Gimlet and Finchley 9 - Blake

I met up with Beck and Mario before the funeral. It was partly because of Gavin, we thought it would be better to turn up in force. Also, it meant that with Becky driving, Mario and I could both have a drink after the service.

“You’ve brought Gimlet and Finchley,” I said to Mario, nodding to their case.

“Of course. They knew Ted better than anyone.”

We walked down the isle towards the front of the church, but a burly minder blocked our way.

“Do you mind,” Mario said. “We’re family.”

“Family goes in the fourth row back,” said the minder.

“Four rows back?” said Becky. “But we’re his children.”

“Children go four rows back,” the man repeated.

“Who’s the front reserved for?” I said. “ People that never even knew him.”

“Front is for his management and VIPs.”

“VIPs? You mean Bobby Davro? He can hardly take up four rows on his own.”

Gavin rushed out, from whatever part of the church he had turned into a green room for his ‘VIPs’, or washed up acts from the 70s who’d only come in the hope of a free buffet lunch.

“I’m sorry kids,” he said, “but this is a star’s funeral. You can’t ask the Crankies to sit at the back.”

“We’re the family,” I said. “Ted didn’t see the Crankies in thirty years.

The vicar rushed over.

“Is there a problem?” he said.

“They want us to sit at the back, like naughty children,” Becky said.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “But your father left his manager as executor, which meant that he made the funeral arrangements. I’m afraid he’s reserved the front three rows for celebrity guests.”

“But we’re his children. It’s our father’s funeral,” said Becky.

“I’m really sorry,” the vicar repeated. “But this is out of my hands.”

“I think we’d better do as he says,” I said. “There may be press here, before you know it there’ll be a Gimlet and Finchley in fist-fight with Crankies,” headline.

“Right, I’m getting out Gimlet,” said Mario. “He can heckle from the back.”

“Pass me Finchley,” I said.

Becky sighed. “At least people will know who you are.”

We took our seats and watched the church fill up. Eventually the ‘VIPs’ appear. Some of them may have been the Crankies, everyone had aged so much since their cathode-ray heyday it was impossible to tell who anyone was.

The vicar welcomed everyone to the funeral.  “And now we’d like to bring up someone who knew Ted really well to say a few words,” he said. “Bobby Davro.”

Bobby Davro walked up to the front of the church, looking confused.

“Sorry,” he said. “Who’s Ted.”

“Ted Elliot,” hissed Gavin from the front row.

“I thought you said it was Harriet Walter’s funeral. I’ve written a speech for Harriet Walter.”

“Harriet Walter? No, it’s Ted Elliot.”

“Oh, Elliot. I thought you said Harriet. Should I read it anyway.”

“No, of course you shouldn’t read Harriet Walter’s eulogy at Ted Elliot’s funeral.”

Gavin leapt from his seat, nudge Davro to the side and took over proceedings. “Thank you very much

“I’m still available for Harriet Walter.” Said Davro, on the way back to his seat.

“She’s not dead Bobby.”

At this moment, Mario, with Gimlet still on his hand, stormed down the aisle, before the bouncer could even get from his seat.

“We’ll take over,” said Gimlet.

“I’ll do this, Mario,” said Gavin.

“No you won’t,” said Gimlet. “This is a star’s funeral, you need a star to read the eulogy.”  This was greeted by applause and laughter from the audience. The vicar, understanding the situation, lightly steered Gavin towards his seat with one hand, and shooed away the bouncer with the other.

“Or two stars,” I said, rushing down the aisle with Finchley on hand.