On what was the third day of my summer I cycled to Feeney’s Funeral Home. Even though I could drive now the bike ride was routine. It almost felt like just another day on my way to Feeney’s but there were telltale signs that things weren’t right. I couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun on my skin or the breeze flapping my T-shirt sleeves. I couldn’t smell the early morning air which, in summer, smelt fresher. I was having memory blanks too as I cycled, getting surprised that I was further along in my journey than I’d thought or, at points, not far enough. I couldn’t remember if I had passed McGleenan’s farm or not, it was the halfway mark and meant another ten minutes to Feeney’s. I couldn’t remember even if I had had breakfast that morning or if I had washed; but there was a hazy memory of standing under the shower that felt semi-real, so perhaps I had at least done that. Things were happening in segments with no in between to link them up, so when I found myself standing in Feeney’s yard hosing down the hearse I was surprised to see suds pooling at my feet and around the bucket that I couldn’t remember filling.
‘Brendan, what are you doin’?’ came Mr Feeney’s voice from behind. ‘When I said you could come in today I thought you meant for a talk, not to work. Come on, young fella, put that hose down and come inside.’
‘No, Mr Feeney,’ I said, without turning to look at him. ‘I want the hearse to be right for tomorrow.’
I heard the flap of his slippers on the tarmac stop.
‘Ah right,’ he said. ‘Understood. I understand.’
‘But I did also want to talk to you, Mr Feeney.’
‘Alright,’ he said, his hand coming round to take the hose from me. ‘Will we head inside for a cup ’a’ tea?’
I switched the hose to my other hand.
‘I’ll keep on here, Mr Feeney, if that’s OK.’
‘Understood,’ he said again.
‘I passed my driving test,’ I said. ‘The day before yesterday.’
‘You did? Jeez, Brendan, well done. I didn’t know if you’d gone ahead with it or not, but well done.’
‘Thanks, Mr Feeney.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘well done.’
I twisted the hose to a trickle and let it drop by my side.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Can I drive the hearse?’
I watched the trickles from the hose form an expanding pool on the ground.
‘For Ronan?’ I said.
The pool was edging towards my feet; I stepped away from it and looked up at Mr Feeney.
‘I always thought Ronan would be the first person I took for a drive when I passed my test and tomorrow’s the only chance we’ll get. Our first drive together and …’ I didn’t need to say it, because I knew Mr Feeney would understand, but I did anyway. ‘… And our last.’
Mr Feeney’s head was doing quick little nods, trying to process something.
‘Do you know your measurements?’ he said eventually.
‘For what?’
‘Well if you’re goin’ to drive the hearse you’re goin’ to have to look the part and I’ve no suits in your size.’
‘McMillan’s have my measurements.’
‘Right well come on here and I’ll take you to McMillan’s and we’ll get you sorted. Have you told your parents about this? Or Ronan’s parents?’
‘Not yet, Mr Feeney, no.’
‘Well maybe you should just …’
‘Aye, maybe I should …’
‘Aye maybe you should just … keep it between ourselves for the minute.’
