by Tracy Bloom
‘You do?’ he says, looking up at me, a very pained expression on his face.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘You complete me too.’
I smile and squeeze him then turn around and stride for the door. Outside I breathe.
Nineteen
‘Oh my lord,’ gasps Maureen. ‘Do you know who you remind me of?’
‘Who?’
‘Priscilla Presley.’
The images of Priscilla that pop up in my mind are not favourable. Plastic fixed features, pale face and big hair too dark for her complexion. A caricature, not a person. I dash towards Maureen’s full-length mirror on the front of her wardrobe and look at myself. Am I a laughing stock?
‘We got married on the same day, you know,’ says Maureen.
‘Really?’ I say, turning to her in astonishment. This was a new fact.
She nods. ‘It was good publicity.’ She laughs and shakes her head. ‘I wore a lot of heavy black eyeliner with my white dress because that’s what you did in those days and that’s what Priscilla did. And Ray wore a tuxedo, just like Elvis.’
‘Wow, you must have been quite a sight.’
‘We were in the paper. Ray rang them to say we were having an Elvis wedding.’
‘So you were the first couple in history to have an Elvis-themed wedding. You set the trend.’
She grins. ‘We did feel the bee’s knees. We got loads of attention and Ray got loads more bookings. We went to America after that and were on the road until it all started to go quiet. It was looking like we were going to have to pack up and come home. Then Elvis died, of course. What a blessing that was! We were turning bookings down for years after that, Ray was so busy. If Elvis hadn’t have died, well, we’d have been back here living in a bungalow, no doubt.’
She shudders at the thought, then looks me up and down again. I’ve teamed my flamboyant hair with a black shift dress and some red platform shoes. A confident update of the nineties was my thinking. A woman of a certain age who hasn’t given in to plain knits and supermarket jeans. A woman who wants to be noticed for all the right reasons.
‘You look like you could kick some ass, lady,’ she adds. ‘Perfect for where we’re going.’ She grabs her stick and starts to pull herself up from her chair. ‘I wasn’t going to ask you, given your circumstances, but seeing you like this – well, I think you’re ready.’
‘Ready for what? Where are you going?’
‘A funeral.’
Twenty
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you seriously need me to answer that?’
‘Come on, it’ll give you some ideas.’
‘On what?’
‘How you want yours to be.’
I’m tempted to just walk out. She’s clearly lost it and if she cannot understand why it’s a bad idea then I’m not explaining it to her.
‘Come on,’ she says, still struggling out of her chair. ‘You’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.’
I am wearing black, I suppose.
‘No. No way!’
‘But I’ll have to go on my own if you don’t come.’
‘You were going on your own anyway, weren’t you?’
‘But it will be more fun if you were coming too.’
‘It’s a funeral, not a party.’
Maureen stops short and looks at me.
‘A funeral should be a party,’ she says seriously. ‘It’s a celebration of Emily’s life.’
‘I don’t even know who Emily is,’ I argue, raising my arms in protest.
‘Well, she’s dead so that doesn’t matter.’
‘But what about her family?’
‘She only had a son and he was a mean piece of work, which is why we need to go. Make the numbers up. I’ll just get my coat.’ She hobbles towards the hooks next to the door.
‘But how do I explain who I am?’
What am I saying? I won’t need to explain who I am because I won’t be going.
‘We’ll say you’re my… my… partner,’ she says with a smile.
‘Partner! As in…’
‘Lesbian, yes.’
Now I’m speechless. This is not happening.
‘But don’t you think…’
‘You would be out of my league. Possibly now you’ve spruced yourself up but I was always a bit of a goer in my youth. How do you think I managed to pull the East Midlands’ pre-eminent Elvis impersonator?’
She reaches for her coat and busies herself buttoning it up.
‘I’m not coming,’ I say.
She looks up at me. ‘Do you want Mark in charge of your funeral?’
I stare back at her as my mind is instantly filled with a classy but sombre affair. Everyone in black, tradition far outweighing any shred of personality whatsoever. Where would she sit, I find myself thinking with a shudder. Discreetly at the back, or at his side, as a ‘friend’ who’s stepped up to support him in his hour of need?
‘No,’ I answer quietly.
‘Well, you’d better come with me then. Come and see what you don’t want, at a funeral you have no attachment to, so you can leave clear instructions. Get it over with then you don’t have to think about it again, knowing it’s all in hand.’
I stare back at her. I really don’t know what to say.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, it’s only at the crem, we’ll be in and out in half an hour. They don’t mess about at those dos, you know.’
And that’s how I find myself going to a stranger’s funeral in order to plan my own.
Twenty-One
We naturally fall into silence as we approach the crematorium. Maureen has been wittering on about some nonsense in the dining room last night over rhubarb but I’ve barely listened. I’ve been trying to convince myself that she’s right and going to a funeral, when probably the next one I will be going to is mine, is a good idea.
The signs directing us to the car park are branded with the local council’s colours of purple and yellow. Fine for sending you to the recycling centre but somehow unsuitable on arrival at a funeral. Perhaps they share the same cost centre, entitled ‘Disposal’, I think. Easier to brand everything the same so we know it’s all about getting rid of stuff, whether it’s human beings or a conked-out fridge-freezer.
I park discreetly as far away as possible from the crematorium building. After all, I’m not really supposed to be here so should save the convenient spaces for those who’ve actually met the person whose funeral they’re attending.
‘Might as well have walked from home,’ grumbles Maureen, opening her door and starting to haul herself out.
I jump out and dash round to help. We don’t need another accident today. Not here. What would Nurse Hagrid say if I had to call an ambulance to a crematorium car park?
‘Why don’t you just cut out the middle man?’ she’d bellow. ‘Shove her straight into the furnace, why don’t you?’
We begin the slow amble across the tarmac, Maureen clutching my arm. The sling has gone but I’m glad of the need for concern for her wellbeing. It forces me to look at the ground to check for any potential trip hazards rather than having to look up at the tall chimney looming over our heads.
‘It’s the small chapel,’ announces Maureen as we approach the edge of the car park and are faced with yet another garish purple and yellow sign.
‘Is that the Oval Chapel?’ I ask when all I can see are arrows to either a ‘Main Chapel’ or an ‘Oval Chapel’.
‘Yes,’ she says, heading left without even glancing at the sign. She knows where she is going. A sad sign of someone her age: insider knowledge of the geography of every crematorium within a ten-mile radius.
I hold back, staring at the sign. You want to be in the Main Chapel really, don’t you? You want to be the sort of person where your funeral guests are proud to turn right at this sign, not shuffling off down the left-hand side path to be with the less popular crowd. The thought turns my stomach.
I dash to catch up with Maureen
as she turns the corner, bringing into full view the ‘modern’ sixties-style municipal toilet block that is the city’s crematorium. The geometric, functional lines strip away any shred of grandeur or tradition that surely such an event should demand. I could be entering my kids’ school for parents’ evening (actually, not enough litter bins) or taking them for swimming lessons or on my way to borrow a book. It smacks of community building in the worst possible way. It’s functional. Immaculately tidy but still functional and sterile. This is bad. Really bad.
A woman walks towards us with a clipboard and pen as I try to find something comforting to look at.
‘We are here for Emily Stonehouse,’ Maureen tells her. The woman checks something at the top of her pad then flips the paper over and looks back up.
‘Maureen Merryweather,’ Maureen tells her.
‘And your name?’ the woman asks me.
‘Oh, I, er, I don’t, I didn’t…’
‘Jenny Sutton,’ interrupts Maureen. ‘She’s new at this,’ she tells the lady and shuffles forward. ‘Come on, let’s make sure we get a decent seat,’ she says over her shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ the lady says to me with a fixed sympathetic smile.
‘Thank you,’ is all I can mutter before skirting around her to follow Maureen.
The chapel is small. I quickly count up the seats. There are four seats on either side of a short aisle and there are one, two, three, four, five rows. So how many is that? My brain freezes. How do I work that out? So it must be four times five, which is twenty, plus four times five, which is another twenty, so that’s forty, right? I’m individually counting the seats to check my maths when I notice Maureen heading off to sit near the front.
‘No,’ I hiss, reaching forward and grabbing her hand. ‘Let’s sit at the back.’
‘But there’s plenty of room near the front, look.’
I glare at her, turn my back and sit myself down on the back row as far away as possible. For a moment I think she’s going to ignore me and carry on, but she shakes her head then makes her way towards me.
‘This is going to look terrible,’ she declares, taking her gloves off.
‘What is?’
‘When the coffin arrives and we are sat here on our own at the back as if we don’t want to be here.’
‘For one, I really don’t want to be here and two, no one will notice us once it starts filling up.’
Maureen says nothing, just purses her lips and folds her arms.
A couple walks in and takes the seats directly opposite us in the back row.
‘See, now they’ve sat at the back,’ hisses Maureen.
‘So?’
‘What if no one else comes? What if this is it and Emily’s family arrive so the front two rows are filled, then two rows empty and then us at the back? How will that look?’
‘More people must be coming,’ I hiss back.
‘I’m not so sure,’ says Maureen, shaking her head. ‘She hadn’t kept up with her Christmas card list. I bet I haven’t had one from her for a good five years. A lot of people will think she’s already dead.’
‘Really?’ I gasp.
Maureen shrugs.
There is no one coming through the doors of the chapel. I keep looking behind us praying that somebody else will walk in. A coachload from her knitting group? Her second cousins twice removed? Any warm bodies would do.
I count how many are already here seated. Fourteen. That’s it. That makes twenty-six gapingly empty seats.
‘Perhaps everyone is waiting outside,’ I whisper to Maureen.
She shakes her head in a knowing way. She knows this is it bar the close family, she’s done this before.
I look at the empty seats in front of us. I think it is possibly the most miserable sight I have ever seen. Empty seats in the ‘small’ chapel. And worse, a half-full back row planning a hasty get-away the minute it’s over. No one wants to leave it at that.
‘Let’s move,’ I say to Maureen. ‘Come on, quick. Let’s move forward.’
We move to sit behind a fat man in a too-tight suit.
‘It’s a very flattering photo,’ says Maureen, indicating the picture of Emily Nancy Stonehouse 1948–2016 on the front of the Order of Service. ‘Taken a good ten years ago, I reckon.’
She had a full rounded face, a slight double chin and eyes that disappeared when she smiled. Not overly flattering, I would say, so I dread to think what she might have looked like in real life.
A lone man in a jacket and shirt but no tie shuffles in and sits next to Maureen. We exchange sympathetic smiles. I wonder who he is to Emily. A cousin? A neighbour? An ex-colleague? An ex-lover or maybe even a current lover?
I look at the picture again of Emily smiling at me from the Order of Service. Unlikely, I think. The man is as skinny as a whip, his face flushed from years of excesses. They wouldn’t look right together somehow. But who knows? Who will ever know? Secrets get buried with the dead, don’t they? I glance over again and allow my mind to wonder at the secrets Emily might share with this man.
By the look of him I reckon he might have been her partner in crime. Literally. Did she plan a series of burglaries with him when her husband lost his job as a coal miner in the seventies and couldn’t put food on the table? She knew they had to eat and she knew Jack could help her. Did her husband ever ask where the joint of beef came from or the endless supply of milk and eggs? Or was he too depressed? It was Jack who helped them survive. Jack and his skinny frame that could zip in and out of carelessly left-open windows like a ghost.
I look across at the man again and see that he has his head bent and his eyes closed in prayer. Unlikely for a petty criminal, I reflect, and begin to rethink Jack’s story. As I’m staring at him, he opens his eyes and turns to look directly at me and winks. I look away in surprise. Who winks at a funeral? But then again, who comes to a funeral dressed as a Spice Girl? I smooth my skirt down over my knees and sit with my hands crossed primly on my lap.
The low-level hum of music steps up a gear and Maureen grabs hold of the chair in front and hauls herself up. Everyone is rising so I stand with my eyes fixed forward until I can sense it passing down the aisle to my right and I see it out the corner of my eye.
The coffin.
Twenty-Two
‘You wouldn’t have dark wood, would you?’ whispers Maureen as we watch the pallbearers lower the box onto the plinth. ‘It’s too old-fashioned for you.’
I sit down before my legs give way.
‘I do like the flowers on top of the coffin for a woman though,’ she adds, lowering herself down to join me. ‘Very pretty. But not pink, eh? You’re not really a pink person.’
I look down at my hands. I can’t look at the coffin – it burns my eyes. Suddenly the room is filled with everyone I know. There’s Mark and Ellie and George on the front row. Mark is stony-faced, Ellie is wearing too much make-up and George’s head has sunk to a new low. Mum is wearing her black fake-fur coat which she saves for special occasions, so that’s something, and Dad is in his best suit and pristine black tie, the only sign of his illness the bewildered look on his face. Antony and his wife Mischa, along with their only son Lucas, sit themselves slightly apart from the others with chins held high, representing the sane, successful side of the family. I see glimpses of others: Zoe, Lisa, Heather, some childhood friends, Maureen, of course. Would I fill the main chapel, I wonder, or is it the ‘small’ chapel for me?
I can hear a man talking. I don’t look up as I can’t bear to catch sight of the coffin again. He’s saying things about Emily. When I say ‘saying’, I mean he’s reading a list of facts and figures. It’s the Wikipedia version of her life. Where she was born, where she went to school, where she worked, who she married, what children she had, when and how she lost her husband, when and how she died.
Whilst important, it leaves no impression of who she really was. What made her happy, for example? Food by the looks of it. Maybe she baked the best Vic
toria sponge in the area or it was her favourite treat to go a hotel and partake in an all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast. She didn’t need to stay over, that would have been wasted on her, it was just the breakfast she was after. Happiness to her was the ability to have four hash browns just for starters followed by full English then a bacon butty. On the side would be three mini croissants as well as as much white toast as she could fit in. Never brown toast. In Emily’s opinion brown toast with English breakfast was just wrong, though she wasn’t averse to slipping in a bit of continental with a few slices of cold ham and cheese as a cleansing course. A bit like sorbet.
This would give me an idea of the real Emily. She’s jolly, she’s down-to-earth, she’s straightforward, she knows what she likes and doesn’t care too much about what others think of her. If she did she’d be eating yoghurt at the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. Now that’s a different kind of person entirely.
I manage to raise my eyes to look at the man still churning out Emily’s statistics. He’s in a suit, no dog collar. Clearly not a man of religion. I pick up the Order of Service and open it. Glancing down, I notice no hymns. In fact no audience participation whatsoever. I look down the page for evidence that someone else will speak of Emily apart from this stranger who has no idea about her or her obsession with breakfast buffets. No one else is mentioned.
I look towards the middle-aged man on the front row who must be her son. He’s staring up at the ceiling. He could be anywhere. I hope he’s here somewhere. No one is going to talk about the real Emily Stonehouse. I wish I could. I think I would if I could. Everyone deserves to be explained at their funeral. Their stories told. Their foibles discussed. That is what makes us human, not the list of dry facts and figures that are merely signposts to our lives.
I look down at the Order of Service again. It will be over too soon. It’s going too quickly and I know what that means: the end is nigh. I’ve never been to a cremation before. All the other, thankfully few, funerals I have attended have been in a church, followed either by a burial or a family cremation. Neither of which I have ever been witness to. I know I don’t want to see what happens at the end. I don’t need to see it. I don’t think I will be able to hold it together and somehow it’s too personal. That moment is for people who at least knew Emily, not an interloper like me.
