I'm on the train! (24 page)

‘Beloved’, ‘precious’, ‘special’ – the words were so bewitching, she rolled them round her tongue, like sweets. But, all at once, she was blasted back to the present by an explosion of sound erupting in the chapel. Opening her eyes, she was utterly astounded to see party-poppers being let off all around her; their scarlet streamers flying everywhere. And the guests were blowing red tin-whistles, making a rumbustious din, whilst a tide of rainbow-hued balloons floated exuberantly up to the ceiling. And then she noticed the curtains slowly closing around the coffin, which meant they must have reached the committal. Normally, she loathed that moment, when the mourners stood silent and the vicar intoned appropriately sepulchral words. But here all was jubilant uproar, as more party-poppers exploded, more tin-
whistles
were blown, and a roistering swarm of kids skedaddled about the chapel, in pursuit of coloured streamers and balloons. She could hardly believe that any crematorium would allow such pandemonium. Certainly, things had changed dramatically since her mother’s joyless funeral.

Suddenly, she gripped the side of the pew, struck not just by the startling sight but by an extraordinary revelation. Having spent her life blaming herself for her mother’s death (so clumsy, greedy and idle a child
must
have been the cause), only now did it dawn on her, with a profound sense of consolation, that it had been nothing to
do with her and her deficiencies. It was simply a matter of chance – a cruel twist of fate, for which no one was to blame. And, if her widowed dad had been different, she would have grown up to be more serene; not become a workaholic, terrified of marriage and too frightened to have children, in case some tragedy occurred and her offspring were as miserable as
she
had been in childhood.

How could she have reached middle age without perceiving such an obvious truth before? But at least she had grasped it now and the relief was so overpowering, she grabbed the tin-whistle Tamsin was holding out to her and blew it in raucous tribute. She must give Bobbie a rousing send-off, but, after that, another, more important task awaited and this incongruous elation must give place to due solemnity. While the revellers were swarming out of the chapel, to congregate in the courtyard just beyond, she turned the other way, slipped out through the main chapel doors and back into the waiting-room. The staff would need some time to clear the debris from the chapel; make it neat and tidy for the funeral to follow.

And
she
needed time, as well, to compose herself and banish the last traces of those disconcerting, but captivating, fantasies of being Bobbie’s daughter. That little girl – safe, secure, protected, but also lively, rowdy, boisterous – was still cavorting in some region of her mind; troublingly at variance with the tense, temperate, adult
businesswoman
. In just the last half-hour, she seemed to have been storm-tossed by emotion, but now it was required of her to be calm and in control. Leaning back in her chair, she focused on the carpet; its drab grey-blue gradually replacing Bobbie’s rainbow brilliance; its timid squiggles taming his exuberance; its very ordinariness slowly returning her to the task in hand.

‘Ah!’ said a deep, kindly voice, breaking into the silence, ‘you must be Debby. I’m Gavin Matthews, the vicar. How good to meet you, my dear – although I feel I know you already after all our conversations on the phone.’

She rose to greet him, immediately reassured by his appearance: the immaculate white surplice, worn above a long black cassock; the well-polished shoes and freshly starched clerical collar; the neatly cut grey hair. He was male, mature and eminently presentable
– all the things her father would expect. And an obviously
warm-hearted
person, who could give her moral support.

Having ushered her outside, they stood together, waiting for the hearse. No one else had turned up, but that was how it should be. Her father had always valued privacy and seclusion, so it was only fitting that at this, his final stage, there were no villagers to
tittle-tattle
, or nosy neighbours to pry.

She heard the noise of wheels and bowed her head respectfully as the hearse drew up and the coffin was unloaded – a traditional model in darkest oak, with the expensive wreath she’d ordered
positioned
sombrely on top. No riotous, unreliable flowers to fling their petals over him or droop in disarray. And the funeral director was a model of decorum, in his sleek black morning-coat, pinstriped trousers and matching waistcoat, and even an elegant top hat and silver-topped black cane.

With a suitably grave expression, he supervised the bearers as they hoisted the coffin on their shoulders and began their solemn procession into the chapel. Deliberately, she walked alongside, her hand also on the coffin; needing to be part of this last rite. Indeed, if she had only possessed the strength, she would gladly have carried his full weight – without any bearers helping – to make some tiny recompense for the long disharmony between them. The fact that her father was so entirely different from a genial, easy-going type like Bobbie was a question of genes and temperament and therefore simply due to chance again. And, having lost the one great treasure of his life, was it any wonder that he had become distant and detached, and unable to be close to anybody else? At least, now he was beyond distress; released by death from death.

Once the coffin was placed on the catafalque, the vicar stood at the lectern; his neat, dark, slender figure a total contrast to Meg’s tousled, bright voluptuousness. He began reciting the same words as at her mother’s funeral, yet, strangely, they had changed their tenor: consoling and serene now, instead of cruel and harsh.

After the opening prayers and readings, he gave a brief address. There was no one but her to listen; no one but her to join in the responses, but her father would undoubtedly be gratified that all the
due formalities were being so punctiliously observed. Indeed, when it came to the hymns, both she and the vicar sang with power and resonance, to compensate for the lack of other voices. And, once again she noticed that, instead of sounding wrathful and morose, they seemed solemn and majestic and thus appropriate.

‘May our brother rest in peace,’ the vicar concluded and, as he bowed towards the coffin, she realized, with a jolt of mingled solace and surprise, that guilt and grief, uncertainty and worry, had all disappeared entirely. Now there was only peace – peace soothing like a balm; peace unforeseen, unprecedented; peace restorative and rare – peace not simply for her dear departed father, but for her, as well – at last.

Absinthe for Elevenses

Cuckoo

After Purple

Born of Woman

The Stillness The Dancing

Sin City

Devils, for a Change

Fifty-Minute Hour

Bird Inside

Michael, Michael

Breaking and Entering

Coupling

Second Skin

Lying

Dreams, Demons and Desire

Tread Softly

Virgin in the Gym and Other Stories

Laughter Class and Other Stories

The Biggest Female in the World and Other Stories

Little Marvel and Other Stories

The Queen’s Margarine and Other Stories

Broken Places