Other people had joined us on the pew, and we’d had to shuffle up like crabs to make space for them. I was therefore in very close proximity to Mr. Raymond Gibbons. I noticed that he smelled extremely pleasant today; the peppermints, of course, but also a clean soap scent and something almost woody, like cedar. I hadn’t seen him smoke a cigarette yet. I suppose even Raymond would think it inappropriate to smoke a cigarette outside a crematorium.
The rest of the family entered and sat beside Sammy’s boys on the front pew; Laura was on her own, looking impossibly glamorous. Dark glasses! Indoors! Astonishing. They were followed by a jolly-looking minister. A man at a keyboard tucked away in the corner flexed his fingers and started to play, and we shuffled to our feet. The words to the hymn were printed in the booklet but I found that I could remember them from childhood. The communal singing was of extremely poor quality, more like an atonal mumble, and the minister’s unpleasant voice was overly loud, perhaps because he was wearing a lapel microphone. He really ought to turn it off for the hymns, I thought—there was no need to amplify his caterwauling. Raymond, to my immense surprise, had a pleasant light tenor, and he was singing properly, unlike most other people. When did people become embarrassed to sing in public? Was it because of the decline in churchgoing? And yet the television schedule was full of singing contests in which people, however untalented, were far from shy about participating. Perhaps people are only interested in giving solo performances.
Surely this was the ultimate in disrespect—to attend a man’s funeral and mumble during hymns which, however dreary, had been specifically selected to commemorate his life? I began to sing more loudly. Raymond and I were making more noise than the next four pews put together, and I was glad of it. The words were incredibly sad, and, for an atheist like myself, entirely without hope or comfort, but still; it was our duty to sing them to the best of our ability, and to sing proudly, in honor of Sammy. I sat down when it was finished, happy that Raymond and I had shown him the respect he deserved. Quite a few people turned around to look at us, presumably because they had enjoyed our vocal tribute.
The minister spoke about Sammy’s life; it was interesting to hear that he’d grown up near a tiny village in the North East, on a sheep farm. He’d joined the merchant navy when he left school but, soon tiring of life at sea, he’d pitched up in Glasgow with ten pounds, a new suit and no desire whatsoever to return to farming. He’d met Jean in Woolworths, looking for a needle and thread. The minister, looking pleased with himself, said that they’d stitched a happy life together after that. There was a brief religious bit—the usual balderdash—and then, like the assistant in Tesco, he made the coffin conveyer belt move, and Sammy checked out.
Bright as a button, smile plastered on, as though this were the best part of the whole terrible event, the minister announced that we would sing the final hymn. Raymond and I made a valiant effort, but it’s impossible to sing when you’re crying—there’s a lump like a plum stone lodged in your throat, and the music can’t get past it. Raymond blew his nose and passed me a packet of tissues, which I gratefully accepted.
The family, the minister told us, would be very pleased if we would join them afterward at the Hawthorn House Hotel for light refreshments. The congregation filed out, shaking hands and mumbling meaningless platitudes. I did the same. There was a collection basket for the British Heart Foundation, “in lieu of flowers,” and I saw Raymond drop in a twenty-pound note. I put in three pound coins. If anything, I felt that this was overly generous. Researching new drugs and efficacious treatments for heart disease costs hundreds of millions of pounds. Three pounds or three hundred pounds—it was hardly going to swing the balance between finding and not finding a cure, after all.
I perched on a low wall behind the crematorium and turned my face to the sun. I felt utterly exhausted. After a moment, Raymond sat beside me, and I heard the click of his lighter. I didn’t even have the energy to move away. He blew out a long stream of smoke.
“All right?” he said.
I nodded. “You?”
He shrugged.
“Not a big fan of funerals, to be honest,” he said. He looked away. “Reminds me of my dad. It was years ago, but it’s still hard, you know?”
I nodded; that made sense. Time only blunts the pain of loss. It doesn’t erase it.
“I really, really, really do not want to go to the Hawthorn House Hotel for light refreshments, Raymond,” I said. “I want to stop thinking about death. I just want to go home, put on normal clothes and watch television.”
Raymond stubbed his cigarette out and then buried it in the flower bed behind us.
“No one wants to go to these things, Eleanor,” he said gently. “You have to, though. For the family.” I must have looked sad.
“You don’t need to stay long,” he said, his voice soft and patient. “Just show face; have a cup of tea, eat a sausage roll—you know the drill.”
“Well, I hope they’ve at least got a high meat content and friable pastry,” I said, more in hope than in expectation, and shouldering my handbag.
The Hawthorn House Hotel was walking distance from the crematorium. The woman at the reception desk smiled, and it was impossible not to notice that she had only one front tooth; the remaining molars were the exact same shade as Colman’s English mustard. I’m not one to make judgments about other people’s personal appearance, but really; of all the available staff, was this woman the best choice for the front desk? She directed us to the Bramble Suite and flashed us a gappy, sympathetic smile.
We were among the last to arrive, as most people had driven the short journey from the crematorium to the hotel. The crematorium was a busy place and the parking spaces were needed, I supposed. I’m not sure I’d like to be burned. I think I might like to be fed to zoo animals. It would be both environmentally friendly and a lovely treat for the larger carnivores. Could you request that? I wondered. I made a mental note to write to the WWF in order to find out.
I went up to Keith and told him how very sorry I was, and then I sought out Gary to say the same thing. Both of them looked overwhelmed, which was understandable. It takes a long time to learn to live with loss, assuming you ever manage it. After all these years, I’m still something of a work in progress in that regard. The grandchildren sat quietly in the corner, cowed, perhaps, by the somber atmosphere. The other person I had to pass on my condolences to was Laura, but I couldn’t spot her. She was usually easy to find. Today, as well as the huge sunglasses, she’d been wearing vertiginous heels, a short black dress with a plunging neckline and her hair was piled on top of her head in an artful birdcage creation that added several inches to her height.
There being no sign of her, and no sign of the promised refreshments either, I went in search of the lavatories. I would have put money on their having a dusty bowl of apricot-scented potpourri beside the washbasins, and I was right. On the way back, I spotted a telltale platform heel poking out from behind a swagged curtain. There was a window seat recess, in which Laura was sitting in the lap of a man who, it soon became apparent, was Raymond, although they were embracing so closely that it took a moment before I could see his face and be sure. He was wearing black leather shoes, I noticed. So he did at least possess a pair.