m sorry, darling! I might adore the aesthetics of castles, cloaks and candlesticks but I’m not so keen on hauling the recently departed up and down my stairwell. I could never, you know, undress in a room if I knew it’d been used for a wake. I’m sorry, call me a twit if you like but I just couldn’t. And, obviously, he couldn’t be left in any of the children’s rooms. That would have been cruel to them. And the boys’ den is full of shelves of video games, which wouldn’t have looked respectful and anyway the atmosphere is all wrong in there, it’s way too modern. And the guest room is right at the top of the house and far too small for a wake. The bed is tucked in underneath the eaves and the mourners would have knocked themselves out on the sloping ceiling.
So we put him in the good room at the front of the house that we only use at Christmas and on special occasions. The undertakers were pleased they didn’t have so far to carry the coffin. The thing is, that room contained my collection of one hundred and forty-seven (outsized) Gothic candlesticks so it was all very ‘Dracula’s Castle’, but there wasn’t time to move stuff. I kept having this mental image of Christopher Lee appearing from behind the purple velvet curtains (complete with ruched swags and heavy gold fringing – the curtains, not Christopher Lee) and baring his fangs. And for the first time in my life I felt a bit silly being a post-Goth. But I mean, what am I supposed to do? Keep one room of my home in a constant state of readiness for an ‘open coffin and light refreshments’ evening? Magnolia drapes and two dozen hard chairs? Tea urn and a choir in the corner?
There were about twenty actual candles in the collection (thankfully ivory-coloured, not black) so I lit them all and hoped it would generally appear very ‘churchy’ and spiritual. The lid of the coffin was then removed and propped up against the wall. Whereupon I collapsed and Bill carried me through to the kitchen for a brandy. The callers began to arrive before I’d even got my coat off (I’d been running some last-minute errands just prior to the hearse arriving). And that started me crying again because it reminded me of Dad and the hunger-strikers, and how he would start ranting the minute he answered the door to me.
I spoke in hushed tones to a lot of people I’d never met before and they told me they were sorry for my trouble, and then headed for the stairs. So we had to get Bill to act as usher. He deflected them politely but firmly into the good room and after an initial look of consternation they shuffled innocently into the candlestick forest. Many of the mourners were absolutely speechless when they emerged from my front room. They opened their mouths and tried to form some words of comfort but usually nothing came out and we just gave them a glass of whiskey and said: ‘Thanks for coming. It was all very sudden.’
Well, they wanted death and I gave it to them with knobs on. Maybe we should have thrown a sheet over the biggest candlesticks (as Bill suggested) but I felt a dust sheet would have looked much worse than several rows of five-foot ornaments. And I daresay the massive stone gargoyle beside the fireplace was a bit intimidating for some but we couldn’t lift it without doing our backs in. It was hard enough getting ‘Goily’ into the house in the first place, after Bill spotted him under a pile of doorframes in a reclamation yard and bought him for me for our tenth wedding anniversary.
At least Dad was actually having a wake, I consoled myself as I made a small mountain of turkey and ham sandwiches in the dining room, the designated buffet area. A death in the family is no time to impose your vegetarian beliefs on the viewers. I mean, the mourners. Yes, at least he was having a wake. No thanks to you, Mum, you crafty old skiver with your official divorce papers and your busy guest house in Devon. Oh, yes, having a sensitive English lover with a relative in the UDR comes in very handy, doesn’t it? Gets you out of all sorts of awkward family do’s. And Dad’s lot, they couldn’t fault me – they never offered to host it. Nosy parkers, they came to my house all right but they didn’t want him cluttering up their bedrooms.
Some cheerful women in flowery blouses I’d never seen before in my life (the women, not the blouses) took up position in my kitchen and proceeded to empty the cupboards of all cups, mugs and plates. They washed everything in the sink, ignoring the dishwasher completely, and then served tea and coffee to the masses for twelve hours straight before telling me they’d had a lovely time. Who washes dishes before they are used? I’ve still got no idea who they were but they left my kitchen spotless. They even cleaned the crumbs out of the plastic seal round the fridge door. I’d been meaning to do that properly for several years. There was a queue for the main bathroom so we had to direct total strangers through to the en suites. I forgot to hide my best bras, which were hanging out to dry on our shower door. (They have to be hand-washed, you see, good bras.) One of them went missing. The red balcony bra with the black ribbons threaded through it. Bill loved that bra on me. It was a real nipple-skimmer.
Why do we put ourselves through these things? In this age of hi-tech everything, is it fair that we still have to observe such a centuries-old tradition? Children shouldn’t have to see dead bodies, they really shouldn’t, I don’t care what anyone says. You can stuff your justifications in a sack, mister. Traditions? It used to be traditional to hang petty thieves in the town square. We don’t do that any more.
Alicia-Rose was very upset when she saw my father’s face. He was still looking pissed off, even in death.
I think word got out in Dad’s neighbourhood that there was a great wake going on down in Eglantine Avenue because we had hundreds of callers. I had to send Alicia-Rose to the shop for more toilet tissue (or, as I call it, bog-roll) and liquid soap, twice. And somebody sat on the hall table (it was the only genuine antique we had) and broke it.
Eleven tins of luxury chocolate biscuits we got through. Seventeen loaves of best white bread and two dozen jam sponges. So many people, the doorbell never stopped ringing. In the end, we left the front door open. My dad’s priest showed up around midnight. (The funeral director had tracked him down for us.) And that was hard work because he kept asking me what chapel we went to, and various queries about parish minutiae. Had I attended the blessing of this and the veneration of that, and whether I was a member of the Legion of Mary. God help him. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what he was talking about. If you don’t use it, you lose it, I suppose. I resorted to stuffing my face with shortcake biscuits before pretending I’d remembered something vital, then dashing out of the room so I wouldn’t have to answer him.
But the wake was a great success and that was the main thing. At one point I fell asleep sitting in the laundry room, folding a tea towel (hiding from the priest again) and only woke up when a draught slammed the back door shut.
I felt cold and tearful all the next day and when Ann and Elizabeth finally turned up the following evening I nearly collapsed with emotion.
And shoc
k.
They’d changed so much, I nearly didn’t recognize them. Yes, they’d sent photos over the years, but the pictures generally showed only their faces. In the flesh, it was a whole different story. When the pair of them had left Belfast, they looked just like me. Tall and awkward, pale as sheets, and very scruffy indeed. Cardigans and leather brogues, the legacy of a convent education.
But Ann, who was the first to appear on my doorstep, had gone all tanned and toned and glamorous in the intervening decade. She was sporting a short spiky crop of pink hair. Yes, pink! And wearing a fitted (very fitted) two-piece dress-suit with killer heels, and carrying a massive pink handbag with chunky gold-chain handles. She had a tiny little pink hat with feathers on it and her blusher could be seen from space. She was like the millionaire princess of Punk. I mean, she is an aerobics instructor at a very posh country club and no doubt has a sexy image to uphold. But, obviously, she’d forgotten we still wear black to funerals in Belfast. Bill nudged me in the back because he knew I’d be struggling to say something kind about Ann’s hat. And I knew that whatever I did say would be hopelessly inadequate so I just reached for Ann and hugged her until she couldn’t breathe.
‘Steady on, love,’ she laughed, her Australian accent having returned.
‘Where’s Elizabeth?’ I said eventually.
‘She’s just paying the cab fare,’ Ann announced to the general company, swinging her handbag into Bill’s chest. ‘Put that somewhere safe, love,’ she told him, winking crookedly. I supposed she’d had a few gins on the flight. Or maybe it was jet lag.
Elizabeth then lumbered into view. And I do mean, lumbered. She’d put on about ten stone since I’d last seen her! My God, she was big! Her face was still the same, though. The same colour of eyes as me (hazel) and the same pointy chin. But she really had been enjoying her food. She’s a hotel manager, by the way. Elizabeth was dressed in a dark-blue velvet jacket and wide blue slacks with yellow flowers on them. A yellow necklace with beads as big as eggs. And her long black hair was wound into a tiny bun at the nape of her neck. She was well made-up, though. And her fingernails were long and red and quite exquisite. Elizabeth was never very particular about her nails and make-up when she was living in Belfast.
‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ I cried, doing my best to hug her. ‘I’m so glad you were able to make it. How’ve you been?’
‘Well, I can tell you one thing, Mags, I’ve not been on a diet!’
Another discreet nudge from Bill.
‘It’s just so brilliant to see you both again,’ I wept.
And it was. I ushered them up to our bedroom so they could change their clothes and have a sit-down in peace, without half of the population of the city staring at them. Elizabeth could hardly get up the stairs, she was that puffed.
‘Now you know why I didn’t make it home sooner,’ she gasped, as I showed them into my ivory boudoir. ‘I wanted to lose weight first. This is nice, Mags love. I like your bed.’
‘You don’t know what this means to me. Thanks so much for coming,’ I said, kissing her bronzed cheek tenderly. ‘You’re here now and we’ll have a good long chat about life and everything when the funeral is over. Now, do you want to see Daddy first thing? Or do you want to have something to eat?’
‘We had a bite of lunch on the plane,’ Ann sighed, ‘but I could murder a proper cup of tea, love. Really stewed, the way we used to make it in the old days.’
‘Okay, then. You two get your breath back and I’ll fetch a tray up. And you can come downstairs and wow the rest of them when you’re ready. There’re hundreds of people milling about down there and I think the novelty of my good room is beginning to wear off. I need a new attraction. So be prepared to chat until your jaw drops off!’
They didn’t let me down.
At dawn on the day of the funeral, the last cup of tea had been drunk. The last biscuit had been swallowed. All the booze was gone, even the out-of-date liqueurs at the back of the dining-room cabinet. Any number of songs had been sung, including Dad’s all-time Country and Western favourite, ‘Are You Teasin’ Me?’ – by the Louvin brothers, somebody said.
I’d been asked about ten thousand times how my mother was coping. The implication being that she didn’t give a flying fig about her poor lonely dead husband.
‘Oh, she’s in despair,’ I said. ‘She’s too upset to travel, actually.’ Even though I knew she was merrily grilling organic pork sausages, and hand-stitching lavender sachets to hang on every handle and shelf of the guest house.
Then the mourners gathered on the ground floor after they’d had a final peek round the rest of the house en route to the bathrooms, and the priest began to say the rosary. I saw my poor heathen children creeping down the hall towards the kitchen in case anyone noticed they didn’t know the words to the prayers. It was only then it dawned on me how hard it must be for the first generation of secular children in a long line of devoutly religious ancestors. How strange it is for them when everybody else is blessing themselves and muttering ancient prayers and they’re just standing there, clueless. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. Because I was the one who was supposed to be in charge.
The good room was then officially emptied of all persons except for Bill and myself. I didn’t know what to do so I simply touched Dad’s hands gently and said a brief goodbye to him. I didn’t kiss his cheek – we were never a kissing sort of family. I did tell him I loved him, for the very first time in my life (though sadly, not his). Bill and I then left the room together, holding hands and feeling completely weirded-out. The undertakers screwed the lid down tight over my father’s still-frowning face and it was over. Sixty-eight years of seething resentment and missed opportunities. And the woman who should have been there beside him was busy handing out plates of cooked breakfast to her guests in the B&B in Devon.
What a gold-medal skiver!
Pity they don’t have it in the Olympics.
We Irish, we’d clean up in the ‘Bizarre Funeral Rituals’ and the ‘Avoiding Painful Emotional Issues’ categories.
So, there was me, Bill, our children, my sisters and several hundred strangers in the chapel that morning. And the priest finally understood that I was an odd sort of Catholic when I refused point-blank to go up on the altar and read from the Bible. Not for any political reason in particular, mind you: I just couldn’t face addressing an audience. And Bill and the kids wouldn’t have known where to stand or how to walk off again, so they couldn’t do it. I mean, what are you supposed to do when your father croaks it, but reading in church has a laxative effect? So, yes, I did actually decline to read at my own father’s funeral Mass. Well, the crowd had never seen anything like it. You could hear the gasps of horror a mile away. Somebody actually said out loud, ‘Sweet Jesus Christ, is the daughter not goin’ to do the readin’?’
At the burial, I simply couldn’t cry. I was so angry with my father for ignoring me for forty years. And for letting my mother walk away from him without a backward glance. The two of them had cheated us out of a lifetime of happy family memories. Even though it wasn’t their fault they were incompatible, I suppose. Ann and Elizabeth were too shell-shocked by the sea of mournful grey faces, the crowd huddled together in long black coats, to cry either. Majestically turned out (Ann in a bright red trouser suit and matching pillbox hat, and Elizabeth in a sweeping purple cape and jaunty beret), they were the only spot of colour on the day.
I invited all the well-wishers to the post-burial dinner afterwards because I was too much of a coward not to. Mentally, I was hoarding our savings for Emma’s baby, but they’d given us good value as mourners and they deserved to be fed and watered. But I think they could tell it was a duty rather than a pleasure for Bill and myself when Bill did a rough head-count at the cemetery gates and called the hotel to let them know, all the while totting up costs on his pocket calculator. Needless to say, we were about as popular as dysentery in the hotel afterwards. (Sorry about all this lavatorial imagery, by the way.) They shook hands
with us again but there was an unspoken accusation in the air. Middle-class know-it-alls, they seemed to say. I wore the biggest pair of dark glasses I could find and us Grimsdales skulked off into the residents’ private bar as soon as the meal was over. Well, we weren’t exactly residents but after stumping up for such a huge function, how could they refuse us? A glass or two of brandy beside that roaring (gas) fire in the dimly lit bar, and the chill began to leave my aching bones.
Poor Dad.
Poor me.
Dad’s landlord wasn’t so shy, however. When we phoned him the following day, he said could we please have the house cleared by the end of the week? As he wanted to redecorate and get some new tenants in. Also, we had to cancel Dad’s pension, and the milk, and get the amenities disconnected. Mass cards were ordered and his heart medication was returned to the chemist for safe disposal.
There’s a lot to do when someone dies.
We brought the leaning stacks of yellowing newspapers to the recycling depot. All of the furniture was knackered so I arranged for the council to take it to the dump. The rest of his stuff fitted into two black bags, which we stored in our garden shed for the time being because Alicia-Rose is afraid of ghosts and she wouldn’t let the bags anywhere near our attic. And suddenly that was it. A life over and gone.
Oh, yes, Emma turned up at the hotel later that evening and was reunited with Alexander. They were kissing tenderly in the lobby as the mourners were leaving, and I thought to myself, there’s a new life beginning as another one ends. It was the only hopeful moment in the day until we discovered two things. First, Emma’s own parents had thrown her out of the house and said they wouldn’t be suckered into babysitting yet another illegitimate grandchild. They already had more than enough on their plates what with Emma’s two sisters’ offspring, and so on. And secondly, Emma said she would like to keep the baby but could we please pay for a planned Caesarean section as she was completely phobic about childbirth? And that was why she’d left Alexander in the first place.
