‘Well … I … When is it?’ she stammered.
‘Two thirty at St Andrew’s Church apparently,’ said Henry. ‘But I can’t believe that’s me. I would never have my funeral in a church. I’m sure that must be a different Henry. We should go to the crematorium first, I think.’
‘Well,’ said Rita, considering. ‘I do have the afternoon off.’
‘Would you?’ asked Henry, his face brightening.
‘Yes, I will,’ she said decisively.
It would be a different way to spend her afternoon off and she really rather liked Henry.
‘Won’t you find it rather strange going to your own funeral?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I expect I will,’ said Henry.
The café was getting hot now and Henry was starting to feel claustrophobic. It was dark and stuffy in the corner.
‘I don’t think we’re ever going to get served,’ he said.
‘No,’ agreed Rita, watching two customers walk out in a huff. ‘We’re not the only ones.’
‘Next stop my funeral,’ said Henry.
How odd is this? Rita thought. Attending the funeral of a man I hardly know. She must surely be dreaming. At least she didn’t have to feel guilty any more. After all, how could you be sinful with a dead man?
Chapter Ten
Henry and Imogen had never discussed funerals, theirs or anyone else’s. The closest they’d come to talking about death was when Henry mentioned taking out life insurance, should anything happen to him.
‘I don’t want you to have to worry,’ he’d said and that was the end of the conversation.
Henry’s parents were in good health, enjoying their retirement in Spain, while Imogen’s parents lived in the city. Henry hated both places. Spain was too hot. Henry didn’t like the sun. If asked he would state quite clearly that he didn’t approve of it. It gave you cancer and he didn’t trust suntan lotions. He also hated the all-day breakfast, which his parents seemed very partial to. The restaurant they ate it at seemed very suspect to Henry, all fat and little else in his opinion. He and Imogen preferred porridge, toast, and fresh fruit for breakfast. He also disliked looking at his father’s paunch, swollen with fat, and his red face, blotchy from rosacea. He was just thankful his father’s liver was not on show.
‘I’m retired, son,’ his father would say. ‘I’m going to enjoy it.’
‘But not for long,’ Henry would think.
London was just as bad if you asked Henry. All polluted air, stabbings, and terrorist attacks and no doubt, plenty of all-day breakfasts too if one wanted them.
He liked it where he lived. Not too close to London and not quite in the country. It was safer too, if you asked Henry. Violence was escalating out of control in his opinion.
‘We’re heading for a realClockwork Orange,’ he would tell Imogen. ‘We’ll be okay here though,’ he would say smugly after reading about the latest crimes.
Henry and Imogen looked after their bodies. Imogen went to Pilates and Henry was fond of tennis. Therefore, it was something of a shock to find he was dead at forty-nine. This just didn’t happen to people like them. It had to be a mistake. But who did one seek out to correct the mistake?
‘Do we go to St Andrew’s Church?’ asked Rita as they exited the tearoom.
Henry scratched his head.
‘I’m not altogether sure. Imogen and I don’t go to church so I can’t imagine …’
‘You don’t?’ said Rita.
Henry couldn’t tell from her tone if she was surprised, relieved or disappointed.
‘We don’t believe in God,’ said Henry in a tone that insinuated anyone who did must be crazy. Any consideration that Rita might didn’t occur to Henry.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So, where will your funeral be then?’
