Funeral

I hoped it would be a quiet funeral. The last thing I needed was everyone Sylvie had ever met coming up and hastling me with their condolences - when I’m trying to mourn my wife.

Most of my friends were staying away; we had an unofficial wake in the Garcia’s Head on the Thursday night, which I was still feeling the after-effects of. Ted was with me, though, “To act as my minder”, I needed someone there I knew.

Sylvie nor I had any family to speak of and we never really knew our neighbours. I put a notice in the library, where she'd worked as a volunteer ever since the council sacked all the paid staff. I also put a notice on her Facebook account. One of the first things she did after she was diagnosed was to give me her passwords. She presented me with a list of over 40 accounts: Email, Twitter, Bebo, Facebook, her bank, her blog.

There were more passwords than there would be people at her funeral. With any luck! I arrived early, too early probably. I asked Ted to pick me up at 9.00 in case there was traffic. That gave us an hour to sit there nervously waiting to see whether anyone else was coming.

I’d had lots of nice responses to the Facebook message. Sonia and Steve offered to come over from Ireland, but I said no, come and see me and visit the grave in the summer when I won’t be all exhausted from the funeral arrangements. Nick and Tania also sent their apologies, they were going to be in New Zealand and didn’t think they’d be able to change flights. I said it was fine and made another date for later in the year. In fact a lot of our friends live a long way away: Scotland, Devon, Yorkshire, and I told them not to come for the funeral, but to come and see me some other time. With a regularly turnover of visitors, I said, we can make sure the grave is never without flowers. And frankly I don’t need the worry of people coming from the four corners of the earth, not at this time.

At least, that’s what I’d thought. But here in the empty church I was beginning to change my mind.

“Bloody Hell Ted,” I said, “it’s going to be just us, I shouldn’t have been so low-key.”

Ted said nothing, just gave my arm a squeeze. Ted understands the value of a well-pitched silence. Sometimes words just get in the way.

Finally someone arrived, an elderly woman I vaguely recognised. “That’s Millie from the library,” I whispered to Ted. She nodded a greeting as she passed.

She was immediately followed by another mourner. An elderly man, who was dressed head to tail as a clown.

“Fuck me,” said Ted. “Didn’t know Sylvie knew any clowns.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. The guy was fully made up: a purple circle of hair, white-paste face with bright red lips and an enormous red nose, a purple clown suit and size 49 shoes.

I barely had time to finish staring before another clown entered and sat next to him. He too was elderly, with a red clown wig and red costume, but otherwise identically made-up. They exchanged a whispered greeting, looked at their watches and stared silently at Sylvie’s coffin.

“Should I say something?” I asked Ted.

“What would you say? They seem happy enough, not doing any harm.”

Mrs Higgins from down the road entered and took a pew at the back, where she could watch what was going on without being disturbed. She immediately had some gossip to report back as two more clowns arrived, both women this time, who sat behind the two male clowns, acknowledging each other in whispers.

The church filled up as more and more clowns arrived. I was getting desperate for a single face I knew, for a single face that wasn’t covered with pancake mix make-up. Sally from the club arrived. “A good turnout,” she said to me, seemingly failing to notice that the turnout was mostly of clowns. Still more clowns arrived, including an entire clown family: mother, father, two young girls and a stroppy teenage boy, all wearing matching lime-green clown costumes.

By this time it was far too late for me to say anything. I should have said something to the first one, before it got out of hand, but by now we were outnumbered at least five to one by clowns.

“What should I do?” I asked Ted.

“Talk to the vicar,” he said.

I stood up quietly and walked to the back of the church, looking for the vicar. I managed to track him down outside, having a crafty fag before the service.

I’m sorry to disturb you vicar,” I said, “but there are rather a lot of clowns in the church.”

“Clowns?” he said with surprise, looking me over to check whether grief had driven me insane.

“Come and see,” I said. He put out his cigarette in one of the bins especially provided. “It must seem undignified,” he said apologetically, “I just get so nervous before a service, it’s the only thing that calms me.”

“It’s fine,” I said, “we all have our bad habits. Sylvie used to snore like a warthog.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said with a smile, “I’ve never slept with a warthog. Good lord, who are all these clowns.”

“I told you,” I said.

“You don’t know them?”

“I’ve never met a single clown. Perhaps they’re here for the wrong service.”

“No, no, I’m not burying any clowns today. You don’t think it’s a prank do you? You read about these flash mob stunts.”

“”They’re all a bit old for flash mob stunts,” I said.

At that moment another clown arrived. “Excuse me,” said the vicar, temporarily obstructing his entrance with a politely extended arm, “we were just wondering why so many clowns have come to Mrs Jenkins’ funeral.”

The clown frowned and looked puzzled. “Don’t know a Mrs Jenkins,” he said, “I’m just here to pay my respects to Bobo.”

“Bobo?” I asked, not recognising the name.

“The Great Bobo the Clown. He passed away last week after 73 years of constant clowning. A slapstick stunt with a plank went wrong, some fool had used a plank with a nail in it. Tragic.”

For a short time we were all lost for words. Eventually the vicar spoke. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “there’s been some kind of mistake, I’m not due to bury anyone by the name of Bobo.

The elderly clown took out a sheet of paper from an inside pocket. “It is Tuesday isn’t it, 23rd September.”

“That’s right.”

“And this is St Luke’s church?”

The vicar nodded, as we all crowded round to read the letter, which was clearly addressed to the clown in front of us. The letter informed him of the sad demise of Bobo the Clown, advising that a service was being held at St Luke’s Church, today, at 10.30 and that mourners should come in ‘traditional costume’.

“He were a right stickler for tradition were Bobo,” the clown explained, “he didn’t counter any of this civilian dress for funerals malarkey. It’s the first time I’ve worn this since I retired,” he gestured to his clown costume, “It doesn’t fit properly and the flower doesn’t work any more.”

The vicar moved his nose toward the buttonhole and was greeted by a jet of water in the face.

The clown looked mortified. I’m terribly sorry vicar, it hasn’t been working all day.”

“That’s fine,” said the vicar, “these things can’t be helped. But I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you, there’s some form of mistake in the letter, there is no funeral for Bobo the clown today.”

The vicar walked into the front of the church and addressed the congregation.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he said, “I’ve very sorry to have to make this announcement but there seems to have been some mistake. The funeral taking place today is for Mrs Sylvie Jenkins, not that of a Mr Bobo the Clown.”

There was a collective gasp from the clowns present. There was much muttering and tutting amongst the clowns and eventually one of them stood up to address the vicar. “Not meaning to be offensive to the family of Mrs Jenkins,” he began, “but there are clearly far more people here for Bobo’s funeral than for Mrs Jenkins, if you have to reschedule one of the funerals it should surely be hers.”

There was a muttering of agreement amongst the clowns and a couple even clapped.

“I’m very sorry,” the vicar said firmly, “but it’s not an issue of it being a clash, or a timetabling error, I’ve simply never heard of Bobo the Clown, don’t have any of the paperwork and am simply unable to oversee his service until I see some documentation.”

There was the rustling sound of 35 clowns retrieving letters from their clown suits.

“Not the letters,” the vicar clarified, “I’ve seen the letters. I mean official documentation from a funeral director, a death certificate. Legally I can’t bury anyone unless I know they’re dead. Plus I need a body.”

There was a muttering of confusion amongst the clowns. “You don’t have the body?”

“No, the coffin has not been brought here.”

“Well I ain’t go it,” said a lady clown, assumedly Bobo’s wife.”

“Well I think we should still have Bobo’ service anyway,” said the standing clown, “we’re all here, we can bury the body another time.”

Suddenly the church was filled with a new voice, that of a man, seemingly coming from the coffin.

“Oh Banjo, you’re always arguing, leave the vicar in piece.”

“See,” said Banjo excitedly, pointing to the coffin, “that is Bobo’s coffin, that’s his voice.” There was a pause. “Oh,” Banjo said eventually.

The whole church stared.

Eventually a clown emerged from behind the coffin. He was the oldest clown in the room, so thin you could see his bones under his makeup. There were shockwaves through the room.

“It’s Bobo,” one said, “You’re not dead,” another observed.

Bobo signalled for silence. “Friends, clowns,” he said gesturing, “strangers,” it’s clearly true, I Bobo the clown am not dead.

“Forty years ago today I lost someone dear to me, my long-term partner Loopy the Clown. The service was held here, but his relatives insisted on civilian dress and I sat there, the only clown in costume, surrounded by men in suits, women in formal wear. It was a dishonour to a great clown.

“I apologise for the family and friends of Mrs Jenkins, finding their funeral gatecrashed by a chorus of clowns, but imagine how I felt, here in this very church, 40 years ago, surrounded by suits, not a tear of laughter in the whole church.

The clowns you see around you, have all let their clowning go to rust, they have retired, taken better paid jobs, given up clowning. That's why I chose the anniversary of Loopy's death so that we could finally give him the send off he deserved. I ask all clowns to remember Loopy and join me in a day of clowning.” So saying he tweaked his nose, which honked like a car horn. Several members of the congregation repeated the gesture and the church suddenly sounded like a traffic jam on the M25.

“I really don’t think” the vicar began to say, but Bobo interrupted him.

“I understand, I understand. We’ll leave now.” So saying Bobo walked to the church doors, in his wake followed a procession of clowns in various forms of joy and perplexion.

“Sorry if I’ve spoilt your funeral,” Bobo said to me as he passed, “but clowning is more important even than death.”

I said nothing in response.

“You alright?” Ted asked as the clowns trooped past.

“I’m fine,” I said, though I noticed that for the first time since Sylvie died I was actually crying. “I’m fine.”