Sebastian Ellis had been diagnosed with lung cancer three years ago but refused any treatment because, in his words,“I can’t be arsed with this any more.”
“This” being life.
It’s been overcast and drizzly all morning, and the threat of heavy rain lurks in the gunpowder clouds in the distance. The vicar appears to be hurrying through the service in order to finish before the real danger is directly overhead.
It’s befitting, however—to say goodbye under the intimidation of thunder, and with the vicar’s rush job. Grampa Seb was a miserable, grumbling old man with very few avenues of enjoyment. He liked betting on horses, smoking cigars, reading shitrag tabloids, and complaining about the unrelenting tyrannical rise of wokeness on the four main TV channels.
I’m not sad he’s dead.
It’s baffling to me because my great-nanna, Dotty, was the most loving, accepting human on the planet, and the only one who could keep Gramps’s misery in check. I guess that when she died in 2019, he simply gave up trying to be a decent person and succumbed to the bitterness within.
The last time I saw him was four weeks ago at the hospice, though I had nothing to say. My fourteen-year-old brother, Casper, surprised us all by stepping out of the closet and declaring himself a“raging homo, and if I ever grow up to be like you, Gramps, I know I’ve failed at life.”
We left after that. I took Casper to Wagamama’s for lunch.
Today, only the older generation look even marginally tearful that Seb Ellis has crossed that rainbow bridge, and those tears might be performative. Anyone younger than fifty is standing around either picking their nails, stress checking the sky and then their watches, or scrolling through their phones. I’m only here to support my dad. I expect the same can be said of all my siblings, yet even Dad looks like he’s regretting dressing up in a suit for this old cunt.
None of us bothered to sing along to the church songs, and I’m usually rather fond of “Morning Has Broken.”
The cemetery is enormous. It’s one of the main ones between Bath and Wrigsham, and there are many, many sections. It’s like a farm, with fields and crops of marble or slate instead of wheat or cabbages.
I’m handed a single rose, and I watch as Gramps’s casket is lowered into the ground. We all throw our roses on top and pretend we give half a shit, and then everyone is speculating about what food will be served at his pot-luck wake.
Mum perks up and admits she’s brought cupcakes with rainbow hundreds and thousands, and vegetarian party sausages because one time Seb had gone on an hour-long bitch about her bringing veggie hotdogs to a barbeque. My auntie Julie has prepared “rabbit food,” a.k.a. salad, and my uncle Eugene has ordered “foreign muck,” a.k.a. samosas and pierogies, from local eateries.
Dad rolls his eyes, but ultimately, he’s always going to side with his wife and kids.
The wake will be held in Wrigsham Town Hall, which is a fifteen-minute walk or a two-minute drive away. Most people begin heading back through the maze of headstones towards their cars. Nobody spares Gramps’s grave a second glance.
It’s not unusual to see a figure clad all in black in a cemetery, so I didn’t spot him at first. But there’s something about the gentle curve of his shoulders, the long limbs tucked cross-legged underneath him, and the black curls billowing silkily in the wind.
I do a double take and stop in my tracks.
Not realising I’d ground to a halt, Casper slams into my back. Mum follows the line of my sight to Orlando, clad in his usual all black, crouched in front of a gleaming grey headstone. He’s wearing over the ear headphones, and his head’s bowed over a book, a paperback. There’s a thermal flask beside his knee.
I watch Mum’s heartbreak in real time. The emotions play over her features as she realises who he is and why he’s probably here. “Go to him,” she whispers.
“I . . . I’ll meet you guys there,” I say, and I hang back until the crowds have vanished before jogging over to him.
What little sunlight there is on this miserable afternoon throws my shadow over Lando’s lap. He looks up and baulks.
“Harry!” Lando pulls off his headphones. He blinks at me a few times. “Your granddad’s funeral? Shit, I forgot. I’m sorry. How did it go?”
“The important thing is it’s over now,” I say. I’d told Lando all about Grampa Seb, but I’d forgotten to mention the funeral was today.
I feel the pull of the shining headstone beside Lando, the command to look even though I’m certain I know what I’ll find.
And I’m right.
Here lies
Bonnie Marie Oakham-Goodwin
14.08.1975 - 28.02.2019
Loving mother and wife
You will be missed
