Chinaski

by Frances Vick

  “There’s hundreds of them!” and she opened the door again, forcing it wider, making someone stumble and fall, and pushed herself out.

  Her daughters twisted over each other to follow her and one of them ducked back in excitedly, saying, “There’s cameras!” and then scrambled out, after her sister.

  Bodies pressed around the queue of cars. Fans, the press, the curious, and the stricken lined the path to the church and all but blocked the door. The driver sounded the horn, and Peter saw six pairs of boots jump away from the open door before the car lurched forward again, the door flapping open.

  “It’s Peter! Peter!” shouted shrill and unfamiliar voices, and someone put a camera in his face, the flash temporarily blinding him, and the papers the next day carried a picture of Lydia open mouthed, shocked alongside a squinting serious Peter. He slammed the door, feeling adrenaline rise in his chest, hearing his voice shake.

  “This is going to be tough.”

  Lydia sat as if pinned in the corner, her mouth still open. There was a great tussling and grunting next to Peter as Cora heaved herself sideways, dragging her dress out from under his thighs and straightening her tent-like raincoat.

  “Can’t get any further,” said their driver.

  Cora painfully shimmied her way to the edge of the seat, pushing on Peter’s shoulder for support as she got up to open the door. It slammed into a teenager who staggered sideways into the mud. Cora pushed the door even further open and gestured to Lydia and Peter with one baggy arm. Ducking under flailing hands, cameras and signs, they all jogged towards the church. Up ahead, Peter could see what looked like a small demonstration – banners, intense faces. At his elbow he felt, rather than saw Lydia’s dread and willed himself to turn around and comfort her. She sagged against his shoulder and they walked together into the church. Kathleen had reserved them seats at the front, right in front of the coffin, while she sat with Miriam, on the family side of the aisle.

  Strange how small a coffin always looks. There it was, on its ghastly gurney, all cheap wood and brass, covered with rain drenched flowers, and nobody wanted to look at it and nobody could look at anything else. People fidgeted, they didn’t know how to act. The truly grief stricken tried to behave normally, while others wondered how best to display a grief they didn’t feel enough for comfort. Peter looked behind him and saw Freida staring fixedly at her knees and taking deep, deliberate breaths. Ian sat beside her with an awkward smile, inches of space between them. Lydia, her eyes closed tightly, was shaking against Peter’s side. Dom, way off to the edge in borrowed trousers and his leather jacket, stood frozen, staring at the coffin, his lips twitching. And who was that? The man crying at the back? Dougie? Dougie! Greyer. Thinner. The only clear sounds were Miriam’s chokes and Kathleen’s hissed “...Dignity...grace...” and these mixed with the sound of the crowd outside in the rain.

  When Chris Harris strode into the church, wearing the same outfit he’d worn on ‘Near Dark’, he took his place with the family, shaking Bob’s hand and hugging Miriam, as if he knew them, as if he belonged with them.

  The whole service passed in a tragi-comic montage. The priest eulogised about a young man he’d never met. The organist began all the hymns in such a high register that they had to be sung in an uncomfortable falsetto. Rain dripped from the flowers onto the altar cushions, and then onto the floor, forming a puddle that Kathleen nearly slipped on when it was time for her to do her reading. When Cora’s walking stick clattered into the aisle, Kathleen paused long enough to cause embarrassed giggles. At one point the back door blew open and conversation from the crowd drifted in. The congregation heard: “...might have been murder...”. They heard snatches of sung lyrics and the kind of angry gaiety teenagers share when they’re waiting for something, some event, something defining. When Peter looked back on it, that’s what he remembered. The outside stuff, the local colour. At the time, he groped towards feeling for his friend in the box and tried desperately to summon up the magic phrases that had helped him to cry earlier – ‘My friend is dead. My best friend is dead, and he’s there, in that coffin,’ – but it didn’t work twice. There was too much to think about. Was there any point in carrying on with the band? Any band? Should he talk to John about it? Did he even want to work with John anymore? How long do inquests take? Was there any point in having one, just to find out that Carl took too many epilepsy pills? Did anyone seriously think Carl would kill himself? Had he killed himself? All these thoughts pulled him back into critical distance, back to lonely, cold observation. Carl’s death was old news now, it didn’t pack the same punch anymore.

  And then it was time to go. The coffin was carried joltingly back towards the door, followed by the priest, and an awkward gap of comprehension. Was this like a wedding, where the family peeled off first and followed the happy couple? Or could you go when you wanted? People looked at each other, at Miriam and Bob, waiting for direction. Kathleen stood up decisively, but quickly sat down again. Eventually Chris Harris stood, lent his arm to Miriam, and made his way down the aisle, and the relief was palpable. People rattled their handbags and pockets for cigarettes, let out their coughs, whispers and sniffles, and spread out in an untidy tide through the doors, Chris leading the way with Miriam, Bob following behind, eyes on the floor.

  Outside the rain had stopped. A camera swung towards Miriam and a suited stranger leaned in, trying to make himself heard over the crowd. Chris dug his fingers into Miriam’s elbow and steered her towards the waiting cars; their sudden quick pace made the rest of the funeral guests trot and puff to keep up. The crowd of kids was smaller than it had seemed at the start, maybe just thirty or so, and they were arranged in a tight doughnut around a homemade sign: ‘Justice For Carl’.

  Keeping his head down, hoping not to be recognised, Peter heard a girl being interviewed: “We don’t believe it was suicide, or natural causes or anything. We want an inquiry, we think it was murder.” Her friend wore a homemade t-shirt that said ‘Carl Howell died for your sins’.

  “What does that mean, your t-shirt?” asked the interviewer.

  The girl was shy, inarticulate, “It’s just a thing, it’s just, you know, a saying.”

  “So it means nothing?”

  She hesitated, a silly smile on her lips, and looked at her stronger, vehement friend for support.

  “We believe it was murder,” shrieked the friend.

  “Do you know anyone or have you heard of anyone who’s killed themselves over Carl Howell?”

  “Oh yes, yes, loads. And it’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “But do you know anyone, by name perhaps.”

  The vehement girl hesitated, hating to give ground. “No. No. But it’s common knowledge.”

  “He was so important, he was so important,” whispered the quiet friend.

  Peter felt Lydia quailing beside him, and he gripped her hand to stop her from making a fool of herself, thinking don’t let them see me, don’t make a fucking sound. He half dragged, half carried her towards the cars, where Kathleen was waiting with her sullen daughters, tapping her foot and smoking.

  They began the long drive in silence. The girls stared out of the windows, bored. Kathleen’s foot kept up its tattoo and she smoked constantly and nervously. They’d lost Cora somewhere along the line. Lydia asked where she was and Kathleen replied, “Oh, she won’t set foot in a crem’. Doesn’t hold with it. Says it’s against nature.”

  “We’re going to the crematorium?” Lydia was shocked. She’d allowed herself to imagine the funeral only in terms of her grieving alone by a graveside, visiting it every week, protecting Carl somehow. But cremation! It seemed so utilitarian, so brutally final. She imagined the furnace, the smoking chimney. She thought of flesh dripping, hair crinkling and toenails blackening into soot. Feeling trapped and sick, she looked wildly at Peter, who chose not to notice. Kathleen leaned forward and placed her thin hand on Lydia’s knee.

  “It’s all the same thing. It’s all very respectfu
l, really. It’s –” she struggled to find the right word, “– it’s clean, cremation,” and she nodded emphatically and Lydia found herself nodding with her, although she didn’t agree, couldn’t think and took another of Mother’s Valium, not caring if anyone saw her.

  * * *

  It was a long, straight drive to the outskirts of the city. They passed the pub on the estate where Kathleen had had her birthday party. They passed May Howell’s flat, the flowers by the door bedraggled now and bent under the pressure of the rain. There was a small group of Chinaski fans waiting outside, and when they saw the funeral cars they stood still, looking almost comically solemn. One broke ranks and waved, and Lydia, unthinking, waved back. They passed an industrial estate made up of low murky buildings linked by impossibly pretty names: Pleasant Row; Honeypot Lane. Eventually, at the crest of a hill, lime-tinged sunlight filtered through the low clouds, and the car made a sudden left down an unmarked track towards the crematorium, hidden tastefully from the road.

  The service passed mercifully quickly for Lydia. That third Valium lent everything a dreamlike quality and kept her safe from the sharp edges of other people’s emotions. She could sit neatly and breathe slowly, but had to remember to close her mouth and keep her eyes open. She was able to stand when she saw others stand. She noted, in a detached way, Miriam sobbing, great strings of snot hanging from her nose. She was able to watch Chris Harris making his – what would you call it? A speech? No. A...a...sermon. No. A statement, or something. A talk about Carl anyway, that she felt seemed too long but nevertheless seemed to fly by. She took none of it in. The coffin, upstage, began to move, while Chris was talking, and she assumed she was seeing things, but, when Miriam cried out and had to be taken away, Lydia noticed the electric hum of the velveteen curtains circling the coffin, hiding it from view as it trundled backwards. The curtains met and the whirring noise stopped with a snap and David Bowie came over the PA system sudden and loud. The distracted looking undertaker led them all out to a gravelled area to ‘view the flowers’, and this they all obediently did until they were told what else to do. The flowers were propped up against a painted breezeblock wall. ‘SON’ in white, but no card. A lily arrangement from DCG. A plain wreath from ‘All at Deep Focus’. A cross of white with the card left unsigned, but covered with dense handwriting. Lyrics, or poetry maybe. A teddy bear carrying a toy guitar.

  Everyone shivered in the damp air, hoping that someone would make a break for a car soon, not sure if they should speak or not, not sure how normal they should be. Bob stood apart and tearful. There was something about him that demanded and received distance, respect, reserve. Miriam on the other hand appealed for intervention; and, given the state she’d been in during the service, her absence was unsettling. Kathleen strode off to find her, pointing her daughters towards the car, while Lydia stayed near the flowers, furtively plucking one white carnation to take home with her. Her fingers closed protectively over the velvet petals and she kept her head down, moving unsteadily towards the car, and bumping into Dom on the way.

  Dom was standing with a woman Lydia almost recognised, a woman with greying hair and faded tattoos on her hands.

  “There she is,” said Dom, smiling. Lydia smiled uncertainly back. “There she is. Here she is. That’s the girl,” he nodded to his companion. “She was always alright.”

  Lydia felt a warm rush of gratitude that someone was being nice to her. She didn’t dare speak in case she didn’t make any sense, so instead she just smiled and nodded at the woman with the hand tattoos. The woman gave her a beautiful, happy smile full of brown, worn teeth.

  “Angie,” she said. “I’m Carl’s half sister.”

  “His half sister?”

  “Oh yes,” chuckled Dom. “This family’s full of secrets, things they don’t tell you. Tell her Ange.”

  But Angie smiled and shook her head. A great warmth emanated from her, and Lydia found herself swaying towards her.

  “You’re. You. Were. His sister?”

  Angie nodded, beamed, “I wasn’t around much though.”

  “I didn’t know he had a sister.”

  “There’s always things you’ll never know. Best that way.” She took Lydia’s arm and led her to the car. “You need a rest my love. You’ve been through it, Dom says. You’re a good person, I can feel it and you need to take care of yourself.”

  Lydia, dazed, allowed herself to be settled into the car. Angie leaned over her to tuck her coat in around her legs like she was an invalid.

  “He must have loved you!” she whispered. Angie smiled gently again.

  “I don’t think so. I loved him though. That’s what counts, isn’t it?”

  When Kathleen came bustling back to the car, Angie slipped away like a ghost.

  Lydia dozed during the drive back to Miriam’s house, warm under her coat, and by the time she arrived, Freida and Ian were leaving. Freida pulled on her arm, telling her that it would be best just to go home – Miriam was in a funny mood. It might be a bit upsetting – but Lydia, bolstered by Valium, felt fine. Felt good actually, really felt the worst was behind her, could really face the future better now, but thanks so much, so much. And she wandered into the house alone.

  “I don’t understand these people,” said Freida on the way home, “I don’t understand how Miriam could be absolutely beside herself one minute, joking the next.”

  Ian was more forgiving. “Maybe it’s a way of blowing off steam, or maybe she’s just embarrassed about how she was at the funeral and now wants to make up for it, make it a party. I don’t know. I think we need to be careful not to judge. I mean, we have no idea what it’s like to lose a son.”

  They drove back in silence, each alone with their own pain.

  Miriam had made a remarkable recovery since coming home, and was holding hilarious court in the living room. She’d changed from her formal funeral dress into her normal black leggings and jumper combo and was sitting back on the settee, flanked by several other middle aged women, all holding drinks and cigarettes. The funeral party had split into two. One half, made up mostly of women, stayed in the living room with Miriam, drinking, laughing and listening to Miriam’s stories. The other half, mostly men, hung about the kitchen, also drinking but in relative quiet, while Bob stood at the sink methodically washing glass after glass. He still had his hat on, but he’d rolled up his shirt sleeves neatly. Chris Harris sat at the table topping up drinks, nodding occasionally at whatever it was that Dom was whispering to him. Angie squatted on her heels in the corner, rolling cigarettes. She waved at everyone who came through the door and grinned cheerfully. Peter took a seat beside Chris and accepted a drink. The men solemnly clinked glasses. There was the sound of laughter from the living room, and furniture being moved.

  “Dancing,” said Angie from the corner. Everyone looked at Bob’s back, saw him stiffen, and rewash a glass, shaking his head.

  “Everyone will remember this in their own way,” smiled Angie.

  Elvis came on in the next room and Miriam’s voice drifted in with the smoke “...caught in a trap...”

  Angie stood up and whispered something to Bob, who nodded, and she trotted next door. The men in the kitchen heard voices raised over the music, and then the music was turned down. They heard an indignant, “...what I want in my own house!” indistinct murmurings from Angie, and Kathleen saying, “No, no, she’s right though.”

  At length the music came back on, but not Elvis now, and not loud either. Angie came back into the kitchen and sat down in the corner again.

  In the living room, Lydia sprawled on an upright chair, watching Miriam spilling her drink, kicking off her shoes and massaging her bunions. Lydia felt distant, as if she was separated from everyone by frosted glass. The general hilarity didn’t offend her, didn’t even really touch her. The funeral itself seemed very long ago, and this, here, now, had nothing to do with that at all. She even clapped along when Miriam began singing. That was fine. Angie coming in to stop the music, th
at was fine too. She gazed at Angie’s beaming face and felt great love for her, great love for everyone in the room. And when she left, and Miriam was being gently scolded by Kathleen, she said to everyone and no-one, “I really didn’t know that he had a sister, Carl I mean. She’s very nice. She’s lovely.”

  Miriam turned tearful and hurt eyes on her, while Cora pursed her lips and stared at the floor. Kathleen coughed and hurriedly filled the glasses again. A little later she took Lydia aside, “We don’t talk about that. Best not to. She’s Bob’s daughter. And she’s mad anyway, that Angie. Tried to kill herself once. Joined some Jesus cult. Best not to talk about it, especially in front of Miriam. They never got on.”

  Lydia blinked confusedly and said slowly, “Why did she try to kill herself?”

  “Why do any of them?” Kathleen shrugged, “Maybe it runs in families, eh?”

  “But Carl didn’t kill himself,” Lydia managed. Her mouth was dry. Kathleen drew the corners of her mouth down and didn’t reply. “He really didn’t!” she said again, and must have said it loudly, because more looks were directed her way. Kathleen shoved another drink at her.

  “We know, yes, yes, we know. Best be quiet though. Best leave it.”

  Over the next hour the volume in the living room crept higher and higher. The men in the kitchen leaned closer to each other, raised their voices and relied more on gesture and booze. Shrieks and snatches of singing reached them from the living room, where the music was loud. Angie didn’t intervene this time. In between tracks they heard Lydia say, “This is the weirdest funeral.”

  Bob had finished the washing up some time ago, but had stayed at the sink with his back to the men gathered around the table. Now he rolled down his shirt sleeves, put on his suit jacket, kept his eyes on the floor, and walked to the living room. Squawks of female hilarity greeted his arrival.