‘Do you remember when he tried to hit us with an axe and we locked him outside in the garden?’ Tom yells, delighted by the childish violence. He’s wearing one of John’s shirts, Paula realises. He took possession of her husband’s clothes so quickly after the will-reading a week and a half ago. Paula keeps opening that side of the wardrobe to stare at the emptiness there. It still smells like John, but otherwise, it’s like half of her has disappeared along with the shirts.
And that’s when she found the notebook. Tucked away on one of John’s shelves, previously buried under his Next T-shirt collection.
Her heart beats faster just thinking about it. About what it means.
She discreetly pats her coat pocket. It’s still in there.
‘You know what we should do?’ the oldest, Pete, is shouting, looking excited. ‘We should have a game of snooker in his honour!’ They collectively look around the room, disappointment lighting their eyes as they find no trace of a snooker table.
‘Not even a pool table!’ Leonard cries, pouting.
Paula wonders, as she often has, how snooker and pool can be different things when they’re both about hitting colourful balls. She would ask the brothers, but they didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms after the will-reading the other week. By the end of their visit, Paula had been onthe verge of transferring the whole twenty million, but Tilly overruled her.
‘Let’s do karaoke instead then!’ shouts Tom, who has always been the biggest show-off. He’s also got one of John’s belt buckles on. The other two regard him sceptically.
‘Did John actually like karaoke?’ Leonard asks.
‘Who cares?’ comes the reply, as Tom downs his whisky in one and waves for another.
There is no karaoke machine, or indeed, even any access to a microphone, so the unsanctioned funeral karaoke begins, consisting mostly of the men shouting the words to Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’.
Which, honestly, feels far too on the nose for Paula’s liking.
The widow and her children watch agape. Misha tiptoes towards them, looking mortified.
‘Is this . . .’ She waves at the singing ‘Is thisOK?’
‘No!’ Tilly replies firmly, taking her wife’s hand as they all watch with horror. ‘It’s really not OK.’
‘Should we do something?’ Paula asks in a whisper.
‘Yes,’ her daughter says with determination, turning to face her. ‘You should say something, Mum. You’re the grieving widow. You need to tell them to stop! They’re making a mockery of Dad’s funeral.’
Beside them, Seb quietly joins in with the singing, his foot tapping. Across the room, Bridget’s wailing is now in tune.
Paula gulps. Is itreallyher responsibility? Couldn’t someone else be in charge today? She can’t stand confrontation at the best of times and this is . . . a lot. John’s brothers have always terrified her, and when they get like this, they’re even harder to restrain.
Tilly tuts. ‘Come on, Mum, it’s time to stop being so agreeable and meek!’ She waves a finger with authority, as Paula nods meekly, agreeing. ‘They don’t get to do this at my dad’s funeral! Dad didn’t even like his brothers that much.’
‘He didn’t mind them,’ Paula protests diplomatically, afraid someone might hear them through the din. ‘And people seem to be enjoying it.’ She waves at the crowd, who are variously dancing and singing along.
Paula eyes the room now, wondering about John’s work colleagues at the IT consultancy. He worked there for twenty-five years, and not one of them has made an appearance today. She shakes her head at the injustice of everything. They were the ones who sent John on the trip to Austria for the conference. They were the ones who pushed when he said he didn’t want to fly. They’re the ones who suggested John drive the twenty-plus hours across Europe. Paula is here today because of them. John’snothere today because of them.
Perhaps his colleagues were too ashamed to be here. Perhaps there’s an internal investigation going on. Perhaps people are busy covering for his absence. Or perhaps John just wasn’t particularly popular. In her more generous moments, Paula can understand some of those reasons.
How different might things have been if he’d taken a train or hired a car? Or if someone else had been driving? What would’ve happened if he’d just . . . not gone? How different things might’ve been. How the same they might have been.
She reaches again into her pocket, stroking the thin cardboard of the notebook cover. John’s notebook, containing all of his secrets. All oftheirsecrets. She’s been carrying it around since she found it, like some kind of security blanket.
If he hadn’t gone on that trip, at the very least, she wouldn’t be here in this dim room, watching his three brothers murder one of the best songs of her generation.
The singing gets louder and Misha squeezes Paula’s arm. ‘You OK?’ she asks for the hundredth time in a low voice and Paula nods as enthusiastically as she can. But she suddenly feels very emotional. Her daughter-in-law’s affection has made her miss her own long-gone mum. She was always good in a crisis. She would’ve given Paula lots of cuddles and helped her figure out what the hell she was supposed to do. But she’s dead now, too, and there’s every chance she wouldn’t have come anyway. She never much liked John. No one was good enough for her only daughter.
Beside her, Tilly’s had just about enough of her uncles. ‘That’s it,’ she says with determination, grabbing Paula by the arm. ‘Come on.’
Misha and Seb watch as Paula is marched across the room. As they approach, Leonard spots them and trails off, missing his cue to harmonise. Tom eyes his sister-in-law furiously, and then pointedly gets louder singing the chorus.
Paula stares at each of them, dumbstruck, as Tilly tuts. ‘Can you lot stop this?’ she shouts, trying to be heard over the racket. Tom ignores her but Pete eyes her angrily.
