‘Good morning,’ she says, motioning for the greying man to step into the house.
As he crosses the threshold in his striped trousers and black morning jacket, the undertaker removes his top hat and dips his head.
‘I’m Richard,’ he says in a broad Cockney accent, stepping into the hall.
‘I’m Scarlett and this is Sandy.’
His hand is covered in a thick, black, leather glove protecting him from the frost in the air.
‘D’earse is ready. D’ya ’ave flowers ya’d like me to take?’
I motion to the large arrangement of blue, orange and white flowers to be placed on top of Dad’s coffin.
‘And this one’s from me,’ Sandy says, handing him a small, delicate posy of winter flowers she’s made herself.
‘It’s beautiful, Sandy,’ I say.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, we both watch Richard leave the house. My body stiffens at the first sight of my dad. His perfectly polished coffin gleams through the shaded windows of the hearse. Sandy’s body convulses beneath my hand then she begins to cry. I take a deep breath and hand her the cotton tissue I tucked into the pocket of my mac.
I stand in front of her, my body shielding her from the view. ‘Come on, Sandy, let’s be strong for him.’
She nods and wipes her nose with the tissue. Pulling the door shut behind us, we slowly make our way to the black limousine parked behind the hearse. When we’re inside, the undertaker signals and both cars crawl behind him as he walks the first hundred metres away from the house. At the first T-junction, he climbs into the front of the hearse and the cars pick up some speed as we head towards the church.
I’ve never noticed before now the reaction that seeing a funeral car procession evokes. It seems obvious that a hearse carrying a coffin held in place by one thin, metal prong is limited in speed but why would a person ever put their mind to the speed of a hearse if it’s never affected their life? I was one of those people: the unaffected. Dad is the first person I’ve seen die. It occurs to me that the shitbag who revs his Volvo V40 alongside the hearse in a desperate urge to overtake us when the traffic lights flick to green is probably also one of the unaffected. I could slap his bum-fluff covered, New York Yankees cap wearing face.
We move forwards through the lights. An elderly man pauses in the street, takes off his flat cap and, holding it in front of him with two hands, he dips his head to my dad. This turns Sandy’s whimpers to a sob. Pulling her towards me, I rest my chin against her brow and she blows her nose into my handkerchief.
Reverend Griffiths meets us at the church entrance and motions for Sandy and me to walk behind the coffin. I squeeze Sandy’s hand as she weeps quietly into a handkerchief. Reverend Griffiths leads us into the church and down the aisle. Dad is set down centrally, on display for the mourners to see. I’m pleased to reach the front of the church and turn my back to the staring eyes.
‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies,’ Reverend Griffiths recites from John 11:25, just as he said he would.
Sandy wraps her arm tightly in mine as we take a seat in the front pew. I stare blankly as Reverend Griffiths continues the service and all of the way through the first hymn. I’m considering the words of John: he who believes in me will live. My dad believed, so somewhere, somehow he’s looking down on us and watching as sniffles and tears fill the church. He’ll still be watching tonight, tomorrow and the next day, watching every move I make.
What would you do, Dad? What do you want me to do?
Anger builds like a weight in my body. I want revenge.
The reverend talks about my dad and relays the stories Sandy and I shared with him. I try to listen to distract me from my rage.
At the end of the service, Reverend Griffiths asks God to care for my dad. I hope that God does a better job than I did. The reverend explains that only close friends and family are invited to the committal but that all other guests can make their way to the wake. Some make their excuses and leave directly from the church; others kiss and hug me before I’m able to climb back into the sanctity of the limousine with Sandy and drive to the committal grounds.
‘I’m not going to the wake, Sandy. The cars can take us home or we can drop you at the wake first. I’m sorry, I just can’t sit in a room with those people.’
She nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with my approach but understanding.
At the first set of traffic lights, a lorry driver leans forwards in his seat when his vehicle brakes to a standstill parallel to the limousine. He leans as far forwards as he can to see into our cars. Sandy flaps a hand angrily to tell him to look elsewhere then breaks into another round of tears.
Small, light, infrequent raindrops begin to fall on the tinted windows. I hold up my hand as I step out of the car beneath the dark sky and rub a drop of rain between my finger and thumb, then put on my black, leather gloves. Our driver offers me an umbrella.
‘Let Sandy have it,’ I say, motioning to the back of the car where the driver offers a hand to Sandy.
Reverend Griffiths leads the way to my dad’s plot, followed by four men bearing the coffin. An ominous-looking hole awaits, a mound of dirt resting to one side of the plot. I take note that Dad will rest between Martha and Roger Haines to his right, eighty-two and seventy-nine years old, respectively, and Patricia Whelehan, sixty-six, to his left.
Sandy stands to my side, to the left of the reverend, who’s positioned himself at the head of the coffin. As my dad is being lowered, I briefly search the small gathering of people who’ve come to see the committal and offer Amanda a soft, grateful smile. The rain is suddenly heavy and loud as it bounces off the polished wood.
‘We now commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.’
And that’s it. That’s my dad’s goodbye.
