Different Departure

Different Departure

She felt the sting of the September morning, despite the sun. Her
dress, black and flimsy, was not sufficient for the day. She had
stepped outside for a cigarette, her third in an hour, and perched her
bottom daintily on the cold slate step, inhaling it with short, rapid
drags, nervously biting her fingernails as she blew the smoke out from
her nostrils.

"I've seen him," his voice startled her and she jumped to her feet
nervously, tossing away the half-smoked cigarette guiltily and then
wishing she hadn't been so hasty when she realised it was only her
cousin.

He stubbed out the cigarette for her, grinding it into the dust with
his foot.

"I've seen him," he repeated, not looking at her. He was half-turned
away, sideways on, but she saw that he had been crying. A single
teardrop quivered on his lower lashes and she watched, fascinated, as
it fell to the floor where it slowly seeped into the earth and vanished
before her eyes.

"Will you say goodbye?" It was more of an entreaty than a simple
question. She heard the yearning in his voice and closed her heart to
it.

The thought of it washed over her like a cold shower.

"What did he look like?" She wanted to know. She had tried to imagine
him lying there. She swallowed because her mouth had gone dry suddenly.
Time was running out. Until now, she had harboured a hope that it had
all been a terrible mistake, a case of mistaken identity, some sort of
sick prank. He would appear, grinning amiably and no-one would be cross
about it for long.

Colin laid his hand on her shoulder and she stiffened and moved away,
"Please say goodbye. You need to. He looks the same as always. Are you
afraid?"

"I might laugh" she started to giggle and he looked at her, mouth open,
aghast. "He always made me laugh. I've only got to look at his
face&;#8230;" her voice trailed off and she fumbled in her
shoulder-bag for her cigarettes.

"If they hear you&;#8230;" he nodded towards the house, where they
were sitting and waiting. His voice was cold, "if they hear you
laughing."

"I'm not laughing, you idiot," she lit her cigarette carefully, because
of the wind, "I'm crying. Only not like you. Not like any of
you."

"You're cold," he observed, his tone kinder, " and a bit hysterical.
Let's go back inside. Anyway, it seems rude. We ought to be in
there."

Best china cups brought out from the back of the cupboard earlier in
the day especially for the occasion of Mark's funeral, clicked gently
as they met best china saucers all with a pretty rose-bud design.
Steaming cups of tea. Just the thing. She blinked furiously. She would
not cry. The pretty china looked peculiarly out of place amidst the
black-clad visitors, frivolous even. He would laugh if he could see
it.

She was suffocating as shoulder to shoulder they crowded in the best
room, forcing polite conversation with people she did not know, or care
for. Hating them because, sooner or later today, they would be making
their excuses If there's anything we can do, anything at all&;#8230;
and would be returning to their homes, loved ones all accounted for.
She hated them all with their facial expressions moulded carefully into
masks of grief, voices respectfully lowered, heads bowed even though
they had not yet made it to the Church.

"Someone's missing," she spoke the words out loud without actually
intending to.

"I know my dear," an old soul said and touched her hand, a gesture
meant to offer comfort, but which repulsed her.

She moved away to stare dreamily out of the window, unable to grasp
what was going to happen today. All things living all around, yet death
was only a room away and it was beyond her realms of comprehension.
Everything was a matter of life and death and yet everything ended in
death.

"It's nearly time," his voice buzzed in her ear, too close as ever. He
was always too close for comfort. "The cars have arrived.
Please...please see him."

"Give me a second," she was walking away, through the door, along the
hallway, pausing outside the door to the back room, his room now. She
pressed her face against the door and kissed it. She would never go
inside.

Upstairs, from her window, the cars shone, crouching like black beetles
in the yard. How absurd they looked parked up next to farm machinery
and with his little blue Ford Fiesta nearby, empty now without
him.

"Why?" she wondered, at the same time knowing she was leaving.

She tossed a few things into her shoulder-bag which was just large
enough to accommodate some small items of clothing.

Colin tapped the door. She knew instinctively that it would be
him.

"Helen," he sounded impatient, "what are you doing in there?"

"I'm praying"

Exasperated, he entered the room without invitation and came close to
her again like he always did. Like a child, she stood guiltily before
him, suddenly self-conscious in her little black mourning dress. He
reached out unexpectedly and stroked her between her legs, through the
fabric, and she recoiled instantly, stepping backwards and falling onto
the bed where he stood looking down at her, his expression
unfathomable.

"We'd better go down," she whispered. They could both hear the sudden
activity downstairs, doors opening, voices suddenly grown louder,
sobbing, running water, footsteps, engines revving.

He pushed her back with a violence she had not anticipated, and roughly
pulled her dress up past her hips. He bent over her and she felt his
fingers searching inside her knickers, touching her. She did not stop
him, even though he hurt her.

"Pretend I'm him" Colin said, hurting her even more and relishing it,
his breathing quickened in excitement, and she could see that he was
aroused. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched his hand at
work inside the soft cotton of her knickers. She arched an eyebrow and
forced a yawn which angered and humiliated him. He flushed, his eyes
dark, and abruptly left the room.

Who had chosen the Hymns she wondered, as she mimed the words and tried
to release her hand from his cruel grip. To onlookers they appeared
united in grief, holding hands, sitting close together. Too close for
comfort, she thought. Her eyes were drawn to his coffin but she felt no
emotion. It was all coming to a close.

In her bag were the keys to his car. He didn't need it anymore and he
wouldn't mind. Impossible to remain now he was not there to protect her
from Colin's roaming hands and strange ways.

The little Fiesta started first time, something it had never done for
Mark and she sent up a little prayer of thanks - just in case he might
have had a hand in it. Breathless with fear and excitement, she drove
it up the lane narrowly missing one of the cars coming back from the
church, the expressionless driver having to reverse to let her
out.

I'm free now, she thought and wound the window down to breathe the air
of the place one last time.

She had left a note for Colin in her bedroom which offered no real
explanation and had said something trivial like "He's Dead - I'm Gone"
for she realised there was little point in penning a long letter, a
heavy goodbye. Words meant little to Colin, emotion and understanding
even less. He would find the note on her bed as surely as he had found
everything else of hers she considered private because he had made a
habit out of creeping into her room whenever the fancy took him,
searching, prying, his fingers touching her things.

Now Colin had lost the two people he professed to love the most - one
was dead, the other was gone. This made her laugh and she lit another
cigarette, her third in half an hour, and reveled in the freedom of her
own sudden departure.