Artichoke Hearts (29 page)

Even though the coffin is light and Nana was so tiny when she died, it’s quite hard for them to lift it up on to their shoulders. A blue silky cloth covers the coffin, but it slides off as
it’s lifted. I hear a gasp. That’s when the painting is unveiled. Everyone stands in a circle, huddled close to get a better look, voices hush to silence and the circle starts to turn
as people wheel round the coffin.

I feel so sorry for my dad, because he’s carrying his mum’s body in a coffin on his shoulders.

A noise comes out of me. It comes up through the earth, into my body and out through my mouth. It’s a very old noise that somehow you recognize, even though you’ve never heard it
before. It’s the same noise that came out of my dad, the day Nana died. Then I finally realize what it is, that noise. It’s the sound of a heart breaking.

The coffin bearers walk slowly into the chapel and everyone else follows behind. When the coffin is placed on the table, Jay, my nana’s friend, the cook and the artist, settles a white
dove she has made out of pottery on the top of a nest of wild flowers. Nana’s coffin looks like a Matisse painting. On its corner I spot my tiny dog peeing into the sea. It’s as if
Nana’s winking at me.

Aunty Abi walks behind the coffin, holding Nana’s
Funeral Pyre
painting, which she places on a table at the front of the chapel that’s something like a church altar. In front
of the painting is Nana’s sandalwood Buddha candle. Abi lights it. For a moment I feel like rushing up to her and blowing the candle out to stop it from melting away.

‘I’m not having my coffin disappearing on a cruddy old conveyor belt . . . that’s always such an indignity . . . let people file past me, but light my Buddha candle, and let it
melt to nothing.’ Those were Nana’s instructions.

The smell of sandalwood fills the air. Its perfume changes everything. Now the chapel feels more like a temple sealed off from the outside world.

I look at the
Funeral Pyre
painting Nana did when she went off to Thailand, after she found out that the cancer had come back. Two girls stand in the foreground with their backs to us,
their long black plaits snaking down their backs. They have their arms wrapped around each other, standing close to the bright red and orange flames where someone they loved is being cremated. A
little bit further away is a crowd: old people, children and babies sitting on the floor. They are also looking towards the fire. The people facing us do not look sad, they look more, well,
interested really. This is the brightest painting of clashing colours I have ever seen Nana paint. You can feel the heat of the flames. There is nothing private about this way of dying. Not like it
is here in this chapel.

The Celebrant Lady speaks too slowly, even though, when we met her, she kept saying that ‘on the day’ we’ve got to make sure
we
don’t take too long when we
speak!

She says some things about Nana, I don’t remember what. I think Humanist people believe in humans and not God but I don’t think they believe in the spirit like Nana did.
Piper’s yapping is putting her off a bit, because she keeps shooting Aunty Abi and Aunty Mel not very kind looks, as if to say, ‘Can’t somebody shut that dog up!’

Then all the family stand up together and say something about Nana. It’s all the things we worked out beforehand so we know exactly what we’re going to say, and which order to say it
in. I only hear a few things that other people say, because my mind empties. The sun comes streaming through the window at the back of the chapel, casting everyone in a pool of bright colours and
lighting up the modern stained-glass angel. All I can see is the glitter sparkling off people’s clothes, hair and faces, and casting the chapel in a silver glow.

Uncle James says, even as a child, Nana was a rebel . . . she used to sneak out of her bedroom window to go dancing when she was only fourteen years old. Mum talks about what a wonderful
grandmother Nana was to me and Krish, and how happy she was to be around for long enough to meet baby Laila. Dad tells everyone that Nana was a fierce campaigner, always writing letters . . . he
says, at her height, she was writing a letter a week to Margaret Thatcher. Dad thinks somebody should probably write to Margaret Thatcher and tell her that she has lost an old foe.

It’s my turn. I look at all the faces in front of me. I see Grandad Bimal and Nana Kath and that makes me feel better. Mum wraps her arms round me and gives me a little squeeze, but I
can’t speak. I shake my head. Celebrant Lady was right . . . I can’t do it; the words are all swallowed up by my tears. My head is spinning. Celebrant Lady is shuffling her papers,
getting ready to read out my poem. There are so many people at Nana’s funeral that there are two or three rows of people standing up at the back. Then I see them, Jidé Jackson and,
standing right next to him, holding his hand, is the little girl I saw in my dream . . . Jidé’s sister, and next to her is Pat Print. They smile at me, the same encouraging smile . . .
and suddenly the words are in my mouth and I don’t even recognize the way I sound. That high-pitched squeak, like a violin grating on the wrong note, has gone. My voice is soft and strong . .
.

I am about to start the poem I picked to read out, but somehow that’s not what I want to say any more. Suddenly I hear Nana’s voice in my head . . . ‘Tell them some of my
anecdotes,’ she orders me.

‘Nana used to tell me funny things . . . that I loved. If I got too serious, she would tell me to stand on my head because the world looks funnier upside down . . . She said it’s
better to have a caravan than a mansion, because you can always change the view with a caravan . . .’

I hear Pat Print’s hearty laugh coming from the back of the chapel and I look up at her and smile.

The Celebrant Lady is staring at me as if I’ve gone mad. This is not in her plan, but Pat Print has sent a ripple of laughter through the chapel.

Nana’s silver charm glints on my wrist, willing me on.

‘She gave me this tiny charm for my birthday. It’s in the shape of an artichoke. Most of you have probably seen her wearing it. When she gave it to me, she told me all about it. I
didn’t really understand then, but now I think I do. She told me that when we are children our hearts are tender, like the heart of the artichoke, and that’s the precious bit. But then
the things that happen to us, the difficult things, they make us grow tougher and tougher layers to protect ourselves from getting hurt. But those layers also stop us from feeling so much. A few
days before she died, she told me that she had shed all the layers she’d built up in her life, she had no fear and she just felt love for everyone around her . . . all her friends and family
. . . everyone here.’

Jidé Jackson nods at me solemnly.

There is a lot of crying going on now. I suppose it must be the point of funerals really, to cry and laugh together. When Nana was dying, I learned more about her life than I ever knew before,
but when I look around this room at all these strangers . . . I know that I will never piece it all together, her life, because only the pieces I have belong to me. Now Nana’s Italian song
starts to play, the one we listened to together when we painted her coffin.

On their way out of the chapel, people walk past the coffin, Nana’s
Funeral Pyre
painting and the melting Buddha. Aunty Abi has placed a bowl of ruby-red rose
petals at the end of the coffin so that people can scatter them as they pass.

‘She was a wonderful woman,’ the man standing next to me says as he walks around the coffin, inspecting it from all sides, and smiling as he catches sight of Piper peeing into the
sea. ‘Such a sense of fun.’ It takes me a while to recognize him in his smart grey suit. It’s Dusty Bird from the art shop. Then he sees the little blue handprints on the side of
the coffin. ‘I suppose that’s her signature.’

‘One’s hers and one’s mine,’ I tell him.

He peers closer at the two identical-sized hand-prints with different lines, and nods.

‘What’s the colour?’ he asks, smiling at me.

‘Ultramarine Blue Light,’ I answer.

‘I’ll be seeing
you
in the shop,’ he laughs, taking a handful of rose petals and scattering them over Nana’s coffin.

When I walk out of the chapel, the first person I see is Pat Print.

‘I warned you about that voice!’ she smiles, resting her hand on my shoulder.

I look up at her questioningly. Is she really here?

‘I heard your nana on the radio . . . as soon as I heard her, I knew it must be her. I popped into the hospice and they told me the funeral was today.’

‘Thank you . . . I mean . . . for everything.’

Sometimes words are just not enough, are they? To say the things you want to say . . .

‘Now, I must get on, there’s someone else here, keen to talk to you.’

And before I can think of what else to say to her she’s disappeared through the crowd. I look down at the ground; there is not a trace of mud in sight.

Jidé Jackson is walking towards me with his arms outstretched, just as he did in my dream. We hold each other, in the middle of all these people . . . and I don’t even care who
sees, because I can feel his heart beating against mine and that is all that matters.

Jidé takes my hand and we walk into the sunshine to look at the flowers that are placed by Nana’s name.

‘A lot of people loved your nana,’ Jidé says.

I don’t say anything, but he can obviously read the question on my face . . . ‘Why are you here?’

Jidé points to Grace and Jai, who are sitting away from everyone else in the rose garden, as if they don’t want to intrude.

‘I told them about your nana dying . . . that you called me. We listened to her on the radio, like you said . . . and I was upset for you when I heard her voice, and I told Grace I
didn’t know what to say to you or how to help. I couldn’t even phone you. Then I think she called your mum and she asked me if I wanted to come . . . and . . . I’ve never been to
a funeral before . . . I hope you don’t mind?’

How can I tell him how much I love him for being here?

Jidé’s mum and dad sit with their arms round each other, looking towards us. They both seem so quiet and sad.

‘So many people in Rwanda with no funeral at all,’ sighs Jidé.

Now I know why she came here . . . Jidé’s sister. To say goodbye. I think about telling him that I saw her standing right next to him . . . how she sang to me in my dream . . . but
then I hear her softly sighing shhhhhh . . .

Dad’s standing next to us. I can tell he’s waiting to be introduced. Mum looks over too and smiles. I think Dad’s trying to listen in on our conversation. It’s so
annoying, because I can feel myself blushing for the first time today.

‘This is Jidé, my friend from school, Dad.’

Dad shakes Jidé’s hand, looking him squarely in the eyes.

‘It’s kind of you to come along.’ Dad smiles . . . a sparkly smile . . . he’s got glitter on his teeth!

Jidé shifts from one foot to the other. I’ve never seen him looking nervous before.

‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ mumbles Jidé, wrinkling a deep frown into his forehead.

Dad just peers from Jidé to me with a question in his eyes, but before he can say anything else someone is leading him away.

People stand around and talk. Actually people don’t talk a lot, they just sort of huddle together like cows in the rain. Jidé is humming to himself . . . a nervous hum. I’m
not sure he even realizes he’s doing it.

‘Is that your sister’s song?’ I whisper.

Jidé nods at me. He looks as if I’ve jolted him out of another world.

I watch Jidé, Grace and Jai walk off towards the tube. Jai has his arm round Jidé’s shoulders. Now I know why he said he was lucky . . . to have a family
like that. Pat Print’s right, Jidé Jackson has courage, so do Grace and Jai . . . and Jidé’s sister.

All the people from Nana’s funeral start to get into their cars, all except Protest Simon, who is busy refusing lifts. People don’t seem to understand that Simon not only
doesn’t have a car, but refuses ever to get into one.

‘I’m walking,’ says Simon. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour . . . If the traffic’s bad, I’ll probably get there before you!’

As he predicted, Simon is one of the first back, but eventually Nana’s flat does start to fill up with people. The table is covered in salads, bread and cheese.
Nana’s friends have all brought a dish. A lady with long grey plaits and sparkly eyes wraps her huge arms around me and my brother. Krish squirms out of her grasp as she tries to gather us
into the folds of her flowery purple dress that brushes the floor. It’s called a kaftan. Nana had a few of those, but when she wore them she looked like a little girl in a nightie. This lady
looks as if she’s wearing curtains.

At first, people’s voices are quiet, almost whispers, but then they start to get louder and some people smile and laugh. I go out to the pond to look for frogs. Simon is sitting there like
a garden elf with Piper lying quietly by his side. Simon points to a frog’s eyes peeping out of the water. We watch it, all three of us, and it watches us. We do not move an inch. Then
suddenly it leaps and splashes gloop at us, sending Piper into a frenzy of yapping.

After everybody has gone there is a lot of clearing up to do. I curl up on the garden bench next to the pond, where I used to sit with Nana. Out of the corner of my eye I see the frog make a
dash back into the water. I get the feeling that it’s been watching us all this time. I think of all the fairy stories Nana loved to tell me, about frogs turning into princes, about
princesses sleeping the sleep of the dead but, right at the last moment, being magically woken by a prince’s kiss . . . all those happy endings.

I watch Dad’s sad shoulders as he locks the wooden gate on to our secret garden . . . and a time when I still believed in fairy stories.