Of course Imogen would not see them. She would only have eyes for the dark oak coffin that sat in the hearse, telling herself over and over again that inside it lay Henry. It would be impossible for her to accept, thought Henry; that her life would have to continue without him.
Cynthia would lay a reassuring hand on her arm and ease her forward. Cynthia was always good at taking charge.
‘We need to get into the car,’ she would say in thatauthoritativetone of hers.
Imogen would sniff her mother’s Caleche perfume.
‘It always takes me back to happy times,’ she’d told Henry.
Imogen talked often about all the yesterdays that she felt sure were just sitting and waiting for them.
‘You read too many books,’ Henry would say with a smile.
‘It was so easy to slip into the past,’ Imogen said. You just smelt something familiar and travelled to where that yesterday sat waiting for you. There were so many yesterdays waiting for Imogen, like the hot yesterday in Bognor Regis, where the sweet smell of candy floss had made her mouth water, and the warm, fresh fragrance of Caleche had touched everything. It was comforting and familiar. It was the smell of happiness.
She would step into the funeral car, her body numb. The sudden realisation that she would have to look at the French oak casket all the way to the church would fill her with panic.
‘It’s alright darling,’ her father would say, in his comforting voice.
His mother would sob quietly. She never liked to draw too much attention to herself and Imogen would search through her bag for a tissue. Imogen always thought of others. Henry shivered at the thought of the blackness. Everything around Imogen would be black; the interior of the car; the people in it, all dressed in black, their pale waxy faces standing out in the gloom. The blackness would suffocate her. Imogen had always hated the dark. The pattering of rain on the roof of the car would strangely calm her. She would rest her hand on her mother’s knee and stare ahead, beyond her mother-in-law’s black headscarf, past the oak casket and flowers, finally landing on the entrance gates of the park. She would think of me, thought Henry and tears would rain down her cheeks and fall onto her new black shoes. Henry knew Imogen would buy new shoes. She would want something special. He knew that Imogen would spend hours searching until finally an assistant would come to her aid.
‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ she would ask.
‘Yes,’ Imogen would reply while fighting back tears. ‘Black shoes for my husband’s funeral.’
The silence would be deafening. The assistant would bow her head and struggle to think of the right words. She was a shoe sales person, not a bereavement counsellor. Recently bereaved people should buy funeral shoes online. Then, no one need be embarrassed. Instead of looking at Imogen, the young fresh-faced assistant would drop her eyes to study a pair of blue Sketcher sandals. Imogen would wait for her to say ‘I’m so sorry’ or similar words of condolence. Instead, the assistant would say cheerfully to the blue Sketcher sandals.
‘I know just the thing.’
The funeral would never be mentioned again.
The shoes would, of course, pinch painfully on the day. New shoes always did. They would be crippling her by the time the day was over. She daren’t say anything, because people would look at her and think, ‘At least you can feel your toes. That’s more than poor Henry could do.’ Imogen would stretch her toes in the tight shoes and bring her attention back to the casket. It would be hard to believe Henry was in that. Henry who had always checked his blood pressure, ate smoked mackerel and avoided egg and cheese and swallowed vitamins as if they were smarties, because he wanted to live at least until he was ninety.
A watery sun would break through the clouds and Henry’s dad would say, ‘the sun shines on the righteous’ and, of course, he would be right.
Chapter Twelve
Rita wasn’t looking forward to Henry’s funeral. She hated funerals. It would remind her of her father’s.
That day it had been icy cold; the snow harsh and brutal. The unforgiving wind had cut right through the coats and gloves of the mourners. Rita and her mother had stood at the entrance of the church, their hands and feet like icicles. Rita had forced herself to look at the coffin as it was lifted from the hearse. She’d tried to imagine her father, silent and still, inside the dark stained, perfectly polished box. It had wobbled precariously as the men carried it to the front and for one awful moment Rita had a horrific vision of her father’s mangled body falling onto the cold church floor, his leg rolling grotesquely down the aisle. Her mother’s shaky hand had clutched hers tightly and Rita had winced as the thorns of the rose she had been holding punctured her skin. It was good to feel something. Inside the church, people were lamenting and wailing, as if Jesus himself had died all over again. Hadn’t they known what a monster her father had been? How so unlike Jesus anyone could be? Her mother had sat on the hard pew, her face an impassive mask. Rita had struggled to summon up from somewhere within her a feeling of loss, but nothing came no matter how hard she tried. The congregation had been so kind. Every day someone came with a hot meal or some shopping. People had popped in just to chat and hand out tissues. No one had seemed to notice that the tissues and nicely embroidered handkerchiefs stayed dry. Her mother would thank them politely and she and Rita would later eat the food in silence. Rita had stared ahead when the coffin had been brought into the church. She didn’t want to give it any more attention than it deserved. Her mother’s hand had squeezed hers and she’d felt comforted. Her mother had forgiven her. That was what really mattered.
The service had lasted forever. It seemed everyone wanted to say something about his or her beloved minister. Rita felt anger at their ignorance. So much love and affection poured out for Walter that Rita struggled to hold in the bile that threatened to choke her. The monster in the coffin had come close to defiling her and all people could say were good things about him.
‘Damn,’ cursed Henry, dragging her from her father’s funeral. ‘It’s raining again, and I left my umbrella at the office.’
‘I have one,’ said Rita, pulling it from her bag.
Drops of rain fell onto her head and she thought of her warm waves. She didn’t want to cover them with her hood as that would certainly destroy the waves once and for all. The damp air wasn’t helping either.
Henry deserved better than this, she thought. Someone with a name like Henry Booker Frazer deserved to have the sun shine down on his funeral and not dark heavy clouds and rain showers. She was dreading the 87 bus turning the corner. It would take her closer to Henry’s wife and just supposing she wasn’t fat and frumpy as Rita had imagined and was instead glamorous and slim and knew exactly what to wear and when? Hopefully, like Rita, she would be wearing a dark raincoat. No one ever managed to look good in a raincoat, did they? Except, perhaps, Marilyn Monroe, and Rita very much hoped Henry’s wife didn’t resemble Marilyn Monroe. Once inside the church perhaps she could risk removing her coat. She looked quite presentable in her blue jumper and pencil line skirt.
The 87 bus turned the corner and Rita’s heart sank.
‘Here it is,’ said Henry.
He followed her on and Rita climbed the steps to the upper deck. The seats at the front were empty and Rita hurried to them. It was the best view from the bus. Henry swayed slightly as the bus moved off. Rita grabbed his arm and they wobbled to the front.
‘It’s a good view from here,’ she said beckoning to Henry.
