The Wake

She’d made prawn sandwiches, knowing full well that he hated prawn sandwiches. A small mountain of them dominated the buffet, crusts curling up in the heat from the radiator behind the table. “This is a lovely prawn sandwich, Sylv,” said her sister, May, taking a bite and continuing to talk. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes,” said Sylvia, pulling the plate a little further forward. “They were Carlos’s favourite.”

At the mention of this name, George’s jaw tightened and he wanted to pick up the plate of prawn sandwiches and fling it across the room. But he couldn’t. What with being dead.

“Can we leave yet?” the young lad at his side asked. “No,” said George. “Not yet.” And he followed Sylvia as she crossed the floor of the function room to the bar, where Aunt Flora was polishing off her third glass of gin.

“It’s a nice enough turnout,” said Aunt Flora, sounding rather surprised.

“Yes,” said Sylvia, looking around the room. “I suppose. Though nothing like Carlos’s funeral. Do you remember? You couldn’t sit down there were that many people.”

George clenched his fists as he turned and surveyed the room. Flora was being kind. It was a poor showing. Where were the folks from the library group? And what about his colleagues from work? Only Diane from HR had bothered showing up at the funeral and she hadn’t even made it to the wake. Then, apart from a smattering of Sylvia’s friends and relatives, there was only Terry and Mable, who’d they’d met on a ferry to the Isle of Mann a few years ago, the neighbours, and the nice young couple who ran the café in the town centre, where he used to escape every Saturday morning for a few hours of peace and a Full English.

“Can we leave yet?” asked the young lad, who’d followed him across the room. “No,” said George, rather irritated. “Look. I’m not stopping you am I?” But the lad didn’t reply. He regarded this fellow, noticing how shabbily dressed he was: dirty jeans, a scuffed leather jacket and a t-shirt streaked with mud. Really, he thought, they could have sent someone better dressed, if not someone he actually knew. And certainly someone less irritating. “I’m not going until…” said George. But then stopped. Unsure of what to say, because he was unsure of why, exactly, he wasn’t going. It was, in fact, more like he couldn’t go. Not yet.

George looked again at the gathering of so-called mourners. What a shabby crowd they were, he realised. Not one of them had made an effort. No, that wasn’t quite true. And his eyes came to rest on the couple from the café. She, Alice her name was, wore a long black jumper over a pair of leggings. And he, Bob, was in a suit and tie with polished black shoes. The only black shoes in the room as it happened. His nephews had shown up in scuffed white trainers, while Sylvia had seen this as the perfect opportunity to buy some red strappy heals. Diane from HR had looked rather lovely, come to think of it, and George’s eyes drifted towards the door of the function room. She’d worn a simple black dress with a dark blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders. And she’d been the only one crying at the funeral. Though he couldn’t think why, as they hardly ever spoke at the office. Though they had shared one pleasant afternoon walking around the West Yorkshire Sculpture Park during an office outing, where they’d discovered a mutual love of soft classical music and Shakespeare.

Sylvia was on the move again. She crossed the room from the bar and made for the corner table, where Aunt Ida and her six daughters were all having such a merry time you would have thought it was a wedding reception, not a wake. “It’s so lovely to get together like this!” gushed one of them, whose name was Caroline, or Stephanie, or Barbara (he could never tell them apart). “I know,” said another sibling. “It’s a shame this doesn’t happen more often.” It wasn’t clear from her tone of voice if any irony was intended, but knowing Ida’s daughters as he did, George doubted it.

“How are you bearing up?” asked a third daughter, lightly placing a hand in Sylvia’s arm.

“Well, as you know Jean,” Sylvia said, “I’ve been through this before.” And George knew what was coming and mouthed the name as Sylvia said it: “Carlos.”

Now George bristled with anger, turning away from Ida’s table and shaking with rage, causing one of the sisters to comment on how, suddenly, it seemed rather cold as she pulled her tangerine shrug about her and shivered.

He had lived with Carlos’s name for twenty-five years: the entire time he and Sylvia were married. George had come to realise she’d never really wanted another husband after Carlos had been flung from his motorbike on the M62, but rather, she’d wanted someone to compare Carlos against, in order to be reminded, day after day, just how perfect Carlos had been and how inadequate the rest of humanity, at least the male half of humanity, was. Especially him.

He’d tried, briefly, to battle against the memory of Carlos; but he was not a beer drinking, water skiing, rugby playing police officer with a love of fast bikes and a promising career ahead of him; he was an accountant, with a fear of heights, an allergy to chocolate and a dickey bowel. And so he’d lived with the situation, resentment growing on both sides year on year: she hating him because he wasn’t Carlos, he hating her because she wanted him to be. All the time knowing he could never leave and condemn this second marriage to the list of other failures in his life: like his first marriage, his dream of being a guitar player in a country and western band, and his attempt at learning Spanish.

“Can we…” The lad started and George turned to him sharply and said “Look who are you anyway?!” And the lad fell silent. “Are you an angel? Is that it? If you are, you’re not a very good one.” And then something occurred to George and he put a hand up to his chin and stepped forward, lowering his voice. “You’re not… from down there are you?” And he looked at his feet while contemplating that, in life, he had tried to be a good person: donating to charity, buying The Big Issue on occasion, recycling when he could and attending church on a semi-regular basis. The lad continued staring forwards. “Not at liberty to say ey?” said George. “I understand.” And besides, he thought, if his final destination was… down there… at least he was in no danger of bumping into Carlos who, no doubt, was currently hanging out with the almighty himself teaching him card tricks (something else he was good at apparently).

Sylvia moved away from Ida’s table and made her way around the room, thanking more guests for “making the effort” as if attending his funeral had been a gigantic chore for all concerned. When she reached Bob and Alice’s table she looked rather lost. As far as she knew, George had been at home on Saturday mornings, working in the garage. The news that he had, in fact, been sipping a cappuccino and reading the weekend papers while woofing down a Full English breakfast in a pleasant café bar seemed to hit her hard and she went rather pale as she excused herself and dashed off to the loo.

“Can we…” the lad was there again. But George ignored him and followed his wife into the women’s toilet, where he found her in front of a little hand basin, glaring at her own reflection in the mirror, battling back tears. Public displays of affection were forbidden in Sylvia’s book and even private demonstrations were frowned upon.

Battle won apparently, Sylvia snapped open her handbag and rooted through it, pulling out a photograph and holding it up to the light. Having rushed away from Alice at the mention of his name, George felt a rush of hope. Perhaps this was a photo of the two of them together, on their honeymoon in Crete maybe? Perhaps she had carried him with her for all these years, and perhaps her apparent disregard for him had been a ploy to stop him getting too close, so that she would not be so hurt should she lose him. For a moment George had the sensation of his feet leaving the ground and it felt as if a door had opened somewhere and a light breeze was set to carry him away, safe in knowledge that he had been loved. That he had mattered to someone, to her.

But it wasn’t a photo of him. Sylvia was staring long and hard into the photograph of another man. A lad, in fact. Standing by his motorbike, dressed in a leather jacket and a black t-shirt, a cocky grin on his young, handsome face. He’d never seen a photograph of Carlos. Sylvia had kept pictures of him locked away like a sacred icons buried in a church vault. But now, as he stared into the face of his tormentor, he realised who Carlos was. “You used to love a full English,” muttered Sylvia as George’s feet landed back on the toilet floor.

George stormed back into the function room and made for the lad who was standing by the bar now, looking as lost as ever. He grabbed the lapels of his biker jacket and pulled him close, causing a tray of glasses on the bar to jingle lightly. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “This is my wake!” But the lad just lifted up his head and muttered his usual refrain: “Can we leave now?”

George took a step back, his anger slowly dissipating into despair. Never mind that he was now a ghost, and so invisible - he was used to it - he had been invisible his whole life. He contemplated his future, drifting through eternity, unable to leave, never wanting to stay. And he placed his head down into upraised palms and was about to let out a long deep wail when he heard a familiar voice by the buffet table.

Diane from HR had made an appearance in the function room. And Alice, who was getting a plate together from the buffet, noticed her red-ringed eyes and flustered expression, and took her gently by the arm and led her to their table.

“Such a lovely man,” Diane said as George crossed the room towards her. And the girl nodded and patted her hand. “It’s silly really. I never had the chance to get to know him properly. There was just that one day at the Sculpture Park. Such a lovely time…”

“We'll all miss him,” said Alice. And took her hand.

“Can we go now?” The lad was at his side again.

George turned to him, feeling nothing but pity now. He’d been there all along, he realised. Forced to stand in the shadows and watch him and Sylvia live out their petty lives: their awkward fumblings in the bedroom, uncomfortable silences over Sunday lunch, and endless dull hours spent in one another’s company, each quietly burning with hate for the other. And even now, George thought, Sylvia was thinking of Carlos, wishing he was still alive and refusing to let him leave. “I’m sorry,” said George. “But I don’t think you’re going anywhere.” And the lad seemed to hear this, turned, and drifted away across the room to where Sylvia stood, back by the buffet table, complaining that hardly anyone had touched her prawn sandwiches. But for George, it was time to leave.