‘I’m not sure they’ll believe me,’ said Rita.
‘No, of course they won’t. I’m being ridiculous. They’d just throw you out thinking you’re a mad woman.’
‘Perhaps we are mad,’ said Rita softly. ‘No one goes to their own funeral. How can this be possible?’
‘It’s not us,’ said Henry firmly. ‘It’s everyone else,’ and realised at that moment he sounded very much like a mad man.
Another cortege began to make its way out of the cemetery. It’s like a conveyer belt, thought Rita. She could almost hear the vicar calling ‘next’ like the cashier did at the supermarket. She really doesn’t want this to happen to her. It doesn’t seem fair that she has no choice in the matter. She knew that death lurked in the darkness. Always there, following you. The closer he gets the sooner he will take you as his own. It all seemed so wrong. If Rita had been given the choice, she would have declined life. If she’d known it came with a death sentence, she would most certainly have said, no thank you. Rita shivered, as though the chill of death had tickled the back of her neck. Sometimes she would lie awake at night counting how many years she had left. Figuring she must make it to seventy-five at least. She read an article once that said people were living longer now. She may even make it to ninety-five. That gave her years, unless a bus knocked her over or …
‘Come on,’ Henry said, interrupting her thoughts. He was walking towards the church, but Rita hesitated.
Rita remembered how Imogen had looked at her from the car window. Her face had been grief-stricken. She didn’t look fat, Rita noted, and for a second rather hated her for it.
‘You can say you’re a colleague from work,’ said Henry, trying to hurry her along. He didn’t want to miss anything.
‘But your work colleagues might be here, and they’ll know I’m not.’
‘You can say I helped you with your insurance policy,’ he said and then realised how suspect that sounded.
‘If anyone asks, which they probably won’t,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll say I knew you from the supermarket. That’s the truth isn’t it?’
Henry nodded and ushered her forward. People were going into the church and the pallbearers were preparing themselves for carrying in the coffin. Henry looked into the hearse and gasped.
‘A wicker coffin,’ he exclaimed. ‘I would never have wanted a wicker coffin.’
That smacked of cheapness didn’t it? Henry didn’t believe in spending money for money’s sake, admittedly, but this was his last journey. It’s not like he’d be spending any more. He had imagined himself seen off in oak or even pine but most certainly not wicker. What would people think?
The mourners were entering the church and Henry followed. Inside it smelled of musty prayer books and stale incense. Rita noticed everyone had their heads bowed and wondered if it was out of respect for Henry or because they couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the coffin. Rita knew exactly how they felt.
‘I’m going to see who’s here,’ said Henry.
Rita nodded and made her way to a pew at the back. From there she could watch everyone without being noticed.
Henry was rather disappointed to see the turnout was quite sparse. Surely, he knew more people than this? Still, the service hadn’t started yet. There was still time for people to arrive. Travelling on the bus, he’d visualised a packed church with people spilling out of the doors. Of course, he hadn’t known the church would be this big. All the same, it was something of a disappointment. He strolled down the aisle until he reached the first five rows that seated the mourners.
‘Trevor Michaels,’ he gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’
Trevor didn’t look up but continued studying the order of service in front of him. He’s lost his hair, thought Henry, staring in wonder at Trevor’s receding hairline. He sat uncomfortably on the pew, his long legs cramped in the small space. His chin was pushed onto his breast as he looked down at the booklet in his hands. Beside him sat a woman, her perfume pervading the air around them. She kept her eyes ahead and chewed on her lip nervously. Henry wrinkled his nose. Trevor always was partial to a blonde bombshell. Most likely it was these women that had contributed to his hair loss. This must be the latest one, thought Henry, considering her. He couldn’t imagine what Trevor saw in her. Mutton dressed as lamb if ever Henry saw it. I would never have asked her to my funeral, Henry thought crossly. I’ve never clapped eyes on the woman before. What had possessed Imogen to invite them? Henry had always disliked his cousin. He was a conceited show off. They never saw him from one year to the next. Now that Henry came to think about it, Trevor never even sent them a Christmas card.
He turned away in disgust and looked to Helen who was sitting the other side of Trevor. She was studying her mobile phone. So rude, thought Henry, while at my funeral too. I hope she puts it away when they carry me in. No doubt, she won’t bother. Technology had a lot to answer for, if you wanted his opinion. Still, Helen had always been rude to him whether alive or dead, so at least she was being consistent. Sam, who was sitting next to her, had the decency to look sad. He was wearing the same suit he wore to the office every day, Henry noted.
Imogen sat in the front row beside her mother who was, dressed in a grey dress with a black shawl draped over it. She had her arm comfortingly around Imogen’s shoulders. Imogen was wearing the same raincoat he’d saw the other Imogen wearing earlier. That couldn’t be right. Imogen wouldn’t be meeting another man on the day of his funeral. He forced himself not to look at his parents. It would upset him even more. If only he could tell his mother that it was all a big mistake. He couldn’t bear to see her so distressed.
There was his neighbour too. But, hadn’t she seen him that morning? The memory of her milky white breasts flashed through his mind. Henry knew her vaguely but not enough to ask her to his funeral. She gripped the order of service tightly and looked behind her. For one wonderful moment, Henry thought she could see him but then she waved tearfully to the milkman who was seated behind her. Henry gaped at him. What was the milkman doing here? Henry barely knew him. Goodness, Henry thought miserably. Imogen must have been scraping the barrel if she had to ask the milkman. Did he know so few people? But hadn’t he and Imogen preferred it that way? All the same, thought Henry miserably, the milkman? He should have written out some instructions for his funeral, a list of people to invite for a start. There was another man sitting beside the milkman, but Henry couldn’t place him at all. Something about his demeanour unnerved Henry but he couldn’t fathom why. A strange chill ran through his body and he quickly turned away. He must know him, else why would he be at his funeral? He saw his friend Jack, from the badminton club and Larry, who ran the club’s bar. He had never seen either of them in a suit before. He moved nearer to hear their conversation.
‘All those imaginary ailments,’ Jack was saying, shaking his head. ‘It just goes to show. It’s never what you imagine is going to take you.’
‘Well, let’s be honest,’ said Larry with a small laugh. ‘He had so many imaginary ailments it would have been a lottery to work out which onewouldtake him.’
‘Imaginary?’ repeated Henry, affronted. He’d never had an imaginary illness in his life.
‘He was a martyr to his health,’ smiled Jack.
‘I was not,’ argued Henry. Jack was a fine one to talk, Henry thought crossly. All he ever talked about was his frozen shoulder, which conveniently explained why he often lost to Henry.
‘My frozen shoulder gave me a few twinges during the game,’ he’d say. The presumption being that Henry would never have won otherwise.
‘A sad day, nevertheless,’ said Larry.
