Love Story 23

It rained every day and everything closed in before the funeral. Mum had time for a fag before we got into the chauffeured car. The cortege set off, but St Stephen’s Catholic Church was just down the road. We could have walked down just as quickly. It was a conventional red-brick, post-Second World War, kid’s drawing of how a church should look with grounds and a church hall attached. I’d stood outside a few times waiting for the bride and groom to emerge and throw money for a scramble.

The congregation was standing black against the walls, stamping their feet and trying not to be caught smiling. An unshaven man passed us as cars parked wherever they could find a space. A wee boy and girl also dressed in black skipped along the pavement and laughing. The hearse angled into the bay left for it at the gates. Others were still arriving in dribs and drabs with that guilty look as if they were late and would miss the opening bars of the hymns. 

Mum wound down the window to light another fag. A wee fat woman with her legs in callipers waved a stick so mourners would move aside. It made me smile. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked Mum.

Mum gawked at her as if deciding. ‘That’s yer Auntie Ina. She used tae be neat and tidy like a handbox, I mean bandbox.’

They opened the back of the hearse in front of us. A red-faced funeral director arranging the men, mostly my Da’s older brothers, who would take a corner and carry the coffin. I kept getting them mixed up and forgetting my uncles’ and auntie’ names, but I wasn’t so sure they remembered mine either, but they did remember Mum’s.

Mum took another drag of her fag, sucking in her cheeks. She rambled on about Auntie Ina to kill the silence.

‘They met at a dance in the Burgh halls. He couldnae dance and naebody asked her tae dance. But I guess something must have happened between them. Not a penny between them. He wasnae much of a muchness. Had a hard life wae him drinking anything no nailed doon. But they’d a kid that looked like a retard, but seemingly wasnae.’

‘Mum, you cannae say that.’

She ignored my remark, flicking her fag into the drizzle and straightening her skirt as the men put the coffin on their shoulders and she stepped outside, pulling her jacket tighter over his blouse. ‘I’m jist saying,’ she said, trying to hold back the sniffles. ‘We don’t know whit lies ahead. Then they bring you hame in a box.’

Dad’s coffin was placed on two trestles in the central aisle near the altar. Front row seats were for Mum and me and family relations. I’d brought Eve to sit beside me. I’d spotted her outside, standing by herself near the other gate and trying to blend in. I cut through a crowd of mourners trying to shake my hand and offering condolences.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I said, squeezing her arm.

‘I couldnae no come,’ she replied. Tears in her eyes, which surprised me. She hardly knew my Da. She looked down at her belly and patted her growing belly. Leaning into my shoulder to whisper. ‘Thanks for no grassing me tae the cops.’

I shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter now. ‘What did you do with all the money and stuff?’

She sniffed and put a hand over her face to keep from grinning. ‘Yeh, know me. I cannae keep anything. Spent it aw. Bought stuff for oor baby.’

‘Right,’ I said. I could hear the organ belting out the first bars of a hymn, ‘Walk with Me.’

‘Aye,’ she said, ‘I’d hate that being in a coffin. Cause I’m well claustrophobic and it’d be dark and yeh couldnae even breathe.’

I was going to correct her. Instead, I grabbed her wrist and took her hand. Pulled her along and black jackets and ties passed in our wake. Sat her beside me in the front row and squeezed her hand.

Mum was holding herself very straight, jaw clenched, and staring straight ahead at the Parish priest on the altar, but she glanced at Eve sideways. We stood up and sat down and stood up and knelt down, always out of step with everyone, until it came to Holy Communion. The choir and congregation behind us finished singing one of God’s greatest hits and started on another maudlin medley.

I knew I shouldn’t go, because it wasn’t part of our faith. But Eve jumped up and joined the parishioners kneeling at the altar rail with their mouths opening and shutting like a clam fest. She wasn’t one of skipping meals, even if it was the body and blood of Christ.

Mum sat rigid and watched us coming back into the pew. A few of Da’s brothers pushing down the kneelers and praying with their large hands knuckled in a little boy steeple and their eyes closed.     

The Parish Priest hardly mentioned Da’s name, but talked lots about God’s plan in a way that reminded me of Pastor Colin.

The last part of the service involved daubing the coffin with HolyWater. Circling trestles with chinking chains. An incense censor offered fragrant clouds. It was strangely comforting, like sacrifices to medieval gods of ill-wind that no longer existed.  

I clung to Mum, sobbing, as the pallbearers lifted the coffin and put it on their shoulders. An arm pushed out and hand placed on the shoulder in front and leading the way. The organ swept us out in hymnal tones with a congregation following in a knot of people at our back.

We stood at the door shaking hands and reminding folk to come back to the do in the church hall after we’d been to the graveside. Ali stood beside me also shaking hands and offering the same advice. Men nodded in a polite way. Women cried.

Mrs Connolly hirpled out, a hanky in each hand, her eyes already pink from crying. She looked at me and Mum, but we were already talking to some distant cousin. She took Ali’s hand and I glanced out of the side of my eyes to see if they recognised each other.

Mrs Connolly said, ‘I can’t manage with my ailing knees and hips to get to the graveside,’ and pulled out another hanky to dab her dim eyes.

Ali took the old women in her arms and pressed her pregnant belly against her sour smelling coat.  

‘That’s Fine. Just fine,’ said Ali. She hurried her along like a professional mourner with a ‘Thank you for coming. Come again.’