Getting Over It (4 page)

Chapter 4

F
OR MY FOURTH BIRTHDAY
, my father took me to see
The Nutcracker
and I shamed him by roaring, “I want to be a fairy, too!” I have since revised this ambition, for the sad single reason that fairies wear skirts. I don’t wear skirts. I refuse to wear skirts. I haven’t worn a skirt for approximately five years because my legs are short and stocky and if I wear a skirt I tend to look like a dressed-up bulldog. That said, I recently spied a slender, tapering
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
creation in Miss Selfridge and madly, recklessly broke my rule. I wore it to work, thought,
Actually, my legs aren’t that bad.
Then I saw someone else’s and I thought,
My god, what were you thinking?
The next day, I gave away the skirt to Michelle—who was pleased to accept it and said she’d get the dry cleaners to take it in for her.

Incredibly, my mother refuses to accept my no-skirt rule. “You can’t wear trousers to a funeral!” she squawks. “Why not?” I snap, “I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind.” When I say this, she stamps her foot. She’s fifty-five years old! “Yes, but I mind!” she screeches. “But—” Her voice starts to crack. “Just do it, Helen! Don’t argue with me, I’m warning you, I can’t take it!” My mother could teach Elton John a few things about being a drama queen. My father wouldn’t care if I attended his funeral dressed as a fireman.

Did I mention he deemed nudity on a par with Satanism? Well, he also deemed religion on a par with Satanism. Consequently, his funeral is to be—as I commanded Uriah—spiritual lite. No hymns, no house of worship. And no yellow, because my father hated yellow. Just a simple graveside ceremony. “Performed by whom?” asked Uriah. “A minister, of course!” I said. This puzzled Uriah until I explained that I couldn’t think who else could perform it (although cousin Stephen offered) so a minister would have to do. But he’s to keep it brisk, and if possible, avoid yellow and God references.

My mother is well aware of all this, yet blows up the skirt issue to intergalactic proportions. Suddenly, the thought of spending one more minute in her shrieky, flailing company is unbearable. “Fine,” I say. I spit out the words like grape seeds. “You win. I’ll wear a skirt. I’ll wear a skirt but I’ve decided”—and I decide this as I say it—“I want to drive to the funeral myself. I don’t want to go in the procession thing. I think it’s grim. I refuse.” Cue, World War III.

There is no way. Am I mad. Do I want to kill her. It’s unheard of. What will people think. Boo hoo hoo. Happily, part of my job involves phoning experts for extra quotes to bump up dull features written by lazy, overpaid freelance journalists. So I employ a ruse gleaned from one of the many psychologists I interview at
GirlTime
—the Broken Record Technique. Whatever my mother throws at me—accusations, threats, pleas, the crumpled up
Guardian
Education section—I calmly repeat the same intensely irritating statement: “Yes, I realize that, but I’ve decided to drive to the funeral myself.” On the fifth repetition, she gives a deep yowl, screams, “Shut up shut up shut up I can’t stand it!” and runs upstairs. I take this to indicate surrender and drive back to the flat triumphant. I don’t feel guilty, why should I?

The morning of the funeral dawns. I lurch into consciousness and feel the nauseating grip of fear without knowing why. Then I remember. The sky is blue but it is a cold, blustery, vicious day. The kind of day that ruins your hair even if you’ve moussed and blasted it to a brittle crisp. To make matters worse, Tina has been in New York on a fashion shoot until yesterday and so unavailable for consultation, and the only cheap skirt I could find on my lone shopping trip was long, black, and stretchy with a non-detachable material bow at the waist. I put it on and immediately look like Alison Moyet .

The flat is silent and I bash about and slam doors to make it less silent and feel angry with my mother for not ringing. I am slightly cheered when I switch on the radio and hear that a hot air balloon containing two nerds has crashed into the sea, thus ruining their attempt to beat the boring Balloon Around the World world record. Jesus! It’s their
hobby
! I am looking for my earrings and wondering what sort of needle it would take to pop a hot air balloon when I glance at the clock and realize that it is twenty-five past ten and the funeral starts at eleven.

Six road-raging minutes later I am crawling through Golders Green, trying to apply lipstick in the rearview mirror. At least twenty-five Volvos are double-parked in the middle of the road. I’m wishing I’d taken a different route when I sense a familiar movement in the blurry distance. I focus on it and I see my father walking along the pavement. My stomach flips as I watch his striding march, his confident gait, the broad square of his shoulders, and then he glances, quickly, once, behind him and he isn’t my father at all and there is an enormously loud, tinny bang and I jolt forward and stop abruptly, having veered—slowly but with conviction—into a parked orange Volkswagen Beetle. “Oh,
nooooo
!” I shout.

My first thought is to ring Dad. I could burst out crying but I’m wearing non-waterproof mascara. Instead, I leap out and run to inspect the damage. Immediately, other cars start hooting. A well-preserved woman in a Jeep Cherokee whirrs down her window and says helpfully, “You were going too fast.” Then I hear the sound of screaming.

“You’ve totaled Nancy!” screams the voice. The voice belongs to a tiny blond woman wearing emphatic lipliner and a white coat. Her face is pinchy with rage. She runs toward me until we are standing nose to nose and I can smell her ever-so-faintly rancid breath. “N-n-nancy?” I stammer in horror. Oh god, I’ve killed someone. “Nancy, my car, you stupid cow!” The whoosh of relief as I realize I won’t go to prison, plus the slow-brain processing of the fact a ridiculous, car-christening stranger is calling me a stupid cow, fuse into a rush of adrenalin and I roar, “For fuck’s sake, stop screaming, it’s a crappy little coke can car!” She looks shocked—probably didn’t think someone wearing a skirt like this would use the word “fuck.” She opens her over-made-up mouth to answer back, but I am not in the mood. I bellow, “I’m sorry! But I am on the way to my father’s funeral and—”

I stop mid-bellow. I stop because a tall dark-haired guy, also wearing a white coat, has jogged up to us and seemingly expects to be included in the conversation. “Yes?” I say icily. Instantly, the blonde turns coy. “Tom!” she simpers. She’s practically nuzzling his chest. The sneer in my head must have escaped to my face because she shoots me an evil look. “Tom, look what she’s done to Nancy!” We both regard Nancy’s crumpled backside. Then we look at Tom. She looks adoringly. I look snootily, do a double take, quickly attempt to squash it. It emerges victorious as a twitch. Tom is gorgeous. Or rather, he’s got—and I know this doesn’t sound terribly complimentary but you’ll excuse it as a personal fetish—eyes like a husky dog. A cool, pale piercing blue. Woof. And his teeth. Wolf teeth. I know this, because he flashes me a surprise smile. Pointy canines do it for me. What can I say? It’s weird. I mean, I don’t even like dogs.

“Celine, it’s mainly the bumper. Stop yelling,” says Tom. Then he turns to me and says, “Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?” I shake my head. “I’m late,” I say shrilly. “I’m late for my father’s funeral, and now this!” My voice chokes up. Celine is mutinously silent. “What!” says Tom. “What about Nancy?” says Celine sulkily. “I’ll deal with the car,” says Tom. “You go inside.” Celine flounces off. Tom winces. “Sorry about her,” he says. “You look like you’re in shock. Will you be okay to drive?” I shrug. I mean to say that I’m fine but it comes out as “I feel dizzy.” I fiddle with my watch and realize that my father’s funeral starts in less than a quarter of an hour. “I’m so late! And the Beetle!”

Tom waves away the Beetle. “The Beetle is worth about 10p. Forget it. You can sort it out later.” Pause. “You look a bit wonky to drive. Can I call you a cab?” I shake my head. “It starts in ten minutes,” I wail. I feel weak and feeble, not to mention a great big frump. To complete this alluring package, a plop of watery snivel runs out of my nose. I wipe it on my sleeve.

“I’ll drive you,” announces Tom. “I’ve got the van.” “The van?” I say gormlessly. “The vet’s van,” he says. “You’re a vet!” I say. “Yes!” he grins. “That explains the white coat,” I say. Then I decide to shut up. I stand there, gormlessly, while Tom moves the Toyota “round the back.” His driving is, I’m alarmed to note, similar to mine. Three seconds later, he reappears at the wheel of a dirty white van with the word
MEGAVET
emblazoned on its side. Classy. He toots, and I clamber in. Because of my clingy student skirt it’s a gawky (except fatter) knock-kneed maneuver.

“Don’t you have loads of animals waiting to see you?” I ask, confirming my already stunning reputation for eloquent repartee and dagger wit. “Nah.” He shakes his head. “Wednesday’s always quiet. Monday and Friday are the killers. Right. Where are we going?” Of course, I can’t remember, so Tom scrabbles under his seat and retrieves a ragged street map. Once we escape from Golders Green, Tom speeds up. He has no qualms about cutting up police cars. I know we’re in a rush, but it feels like he’s trying to take off. “All right, wing commander?” I mutter edgily. He glances at me. “This isn’t fast!” he says. “You don’t want to be late!” “No,” I say. “But I don’t want to be dead either.” He slows down. “I’m sorry about your dad,” he says. “It’s okay,” I reply.

After this jolly exchange, we’re silent. Then Tom says, “How did he die?” I pick the skin on my lip. “Heart attack,” I gasp as the van squeals round a corner. Tom, rather sweetly, gives a loud tut. I want to change the subject. I need to change the subject. I wrack my fuzzy brain for information that may be of interest to a good-looking vet whom I have known for not very long and produce the conversational corker: “I’ve got a kitten called Fatboy.” Jesus, what’s wrong with me?! My command of the English language seems to have vanished. Suddenly I possess the vocabulary and articulation of a three-year-old and am forced to suck in my cheeks to prevent myself adding, “What’s your favourite color?” Thankfully, Tom says politely, “Oh, yes? Any particular sort?” Here at last is my chance to prove that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I do actually own an IQ. And what do I say? “He’s orange.” I am considering an emergency operation to have my voice box removed, when Tom says kindly, “Orange. Good sort of cat.” This inspires me to silence. I stare at my lap and imagine my father lying dead in his coffin, starting to rot.

Seven excruciating minutes later, we screech up to the cemetery gates. “Thank you, it’s so kind of you, thank you,” I say awkwardly, trying to inject some bouncy gratitude into the flat monotone. “What shall I do about the Toyota?” Tom waves me away. “You’d better rush. Just stop by when you have a moment. You can sort the insurance and stuff with Celine whenever. She won’t mind.” This is the most outrageous lie I’ve heard since my mother denied fancying Steve McQueen. But I let it pass. “Thank you,” I say again. “It’s all right,” he says.

He nods toward the mass of cars jamming the cemetery entrance. “Will you be okay?” he says. I nod stiffly, give a silly bye-bye-baby wave, and turn away. My eyes are watering. It’s ridiculous. Being shouted at, I can take. But gentleness—spare me. Even the word makes me cringe. It’s almost as bad as “tenderly.” Blue eyes and pointy teeth notwithstanding, I go right off him. I see Luke in a too-tight navy suit hovering just inside the iron gates with an impeccable Tina and a sleek Lizzy and run gratefully toward them. Tom roars away in his dirty white van, and I don’t even look back.

Chapter 5

L
UKE IS A NICOTINE ADDICT
. Not only does he need a pre- and post-coital fag, he has to have one during. It is, he tells me, why his last girlfriend left him. He singed her on a sensitive spot. He says he could give it up any time but refuses to chew gum as “it gives you stomach ulcers.” He smokes on the subway platform (“The no-smoking signs refer to the track”), he smokes in the bath (“For me as a bloke it’s the equivalent of a scented candle”), and he smokes while he eats his thick-crust pepperoni pizza in front of
A Question of Sport
(“It’s a stressful program, you wouldn’t understand”). Did I mention that as well as smoking his insides to soot, Luke says what he thinks without thinking? So it’s no great surprise that when I burst through the cemetery gates he grinds his toe agitatedly on one of five smouldering fag butts and shouts, “Helen! You, mate, are dead!”

“I’m what!” I say. He has the grace to blush. “I mean,” he stutters, “your mum is going mental. She’s murderous. Everyone’s waiting in their cars.” I look at Tina and Lizzy. Tina flicks her fingernails, looks down at her Jimmy Choos, and mutters “Bloody hell!” Lizzy pulls a woeful face and wails “Oh, poor Helen!” I take their discomfort as corroboration. “Hang on,” I mutter, and weave my way through what looks like a staged motorway pileup—studiously avoiding eye contact with the goggling faces inside the cars—to the big, shiny black Jaguar parked behind the big, shiny black hearse.

As I approach, the window shoots down. “Where. Have. You. Been?” spits my mother from under a great black saucer of a hat. I’m surprised at her courteous restraint, then I realize the chauffeur is listening, agog. I bend down, wave guiltily at Nana Flo, who is clutching a lace hankerchief so tightly her knuckles are white, and say I got held up. “What’s going on?” I ask, to distract my mother from her fury.

“They’re in the cemetery office,” says my mother in a high hysterical voice. “They’re doing all the paperwork and”—sniff—“we’re not allowed to get out of our cars until it’s done, and—oh I’ve had enough! I’m getting out! I can’t just sit here! Mind out!” I hop to one side as my mother leaps from the car. Immediately, hoardes of car doors click open and swarms of po-faced droopily-dressed people start plodding slowly toward us. I stiffen in fright. No offense to our family friends and relatives, but it’s like Night of the Living Dead.

I spent the next ten minutes suffocating in a blur of powdery, lavendery, lipsticky kisses, awkward nose-clinking hugs, warm breathy murmurs of “I’m so sorry!” and “So sudden!,” a sharp assertion of “You must be relieved he went so quickly” (Oh, delighted), a shrill exclamation of “Helen! I hardly recognize you! You’ve lost your puppy fat!” and “You are taking care of your poor mother, aren’t you—such a shock for her!” I glance at my mother, who is lapping it up like Fatboy having stumbled on an illegal bowl of ice cream. “Yes,” I say grimly, “she needs a lot of looking after.”

I spot Uriah—done up like a dog’s dinner—emerging from the cemetery office with the minister. Who, I recall in a stab of panic, left two rambling messages on my answer machine which I ignored, then forgot. Uriah, meanwhile, looks distinctly annoyed at the anarchic milling crowds, but as I approach his lips twitch in a careful smile. “Miss Bradshaw,” he says. “How are you?” I tell him I’m fine. He nods quickly, then says, “We’re ready to embark on your father’s last journey, if we may. Do you wish the arrangement to stay on the coffin, or shall we remove it?” I’m stumped. “Er, what do people normally do?” I say. “Most folk prefer to take it off,” he says. “They often like to donate it to an appropriate hospital ward—in this case, the cardiac unit, “ he adds helpfully. How jolly for the patients. “Oh, fine, do that then,” I blurt. I become aware of a dip in the noise level, during which a woman’s voice exclaims, “I hope he’s not going to be buried over the other side. I hate the walk.” I turn and my heart thuds as I see that the dark Dracula-esque coffin has been rolled out of its hearse and six sober-suited men are slowly hefting it onto their shoulders. I stare at it in horror. This solid, ugly, stark token of death. Jesus! My father is in there. Dead. Cold. Stiff. Starting to rot. How long before the rigor mortis is softened with the stink of decay and—I am wrenched from my rotten thoughts by my mother, who storms right up to Uriah and shouts in his face: “Morrie’s cousin Stephen wants to carry the coffin!”

Not by himself, surely,
I say in my head. Cousin Stephen is about ninety-three and the height of a Munchkin. “Mum,” I begin, glancing nervously at Uriah, “we were supposed to sort—” Uriah stops me with a light touch on my shoulder. “It’s not a problem,” he says grandly. After a short flurry—and when I say short, I mean short—Cousin Stephen is promoted to a pallbearer. Uriah somehow organizes everyone into a long straggly line, eyeballs Luke into extinguishing his cigarette, and takes his place in front of the coffin, with the minister.

My mother, Nana Flo, and I stand behind it. I glance at Nana to see if she might faint, but she has a strong, angry look about her, like she’s preparing for battle. My mother is trembling and her face is swollen with tears. I hug her and nearly collapse as she promptly relaxes her entire weight onto me. She clings with one arm and uses the other to keep her hat from whizzing off her head and spinning across the white sea of gravestones. I feel as if I’m acting a part in a film. It’s ridiculous! Today is a chill, blustery Wednesday morning. I should be sitting at my desk in an overheated office, slurping a double espresso and leafing through the
Sun
on the pretext of doing research. Instead, here am I, with a great troupe of people, in the bloody countryside, stumbling over the muddy earth behind a big brash coffin containing my dad, toward a freshly dug grave to bury him deep in the ground—bury my father—who only last week was cheerily celebrating the dropping of his handicap with fat cigars and a round of brandies for his putting pals in the Brookhill Golf Club bar. I wonder how Tina’s £195 shoes are negotiating the dirt.

For the first five steps of the funeral march, the coffin is—thanks to squat Cousin Stephen—wobbly and uneven. Thankfully, Uriah’s men hoist it up and off Cousin Stephen’s short shoulder until he is actually standing underneath it. He is forced to be content with placing a nominal hand of support on its polished surface and our bizarre procession shuffles on. I glide forward like a zombie. Everyone is hushed and the only sound is a plane droning overhead and the wind whipping the soft feathery branches of the elderly yew trees.

I feel sick. I am dreaming, and soon someone is going to wake me, tell me it’s a mad twisted nightmare, and I’ll open my eyes, and I’ll be in my warm soft bed and this surreal situation will vanish. Disappear. End. Stop. “
Stop
!” roars my mother in a voice that God could have used to part the Dead Sea. Everyone—including, unfortunately, the pallbearers—jumps about a foot in the air and staggers to a hurried halt. Nana looks dumbstruck. “Good grief,” I say rather stupidly, “what’s wrong?” My mother is sobbing and trembling so violently she can barely speak. Uriah bustles over, full of official concern. “Okay,” I say soothingly, stroking her back. “It’s okay, just calm down. What’s [duh!] upset you?”

My mother is gasping and choking but eventually manages to wheeze out the word “ring.” Ring? “Ring?” I say. “Ring who?” This prompts a fresh, energized burst of woe: “
Nooaaaaaaaawww
!” she wails. “Wedding ring! His wedding ring! It’s still on his fi-fi-fin-ger-her-herrrr!” My jaw drops and I gawp at Uriah aghast. He gawps back. He presses two bony fingers to his pale temple as if he has a headache. Which indeed he has.

At first, Uriah tries wheedling. “But Mrs. Bradshaw,” he intones, “if you remember, we did go through this, we filled in the form—” My mother’s sagging head snaps up sharply like a bad-tempered puppet. Her eyes glint. She is queen of the classroom and Uriah is a silly little dunce who hasn’t done his homework. “I don’t care!” she hisses. “I don’t want to hear your excuses! I’m paying you! I want my husband’s wedding ring! Now, get it!” I am briefly dumb with horror and mortification. I glance nervously at Nana, who says nothing but looks at my mother once, quickly, a look of unconcealed hate. I stammer, “But you… you can’t…” I stare helplessly at Uriah. This is a man who knows when he’s beat. He raises a thin weary hand. “We can.” He sighs.

And so, the rumors rumble back through the chilled, bewildered crowd until everyone present knows that the coffin containing my dead father has been wheeled behind a couple of conveniently tall headstones, the mahogany top prised off it, the gold wedding band forcefully wrested from his pink finger, polished on Uriah’s black tailcoat, and presented to my sulkily defiant mother. Luke sidles up behind them to peek and later tells me, “Honestly, Helen, he looked really well! He didn’t look corpsey at all!”

After this unscheduled interlude—during which I spy the minister checking his watch—we make it to the graveside. I try to steer my mother’s attention toward the garish floral tributes propped around the hole and away from the fresh pile of earth heaped beside it, and the two scruffy men standing not quite far enough away, each one casually leaning on a great big, sodding, dirt-encrusted shovel.

The pallbearers and a relieved Cousin Stephen lower the coffin to the ground. No one is quite sure where to stand. One elderly guest with crepey skin and hair like candyfloss observes in a loud whisper, “I would have expected more flowers. But I suppose they’ll come later.” The minister approaches us and asks if there is anything we’d like him to say. My mother becomes flustered. Someone has given her a red rose to throw on my father’s coffin and she has picked it to bits. “Like what?” she says. “Well, er, any particular tribute to the deceased,” he replies.

“No one told me about tributes!” she exclaims rudely. “Helen, you should have said! I’d have written something down!” Talk about ungrateful! “Me!” I cry. I have just about had it with her flouncing. “How should I know! Why is it my fault?” A small worm of guilt niggles its way into my consciousness because possibly vaguely, maybe I sort of recall the minister’s message might have mentioned the wisdom of writing a short note for him to include in his address, but I’m sorry, I can’t be responsible for every piddling detail!

“He was a loving, attentive father,” I lie, reading off a nearby gravestone, “and a wonderful, kind, adoring husband,” I add in a rush to appease my mother. She sniffs approval. “He was good at golf,” she says. “Say that.” The minister nods, backs away, clears his throat, trots out a thin service and the speediest, tritest, most anodyne accolade I have ever heard, bar the one my headmistress made at my school leaving ceremony.

The coffin is then lowered into the grave. I note Uriah nodding surreptitiously to the fourth pallbearer, who grabs a rope before Cousin Stephen can make a hash of it. Is it my imagination or are those gravediggers closer than they were? Vultures. We sprinkle dirt on the coffin—Luke manages to hurl a large clod of earth containing a stone at 110 miles per hour, which goes
pank!
as it hits the casket and makes a slight dent. I keep my arm around my mother on the pretext of lending her loving support, but really to prevent her throwing herself into the grave. I doubt she will, as her black Jaeger dress cost—according to Tina’s informed guess—approximately £250. But after the ring episode, I’m taking no chances.

Nana Flo stares silently down at the coffin, shaking her head. I’m relieved that Nana’s sister has flown in from Canada, although she’s having difficulty reaching her as every time she takes a step, a dragonish fire-breathing relative blocks her path crying, “Great-aunt Molly! When was the last time we saw you!” I release my mother for one minute to comfort Nana Flo and the next thing I know is, my mother has bowled up to the minister and declared, “We won’t be using you again! And don’t think you’re getting a tip!” Even Luke is shocked. And, for one unholy second, the Molly botherers stop nattering.

The blessed Uriah swoops to the rescue. “Mrs. Bradshaw,” he croons, “you must be frozen, might I fetch you a blanket?” Her attention-hungry head swivels and I am reminded of a cartoon hero bravely distracting Godzilla from crushing a child by waving and jiggling his juicy self as a decoy. “You may,” she says graciously. The minister sneaks off. Uriah orders a minion to fetch a blanket. Luke, and a million others, spark up and start yapping. I could almost believe that we were burying a stranger and that my father decided to stay at home, like Homer Simpson shirking church.

Then I see Nana Flo. She is standing tensely over the grave staring blindly at the mud-splattered coffin. Uriah waits a decent while before slinking up to me and saying, “Whenever you’re ready we’ll take the cards off the flowers for you.” One second, I say. I run over to Nana Flo, touch her shoulder softly, and say, “The funeral director asked if you would like him to take the cards off the flowers yet.” My grandmother seems to drag herself back from somewhere far away. Her head turns slowly like a tortoise. She says in a bright hard voice, “Yes, thank you, that would be lovely.” I nod, retreat, and tell Uriah to go ahead.

Uriah’s men go to work and I gaze unseeing into the middle distance. I stand as still, cold, inanimate as a maypole, while a sweep of blurry faces whirl and dance and chatter around me. Eventually, a gentle hand on my arm forces me to snap into focus. “Helen,” says Lizzy softly, “everyone’s going back to your mother’s house. Do you want me to stay here with you for a little longer?” I blink, and see that most of our guests are revving up their cars, the cards are gone from the flowers, and the gravediggers are inching toward the abandoned grave. Uriah, in the distance, is helping Nana Flo into the black limosine. Another plane drones noisily overhead and I am furious at its blithe intrusion. “Let’s go,” I say to Lizzy. She takes my arm and we walk in silence through the mass of past lives to the cemetery gates, where Luke and Tina are waiting. My mother is snug in the plush car and content to meet me at the house. I squeeze into the back of Tina’s yellow Ford Escort—a secret obsessively kept from her fashiony friends—and we roar off. And that, is the end of my father.