I said, ‘Matthew’s dead,’ and she cried. And I wondered why I couldn’t join her. Why was it that I was dry eyed? Was I normal?
‘What can I do?’
‘You could go up and talk to the girls,’ I said, and nodding she took to the stairs. Wilma is the best! One of the nicest, sincere and genuine people I have ever met. She never had children of her own, but she’s like an auntie to mine. She was mad about horses – just like fifteen-year-old Natasha, and the two of them would talk forever.
In the next few hours the house began to fill. Mark, Annie Jean’s Dad arrived. We have a good and easy relationship now, and I’m not sure, why we broke up. Perhaps it was because, after the hurt and pain of previous relationships we couldn’t move on. I think we were afraid to fully trust each other and didn’t believe that things could be different. Thankfully, we’ve remained good friends. He’s a great dad to Annie Jean, and his elder children, Rebekah and Nathan are devoted to their younger sister.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I can’t think.’
‘Can I contact anyone for you?’
‘My mother,’ I said. She had rung me earlier, responding to a message from Natasha. She knew something had happened to her adored grandson, but I hadn’t been able to tell her he was dead. Not over the phone.
She kept phoning, sounding more and more distraught, and I said I’d be down to her shortly. But she didn’t take that as an answer. She kept saying, ‘Tell me now.’
So, I did. Through my tears I said, ‘Matthew is dead. He killed himself.’
‘No Sharon,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t do that. Not Matthew. Let me talk to him.’
Did she think I was joking? Would anyone joke about something like that?
‘Could you go down there?’ I asked Mark. ‘Take Annie Jean with you, and just be with her?’
He agreed, and they drove off. The phone rang again immediately. It was Mum.
‘I’m driving up,’ she said, and I told her not to; but to wait for Mark and Annie Jean.
‘The police are with Matthew,’ I said. ‘They’re going to take him away.’
‘Take him away?’ she sounded indignant. ‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know. Some coroner’s office I think.’
‘Why?’
‘To see why he died.’
‘When?’
‘Soon, I think.’
I couldn’t bear her questions. All I wanted was the house to myself, and to wake up from this nightmare. Because deep down, I didn’t really believe that Matthew was dead. How could he be? The police hadn’t said the words, and I was waiting with a spark of hope.
My next concerns were how the girls, Bronagh and Shanice would take the news. There was no reply from Bronagh’s phone, and when I couldn’t get hold of Shanice, I rang her mum and gave her an earful. After blaming her for not keeping her daughter away from my son, I told her that I didn’t want Shanice at the funeral. By the time Shanice phoned back, I’d calmed down and I apologised to her. It was not for me to make that decision.
The news spread, and the house filled. My friends rallied round. I’d rung them, one after the other, sitting in the garden to get a signal. It was so hard. I dialled, and, in an effort to hold back tears, kept my voice even, and emotionless. ‘Matthew is dead. He took his own life.’ I’d say the words, and in the silence that followed, say that I had other calls to make.
My friends were wonderful; especially Karen, Roberta and Tina, friends who mean a lot to me. We take off now and then, for a weekend in Berlin or somewhere, and without being asked, they fell into line.
My closest friend from university, Kritti came from Newcastle upon Tyne. Karen collected her from the airport, and they arrived in, with supermarket bags overflowing. They threw themselves into the organisation, as if they dealt with death every day. Their support was so valuable – I really do not think I could have coped without them.
Thanks to Karen, there was drink for everyone; and lots of fizzy drink for Matthew’s friends. Karen’s sister, Rosemary wanted a job, and she was sent to get a bottle of Baileys for me. When she handed me a glass, saying, ‘drink this,’ I couldn’t help laughing. I’m not a drinker.
‘You do know this is a depressant,’ I said, but I drank it, anyway.
Wilma eventually went home – and returned with trays and trays overflowing with cheese and pickle sandwiches. Greenfields Nursery, where Daniel attended when I started work when Daniel was 10 weeks old, sent homemade buns and cupcakes, supplied extra chairs, and urged us to make full use of their carpark. A procession of people I didn’t recognise walked up to the house and left cards of sympathy.
I sat in the room, unable to function, whilst Karen made everyone welcome. I spoke to those who approached me, and from time to time went to Matthew, to give him a kiss. My house; my place of safety felt alien. Being there felt unsafe, and I was afraid.
I couldn’t see Kritti; but when I wandered out to the kitchen to fetch myself a glass of water, I found her on her knees, surrounded by saucepans, cleaning out a cupboard. Seeing me, she smiled, and said, ‘It’s not that your house isn’t clean – but, this makes me feel useful.’ I had to laugh.
Natasha stayed out of the way, holed in her room with her friends. When she was younger, she and Matthew, being close in age had clashed. But recently, I’d noticed they had become closer. At least, generally they had. But sometimes, Matthew overdid the caring.
Just weeks before, she’d come home from school, fuming! ‘They won’t leave me alone,’ she’d said.
‘Who won’t?’
‘Matthew. And Stuart,’ she added, naming their cousin. Throwing herself down on the couch, she said, ‘I was talking to this guy from school; just talking, and the two of them kept driving by to spy on me.’ She snorted.
‘They mean well,’ I said. ‘They’re just trying to protect you.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well they shouldn’t bother. I can look after myself.’
It wasn’t the first time Matthew had looked out for her. Natasha has inherited her grandmother’s genes – and looks more Chinese than the rest of us. When she first moved to secondary school, she was bullied for this.
Furious, Matthew stepped in and put an end to it. He knew, only too well, what such verbal abuse felt like. After all, he, too, had been bullied, until, with the support of others, he had learned to stick up for himself, and gained the reputation as someone not to be messed with. There was no way he was going to let his sister suffer as he had.
Annie Jean – my precious girl of just eight years old, who loved her brother so very much, became the practical one. She adored Matthew. They shared a love of music and danced together to their favourite tracks. Just the week before I’d heard the laughter as the two of them sang along to, ‘I’m Sexy and I know it.’
How did she find the strength to become ‘the mother?’ Acquiring, from somewhere, a hardback notebook, she asked everyone who crossed the threshold to sign their names, and she became the perfect hostess; going around serving everyone with tea, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits.
And me? I sat in a corner, stunned with shock, not crying; yet feeling inwardly dead; as if my heart had died along with the son that I loved. Time was suspended. I was just there.
The worst thing was knowing that Matthew was still in his room; still staring vacantly into space. Part of me was haunted by him; the other part wanted to be back there with him, holding him one last time.
In the afternoon, I saw a black car pull up. The policewomen came to tell me they were taking Matthew away. These men in black suits got out of the car, and walked, unsmiling, towards Matthew’s room. The sight of them – like something out of a macabre movie – made me shiver. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them take him – it was just too much, so I pulled the blinds down. But as I was doing so, I caught a glimpse of the black body bag, being hauled out to the waiting car. And, at that exact moment, Mark arri
ved, my mother in the passenger seat. I cried out in alarm.
She saw the body of the grandson she had adored, and I rushed out to protect her, but she was focused on the men; and, approaching them, asked where they were taking Matthew to. They told her, and she asked what time he’d be back – as calmly as if he was just popping out for a coffee. Getting her answer, she made her way to Matthew’s room and sat there, waiting for his return. We could hear her from the living room, crying, howling like an injured animal.
Karen, rising from the couch, went out to comfort her. After a minute or so, she brought my mother through to us, speaking to her quietly. I knew how much she was hurting and didn’t know how I could take away her pain. But my friends, taking care to talk to her, proved a great distraction. Even so, she kept disappearing into Matthew’s room.
After dinner, the house filled up with well-wishers. My mother sat in the new second sitting room, which I’d converted from the dining room, intending it for Matthew’s visiting friends.
Part of me still didn’t believe that Matthew was dead. Even though I’d seen him – and knew the body in that bag was his. Bizarrely, nobody had actually told me he was dead. All day I had been waiting for the police to announce it to me, formally, and they never said it. In my heart, he was still alive.
Turning back into the sitting room, I noticed how crowded it had become. In one way that was gratifying. It showed how many people cared, except, that some of those who were sitting around, eating sandwiches didn’t care. Or so I thought.
I saw my ex father in law, Jim, sitting in the living room as I was walking out of the kitchen. What the hell was he doing here? He didn’t love his grandson – he didn’t even know him. When I’d first met James, Jim had already bailed out of the marriage, and he hadn’t shown a shred of interest in either Matthew or Natasha.
Just three months before Matthew died, Matthew and Natasha had been walking the dogs across a field opposite our house when a van stopped and asked the way to the local vet. They told me, later, that it was Jim, but he hadn’t even recognised them – his own grandchildren. It had been so long since he’d set eyes on them - so what was he doing in my house, now that his grandson was dead, and it was all too late?
There were others there who clearly did care. And amongst them, at last, was Terry. Hugging him, I said, ‘I didn’t hear you sneak in.’ Just having him there calmed me a little. Pointing out Jim, pouring out my feelings, I asked Terry to talk to him for me. ‘I don’t know why he’s here,’ I explained, ‘so I don’t know what to say.’
‘Some people will come,’ he said. ‘It’s just the way it is. But it says more about him than about you.’
Shanice was the last one to leave. It was well after midnight, and I took myself off to bed. Did I sleep at all? If I did, it wasn’t for long. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Matthew’s eyes staring at me in death. The alarm jarred, going off at 6.30am. I stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make my mind go blank. I concentrated on the spider’s web, but it was no good. I was frozen with fear. And I didn’t get up until 7.21. Exactly the same time as the day before. How would I get through another day?
7
Saying Goodbye
Matthew’s friends were nervous about the wake. Traumatised by his death, they weren’t sure what to do. They’d hesitated before coming to the house; and a carload of them had arrived first thing on Friday morning, asking me could they attend the house, or was the wake just for adults?
‘Of course, you can come. You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘You’re his friends. But wait until this afternoon when Matthew will be here.’
They looked at me, puzzled for a second or two, then realisation dawned. ‘You mean?’
‘His body will be here.’
‘I’m sorry we didn’t come yesterday.’ This was Jamie. ‘But when I saw the message on Facebook, I just didn’t believe it. I thought it was a sick joke and warned the person to remove it.’ Then he admitted he’d used extremely strong language.
I half smiled. ‘I don’t think Natasha would much appreciate that.’
‘Natasha? It wasn’t her post.’ He mentioned another friend, and I realised the news had been widely shared.
Another of Matthew’s friends, Nick, arrived by taxi with his girlfriend. He was concerned about what to wear for the funeral. ‘Do I need to get a suit?’ he asked.
‘Just wear whatever feels comfortable,’ I said.
I was dreading my afternoon meeting with Wray Funeral Directors, and it wasn’t easy. My sister suggested I should get James involved. ‘I know you’re angry with him,’ she said. ‘I know he could have been a better father, but he’s lost his son. You must let him help.’
I saw the sense in that, and when he and Tina, arrived, I asked him if he’d like to pick some clothes to take to the funeral parlour. He came out with a red shirt and good jeans. ‘Is this ok?’ he asked, and I nodded.
‘Would you like to come to come to the parlour with us?’ I asked them, and they said they would. The four of us drove down in two different cars. And we sat there, in that strangely silent place, and it didn’t feel real. I was there, but in my head I wasn’t. Not really. The funeral director was good to us and patient, and that made it easier. He talked about Matthew in the present tense and was extremely respectful. But it was tough when he asked us what we wanted, because we had different ideas. Handing us catalogues, he asked us which coffin we’d like and which flowers.
‘Well it depends,’ said James. ‘
‘Depends on what?’ I gave him a sharp look.
‘On the cost,’ he said.
That shocked me, and ignoring him, I picked out a pine coffin with gold handles and a raised lid. ‘And I’d like a mixture of yellow roses and carnations to lie over the coffin,’ I added.
‘I’d like to have the funeral in our garden,’ I said. ‘It’s an old allotment garden on three levels – it’s really long. I think that’s what Matthew would have liked.’
They agreed that it would be all right. Then we discussed the plot in the graveyard, and that’s when the fun began.
‘I gather you purchased two plots last year?’
I agreed that I had. My mother had been unwell, and it had seemed like a good idea. Back then, they had shown me the map of the graveyard, and I’d chosen plots close to the toilets. I’d thought that would be handy for anyone visiting the graves. It had made perfect sense to me.
‘We’ve had a call from the council office, wondering if you’d like to change the position of the plots.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’ I was mystified.
He looked uncomfortable and ran his finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt. ‘The ones you chose are on the wrong side of the graveyard.’
I looked at him in consternation. ‘I’m sorry? The wrong side?’
‘The Catholic side.’
I hadn’t known this but didn’t care. I explained that I’d simply chosen the sites that were nearest to the toilets, and told him why, but this clarification only added to his confusion.
‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said James, giving me a hard, disapproving stare. ‘And Matthew’s not Catholic.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ I said. ‘And I’m aware that some of my family over here are Presbyterian. But I’m half Chinese with family in Singapore. Some of them are Catholic; some Buddhist. So, unless there is a specific plot for someone like me, I’m going to keep the plot I’ve bought, thank you very much.’
This really mattered to me, if only because Matthew had seen it. I’d driven the children up there to show them the plot. He would expect to be buried there.
I was determined to stay strong, but I didn’t feel it. I’d never had to ‘do’ death before and was confused enough about the practicalities without this extra complication. If my beliefs didn’t fit anywhere in the graveyard, did I then, no longer fit in the world?
James and Tina didn’t say another word, but I could
see that James still wasn’t happy. And I wasn’t altogether surprised when I had a call from his mother, Joyce, later that afternoon.
‘I’ve heard what you’ve done,’ she said. ‘And I’m horrified.’
‘About the graves, you mean?’ I explained my reasoning, once again.
‘If that’s your final word, Sharon, I have to tell you that nobody from this side of the family will be attending the funeral.’
‘That’s ok then,’ I said. ‘It’s your choice.’
I kept my voice firm, determined that she wouldn’t catch any moment of weakness, but inside I was falling to pieces. Would it be simpler to simply give in? Why did it matter? Why did any of this matter. The only issue was that Matthew was dead, and that he was not coming back. Not ever.
When Wray’s rang later, I steeled myself for more questions about the plot, but they had rung about another matter. ‘We’ve been thinking about your choice of venue,’ the funeral director said.
‘The garden? You said that would be ok?’
‘We don’t object to it, but there’s likely to be quite a crowd attending the funeral, so perhaps you should reconsider?’
There was no fight left in me, so I asked what he would suggest. And agreed, without further argument, that it should take place in the church at Wray’s Funeral Parlour in Antrim.
‘We can have speakers,’ he said. ‘Then if there are too many people to fit in the church, they will still be able to hear what is going on.’ He paused, then said. ‘We’ll have Matthew back with you this afternoon, as arranged, if that’s still convenient?’
My heart missed a beat. I was nervous of seeing Matthew again. I wondered what he would look like. Would his eyes still stare? Would his tongue still protrude, and his lips still be blue? When the open coffin arrived, and was placed in Matthew’s room, I approached it with a great deal of trepidation. I looked down at him and breathed out, almost faint with relief. In his red shirt and blue jeans, he looked like the live Matthew I loved so much. I thanked Wray’s, remarking on what an incredible job they had done.
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 6
