by Simon Booker
I met his gaze and smiled.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I will.’
TOM
I knew Dad and George were on bad terms but to boycott your own father’s funeral? Seriously?
Dad texted just after nine, as soon as the Silk FM show ended. I’d tuned in to the final hour, to check he was still in one piece after Paris. If he was upset, he didn’t let it show on-air. His text was short and not very sweet.
Hope today goes well. Will try and come to your show tonight.
So he wasn’t planning to go to his own father’s funeral and would only ‘try’ to attend the biggest night of his son’s life.
Cheers, Dad.
Mum emailed to say she wouldn’t be flying back for George’s send-off. It was ‘all for the best’ and he was ‘one of a kind – a force of nature’. Whatever that meant.
At first, I thought no one aside from me, Harriet and Nancy would turn up to send him on his way. The north London crematorium was almost deserted as we arrived on the dot of 11 a.m. A couple of stragglers were left from the first funeral of the day but made themselves scarce when they realized we were next on the conveyor belt.
And then ‘our’ mourners began to arrive – almost all women. They came singly and in couples, on foot, in chauffeur-driven cars, minicabs and taxis – all well-heeled women of ‘a certain age’.
To begin with, most stood awkwardly on their own, until a stylish redhead sporting five-inch stilettos and a black hat initiated a bit of small talk. A hubbub of conversation began to spread around the grounds of the crematorium, then the laughter started and the atmosphere began to change, going from funereal to cocktail party.
‘How did they know where to come?’ said Harriet.
Nancy blew her nose. ‘Word spreads. A good man is hard to find.’
The women didn’t introduce themselves to me, the only family member present, but I didn’t take offence. This was a Brocklebank funeral but the mourners had known George far better than I had. If condolences were due it was to them, not me.
Imelda Shine was the last to arrive, stepping from her chauffeur-driven Bentley and crossing the courtyard at a brisk pace. She placed a bony hand on my arm.
‘At least he died doing the work he loved,’ she said.
Nancy’s nostrils flared. ‘Are you the Shine woman?’
Imelda’s eyes flickered towards Nancy’s handbag and shoes. Both had seen better days. ‘You must be Nancy. I gather he was with you when we lost him.’
‘If we’d lost him I’d have sent out a search party,’ sniffed Nancy. ‘The old bugger died.’
Imelda stared for a moment then began to laugh. She pointed at Nancy. ‘You’re sitting with me.’
Linking arms, they walked into the chapel. Their fellow mourners followed, as if they’d been waiting for the arrival of their queen bee. I was about to follow suit when Paddy sidled up and drew something from a carrier bag.
‘He wanted you to have this.’
He handed me a red exercise book. I flicked through the dog-eared pages. Copperplate handwriting. Black ink. Proper fountain pen.
‘His autobiography,’ said Paddy.
I remembered George telling me the title. You Had to Be There.
‘People say the book’s too racy or that no one would believe it.’
‘He was no God-botherer,’ said Paddy, ‘but he asked me to tell you that “the truth shall set you free”.’
‘Meaning?’
He was about to reply but Harriet tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and followed her gaze. A horse-drawn hearse was entering the courtyard, driven by two coachmen in top hats. The coffin was festooned with white lilies. Without warning, tears sprang to my eyes. The cover of George’s record flashed into my mind – his shot at stardom, the photo of him as a young man sporting a trilby and a smile. I’d never heard the song, a ballad accompanied by a simple piano solo, but would always remember its title: ‘The Days Are Long (But The Years Are Short)’. I assume it was thanks to my father that it was playing as the coffin was carried inside, the crowd listening to George crooning lyrics filled with melancholy and regret.
The days are long
But the years are short
Life’s game must be learned
But cannot be taught
Forget and forgive
That’s how we must live
The days are long
But the years are short
It was a humanist service, conducted by a celebrant called Julia. She appeared to know a good deal more about the ‘dear departed’ than was the case at most funerals. Perhaps she too had been a member of George’s ‘fan club’, as she referred to the mourners. There were no hymns, just a couple of songs – Nat King Cole’s ‘Let There Be Love’ and, inevitably, Sinatra’s ‘My Way’, with which we all sang along. I was half-expecting eulogies from one or two of the women but Julia was the only speaker, talking of George’s ‘indefatigable lust for life’, a turn of phrase that provoked sniggers from the back row.
After forty-five minutes, we emerged from the chapel into the drizzle and cold. Having planned the funeral to the last detail, it seemed that Dad had drawn the line at arranging a wake. Most of the mourners left immediately, leaving a handful of dawdlers to congregate in the courtyard, exchanging email addresses and numbers. Those who stayed seemed more relaxed now that the main event was over; there was almost a party atmosphere. Several women came to shake my hand, one or two telling me how much I reminded them of my grandfather, something I found a) comforting and b) weird since I’d never thought there was much resemblance.
As Nancy and Paddy were driven away in Imelda’s Bentley, Harriet enfolded me in a warm embrace. It was the first time we’d been so close since that kiss in the rain, the first time I’d smelt her hair in weeks. I closed my eyes and inhaled.
‘I’ve called an Uber,’ she said softly into my ear. ‘Would you like to come home with me?’
I opened my eyes and raised an eyebrow.
‘Sorry…’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s just today’s crazy… the funeral… and the show tonight.’
‘Which is why I thought you could use some down time.’
‘ “Down time”?’
While I was trying to work out if she was speaking in code, she twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. Not for the first time, I reflected that being around death makes people behave differently. Things seem more vivid somehow – there’s an urge to be honest, to make every second count.
‘I love you, Harriet,’ I said.
She looked startled then her face settled into a smile.
‘I love you too.’
‘Really?’
She leaned forward and gave me a kiss. On the cheek, but even so.
‘How could anyone not love Tom?’
I decided not to press my luck. ‘It’s been quite a few weeks,’ I said.
She nodded.
‘So what time do you want me?’
Now? Always?
‘I’m meeting Zara at the pub at six o’clock,’ I said. ‘Mendoza’s due at eight so we’ll have time to run through everything.’
‘Six it is. Will you be okay till then?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
* * *
I saw her off in the cab then called one for myself and waited in the portico, sheltering from the rain. The courtyard was deserted and silent. I contemplated texting Dad to tell him everything had gone according to plan but decided against it. He’d done his duty but no more than the bare minimum, so, as the saying goes, fuck him and the horse he rode in on.
Leaning against the redbrick wall, I flicked through the exercise book. George’s ‘autobiography’ was in the form of a diary. Straightaway, my eye was drawn to an entry written on the date of my sixth birthday. The chapter mentioned a gift he was planning to give me, a rocking horse. It was headlined in capital letters.
THE DAY THE SHIT HIT THE FAN.
RICHARD
Taking a seat in the empty Silk FM studio, I reached into the envelope Paddy had sent me, slipped the record from its sleeve and set it to play. As the piano solo began, I studied George’s photo on the cover. His trilby. His smile. His shot at immortality.
The days are long
But the years are short
Life’s game must be learned
But cannot be taught
Forget and forgive
That’s how we must live
The days are long
But the years are short
We all make mistakes
And I’m no exception
Oh, how my heart aches
For my cruel deception
So now here I am
Down on my knees
My pleas for forgiveness
Lost on the breeze
There’s no one to blame
I lost at life’s game
The days are long
But the years are short
The song ended. Silence descended. I sat for a moment then lifted the stylus and set the record to play again.
HARRIET
Tom’s declaration of love caught me off guard. So did Richard’s marriage proposal, but life without these two blokes was now hard to imagine. So where did that leave me, apart from thirty-five, up the duff and minted? Over the years, I’d had enough junk male to last a lifetime, but had I found more than my fair share of Mr Rights?
As Richard had said, his proposal was ‘a bit Jane Austen’, and as for Tom, I’d only snogged him once or twice, but did that matter? Weren’t friendship and trust the best basis for love? Wasn’t my so-called ‘relationship’ with Cockweasel a warning from the future? Carry on as you are and this is the best you can expect. I couldn’t help remembering a line from Thelma and Louise, one of Nan’s favourite non-horror films: ‘You get what you settle for.’
If I settled for Tom or Richard would that be so terrible?
* * *
I was at Nan’s when Zara called. She sounded like she’d been crying, which was hardly surprising. Apparently a speeding van had sent her flying while she was on a zebra crossing so she was calling from hospital, nursing two broken legs, a smashed pelvis and God knows what else. There was no way she could do Tom’s try-out and she’d been desperately trying to call him but he wasn’t answering and OHMIGOD OHMIGOD OHMIGOD!
So I phoned Tom but the call went straight to voicemail. Five minutes later I tried again and left another message. Then I sent a text.
Zara in hospital! She can’t do your show tonight. Call me! NOW!
But he didn’t.
It was pouring with rain so I jumped into an Uber and went straight to Dalston, hoping to find him at his local, but no one had seen him. The room above the pub was empty apart from crates of fizzy drinks and boxes of Kettle Chips. By 6 p.m. I’d left four voicemails and sent three texts but Tom still hadn’t responded, so I texted Richard. He told me not to worry – his son was prone to cutting things fine. Hmmm… Today’s vanishing act didn’t chime with the Tom I knew – dependable, trustworthy Tom. It was partly his reliability that had drawn me to him in the first place. Most blokes are flakes, so to find one who showed up on time and kept his word was brilliant. WTF had happened to him?
My thoughts were interrupted by a burst of laughter from the bar downstairs, followed by footsteps on the creaking wooden staircase. Tom entered, holding his keyboard under his arm. I could see he was drunk. His face was flushed, his hair wet and his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying.
‘Sorry,’ he slurred. ‘Hell of a day.’
I swallowed my impatience, forcing myself to remember he’d just buried his grandfather.
‘Did you get my messages? About Zara?’
He nodded and mumbled something about planning to send her flowers.
‘So what are you going to do about the musical?’ I said.
He turned to face me.
‘That depends on you.’
‘Me?’
‘You know the show by heart. I need you to take her place.’
Okay, I know I should have seen it coming but what with the Silk FM show and George’s funeral and Zara’s accident and everything else, the idea of me stepping into her shoes hadn’t crossed my mind – well, maybe for a nanosecond, but then THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS had surfaced and I’d forced myself to focus on other things. Now, here we were, on the biggest night of Tom’s life and all I could think was, PLEASE DON’T ASK ME TO DO THIS, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!
‘Is there an audience?’ I said.
He nodded.
‘The pub’s put the word out among the regulars. Should be about fifty people.’
FIFTY? MIGHT AS WELL BE FIFTY MILLION!
He carried on talking but I’d stopped listening and THE WINDOW IS OPEN AND I COULD PUSH YOU OUT BEFORE YOU COULD STOP ME, OR I COULD JUMP, BECAUSE ANYTHING WOULD BE BETTER THAN PERFORMING IN FRONT OF FIFTY PEOPLE AND THE THOUGHT MAKES ME WANT TO PISS MY PANTS.
He was saying something. I tried to focus.
‘You’re the only one who can help, Harriet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’
His face fell.
‘I don’t understand. I thought we were friends. More than friends.’
And suddenly, I was racing out of the room, down the wooden staircase and out onto the main road. The rain was falling harder now, stinging my cheeks as I ran along the pavement. Crossing the road, I splashed through a puddle then ran on, my feet pounding the concrete, my heart racing and THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS and next thing I knew, I slammed into a man emerging from a kebab shop, ricocheted off him and toppled off the rain-slicked kerb, into the path of an oncoming bus. The blast from the horn was deafening. The driver swerved, missing me by inches as I collapsed in the gutter. Kebab Guy was saying something, tugging me by the arm and hoisting me up, back onto the pavement, then he was gone. Slumped in a doorway, my heart hammering, tears and rain pouring down my face, I tried to catch my breath. Glancing up to the skies, I saw a cable – some kind of electrical wire – strung across the street, from one rooftop to another, like a tightrope. And I remembered what George said about walking a tightrope and keeping going and never looking down, and that brought back everything the CBT woman had told me about ‘exposure therapy’, where you confront your worst fears – not doing everything you can to avoid what frightens you most but immersing yourself in the very thing that scares the shit out of you. In that instant I knew this was one of those moments that I could either look back on for the rest of my life and hate myself for not doing all I could, not just for Tom but for myself, or I could find the courage to tackle the tightrope.
As my breathing returned to normal, I got to my feet and retraced my steps. In the room above the pub Tom was on his mobile.
‘Can I call you back?’ he said into his phone. ‘She’s just walked in.’
He hung up and took a step towards me, his face etched with worry as he took stock of my appearance.
‘Jesus, are you okay?’
I managed a nod.
‘We’ve got an hour,’ I said, heading for the loo. ‘Give me five minutes to sort myself out.’
‘Then what?’
I smiled, trying to sound braver than I felt.
‘Then let’s get this show on the road.’
His face lit up and I thought he was going to tell me he loved me again, but he just said, ‘Thank fuck for that,’ and reached for his phone.
In the loo, I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
‘Fuck off’, I said, not to myself but to The Thoughts. ‘Fuck off, fuck off, FUCK OFF, FUCK OFF!’
I’d love to be able to say it worked like a charm, silencing the voices forever, but what happened was the opposite: a sudden escalation of The Thoughts that felt overwhelming, like a psychological tsunami. Every foul thing you can imagine – every vile thought, eve
ry negative emotion, every self-punishing, self-sabotaging idea – was clamouring inside my head, growing louder and nastier and more and more intense with every second. Instead of doing what I normally do, which is push everything away, I kept staring at my reflection and telling The Thoughts to fuck the fuck off with fuck off sauce and fuck off sprinkles. Then I took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror and walked out of the toilet.
In my absence, Tom had tidied the room, created a small stage area and arranged chairs for the expected audience. He was sitting at the Yamaha, picking out the intro to the opening song, ‘Boy Meets Girl’. I’ve never seen anyone look quite so miserable.
‘Has something happened?’ I said. Without answering, he gave a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘The show must go on,’ he said then he turned back to the keyboard and began to warble the first line of the opening song. I joined in, managing to drown out The Thoughts in my head by focusing one hundred per cent on the lyrics and the melody.
We ran through ‘Boy Meets Girl’ with just a couple of hitches – nothing to worry about, just a consequence of my being rusty. If anything, Tom’s playing was even better than usual, looser and more impassioned. Moving on to the second song, ‘Co-dependent Blues’, I hit the high notes in the middle-eight without any difficulty at all. By the time we ran through the title song, a ragtime pastiche called ‘They F**k You Up’, we were properly warmed up. I took a deep swig of mineral water and checked my watch. Five to eight.
YOU’RE A RUBBISH SINGER, ABOUT TO HUMILIATE YOURSELF IN FRONT OF A BIG PRODUCER AND A BIG CROWD, INCLUDING TOM AND HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
