‘You will be pleased to hear that I haven’t been idle this afternoon,’ I say with mock effrontery. ‘Buddy and I cleared the leaves, although he was more of a hindrance than a help. Look, here’s the proof.’ I select the photo of the newly tidied garden and wave the phone in his direction.
‘Wow. I’m impressed. That’s one thing less for me to do at the weekend. You’re a star!’ He seems genuinely pleased. As he hands me back the phone, there’s another message alert. Even without looking, I know it’s from Mel.
‘Aha, is it your secret lover? Have I caught you out?’ He’s teasing me, I know, but the heat rising in my face feels like a kind of betrayal.
‘I wish,’ I say. ‘Who on earth would want a clapped-out overweight woman of my age, when there are so many young, fit women desperately looking for a meal ticket?’
I am trying to be humorous, but now it’s his turn to colour. I realise I have pressed a sensitive button, and he probably thinks I’m having a go at him.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it…’
‘I know you didn’t. Come on, let’s eat, I’m starving. A glass of red wouldn’t go amiss, either.’
I slip the phone into my dressing gown pocket. After supper, there’s a film on television that Laurie wants to watch. While he stacks the dishwasher, I light the candles in the front room before we cuddle up together for the evening on the sofa. Buddy has decided to leave us to it and stretches out on the rug in front of the fire, soaking up the warmth.
‘Did you find out who was trying to get hold of you?’
I can feel the weight of the phone in my pocket. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s probably Tash wanting to know if I’m going to yoga.’
The lie slips off my tongue so easily it takes even me by surprise.
25
The message from Mel is short and abrupt. Meet me there, followed by the address and postcode.
It’s Tuesday and at 10:45a.m., I pull into the car park at the back of an unprepossessing red-brick house. It is situated in a not particularly attractive suburb and overlooks a small industrial estate. There is no sign of Mel’s car. Rather than go in without her, I turn on the radio and wait for her to arrive. The dark grey jacket I am wearing is lightweight, and with the engine switched off, I can feel the cold begin to creep into my hands and feet. I’m relieved to see her pull in and park at a few minutes to eleven. Stepping out of her car, she is smartly dressed in tailored black trousers and a navy bouclé coat, which she pulls in tight around her to ward off the chill.
The only noticeable sign indicating the purpose of the building is a small, highly polished brass plaque bearing the words M.T. Innes – Independent Funeral Directors. Next to it is a bell, which Mel pushes to signal our arrival. A middle-aged woman appears from the back of the building. She is plump and dark-haired, her uniform of white blouse and dark jacket and skirt on the tight side for her frame. She holds the door open to let us in, and a blast of warm, foetid air hits us.
We enter a room carpeted in grey and with subdued lighting. It’s sparsely furnished, with a light-coloured wooden reception desk swamped by a floral display. The scent of the flowers mixed with an astringent, antiseptic smell catches in my throat, and I cough. In the far corner of the room, there’s a small coffee table flanked by two velvet tub chairs. The overall effect is of a hotel reception area.
The woman shakes both our hands warmly, unsure which of us she should be addressing. Mel introduces herself, then gestures in my direction. ‘I’ve brought someone with me. This is Fran.’
It’s an odd position for me to be in. I’m not family, nor am I a friend. I shift from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable and out of place.
The woman points to her name badge. ‘My name is Natalie,’ she says. ‘I’m here to help you with the arrangements today. Can I say how sorry I am that we meet under these circumstances, Mrs Ingram? I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
She is welcoming and efficient and obviously used to putting people at their ease. She leads us down a corridor and into a room where we sit on high-backed chairs around a highly polished wooden table. Strategically placed in front of us is a large box of tissues.
‘Now I’m just going to go and get the paperwork,’ Natalie says. ‘Before we begin, can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee for me. What about you, Fran?’
‘Coffee would be lovely. Thanks.’
Natalie returns carrying a black folder and a tray with two cups and a plate of biscuits. She opens the folder and picks up a pen. I notice Mel shifting in her seat, trying to look over Natalie’s shoulder at something on the far wall.
‘What’s that?’ she says, pointing at a small stained-glass window. At its centre is a cross. Natalie turns to look, seeming unsure how to respond. ‘Erm, well. It’s a piece of decorative glass. It was made by a local craftsman. It’s a little nicer than a picture, don’t you think?’
Mel seems unconvinced. ‘It would be better if it didn’t have a cross in the middle. Not everyone who comes here is going to be religious, are they?’ Her face is pinched and blotchy, and she looks on the verge of tears.
‘You’re right, of course, Mrs Ingram. People who come here are from all faiths and none. I will make a note of what you have said and pass it on to Mr Innes. You can also mention it on the feedback card we give you after the funeral.’
Mel reaches for a tissue. She blows her nose and takes a sip of coffee. ‘Just asking. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’ She sniggers at her own joke.
It’s an inappropriate response, but I remember how erratic you can be when you are grieving. Natalie appears unconcerned, no doubt used to the full gamut of emotional response. She riffles through the sheaf of papers in front of her and waits for Mel to recover her composure.
‘I’m ready. Lesh make a start.’ Mel is slurring her words, and I wonder if she has taken something to steady her nerves. Leaning in to check if she is alright, I detect the sour smell of alcohol on her breath.
‘Do you need some fresh air before we start?’ I say.
Mel swings her hair and lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘Took brandy and tranx on an empty stomach. Need more coffee; then I’ll be good to go.’ She hiccups and gives me a thumbs-up.
‘Let’s nip to the ladies’ and freshen up,’ I say. ‘I’m sure Natalie will make you a strong black coffee when we come back.’
I take Mel’s arm, and she lets me steer her down the corridor to the washroom. I dampen some paper towels, and she dabs at her face in front of the mirror. From her bag, she takes out a gold compact and matching lipstick case. After patting powder onto her cheeks and under her eyes, she applies a slick of red lipstick.
Despite her initial demeanour, I think I glimpse a look of relief on Natalie’s face when we return. I am guessing she is glad it’s me and not her who has had to deal with Mel in her tipsy state. With the tray replenished, Mel drains a fresh cup of black coffee. She then sits upright as though chairing a business meeting, placing her hands palms down on the table in front of her.
‘Right. Before we start. This funeral is for my boy, and there’s something you need to know. It’s got to be perfect.’ She leans forward and jabs a finger in Natalie’s direction. ‘And no expense spared. Nothing is too good for my Tyler.’
‘Of course, Mrs Ingram. We will do everything in our power to make sure we follow your instructions to the letter.’
I feel sorry for Natalie. She has drawn the short straw being on duty today, but she remains professional and attentive throughout.
‘The paperwork is all in order,’ Natalie says. ‘Perhaps our starting point should be the service itself. Do you want a cremation or burial for Tyler?’
‘Cremation. I don’t want him rotting in the ground. He’s suffered enough.’
Natalie doesn’t bat an eyelid and continues filling in the form in front of her.
‘On the forms we have, Tyler’s religion is given
as Church of England. Do you want a Minister of Religion to conduct the ceremony?’
‘No, definitely not. You can get a non-religious person to do it now, can’t you?’
‘Yes, that is not a problem. We can arrange that for you,’ Natalie says, scribbling away.
The next hour is spent discussing the flowers, the order of service, cars and coffins. Mel is dismissive of the more traditional faux wooden caskets with brass-coloured plastic handles.
‘Tacky,’ she says, waving her hand dismissively.
‘We can order something more personal. Did you say Tyler liked motorcycles?’
Natalie pulls out a leaflet from her folder. The pictures show a range of eye-catching, brightly coloured coffins, each with an image emblazoned across its shiny surface. Page after page displays coffins to reflect every hobby and interest. Flowers, woodland scenes, boats, cars, bottles of alcohol, bars of chocolate: The choice is overwhelming. Natalie explains that the manufacturers can even customise to requirements using a photograph.
‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ Mel says. ‘I’ll get Gabe to bring a photo of Tyler’s motorbike.’
Natalie leaves the room to check possible dates with the crematorium and to phone the celebrant. We wait for her to return in a room that now feels stuffy and claustrophobic. Mel is starting to look exhausted. Her face has an unhealthy pallor and a sheen of sweat. She looks like I feel when I’m going to throw up. In preparation, I slide the box of tissues towards her. She sits for a while, drumming her fingers on the table, then lifts her bag and retrieves a hip flask from its depths. There is a faint tremor in her hands as she takes a swig of the contents. She offers me the flask, but I decline. One of us has to be sober enough to drive.
‘It’s an ordeal, trying to get everything sorted out,’ I say, trying to show sympathy for her plight. ‘You’ll feel much better once you get home and you’ve had something to eat and a rest.’
She takes another tissue and wipes the sweat from her top lip. Since we arrived, her phone has been in front of her on silent. She picks it up and fiddles with it absentmindedly, then sighs.
‘You know I said I didn’t want to see Tyler?’ she says. ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve thought about it a lot, and if I don’t say goodbye, it will prey on my mind. Gabe is coming later this afternoon with a couple of Tyler’s friends. They’ve chosen some music for the funeral, and they are bringing in clothes for him to wear. Some of them have said they want to see him. They are only kids, and if they can do it, then so can I.’
She juts out her chin in an attempt, I assume, to look determined. She’s faking it, I can tell, although I have to admire her resolve.
When Natalie comes back, Mel is sitting quietly. She has managed to pull herself together and get her erratic behaviour under control.
‘There is an afternoon slot on Friday 26th at the crematorium. I’ve also rung the celebrant, and she is available. Shall we make the booking for then, Mrs Ingram?’
Mel nods in agreement, pushes back her chair and gets to her feet. Steadying herself, she stands for a while as though bracing for some kind of impact. Lifting her bag onto her shoulder, she picks up her phone and collects her coat from the back of her chair.
‘Take me to see my boy,’ she says.
26
I half expected resistance from Mel when I suggested we leave her car and I drive her home. Surprisingly, she is compliant and follows me without protest. Neither of us speaks on the way back. It’s been emotionally draining for her, that’s apparent. She came from viewing Tyler looking as though she had been punched in the solar plexus. She managed to sign the paperwork Natalie put in front of her before exiting in haste, without so much as a backward glance. The door closed behind her with such force, the whole building seemed to reverberate. It was left to me to retrieve the folder of paperwork Natalie had prepared and to thank her on Mel’s behalf.
I am also tired and drained of energy. The morning has been a reminder of just how much effort was involved in arranging Mum’s funeral. She, of course, had left specific instructions as to what she wanted, lodging her wishes with her will at the solicitor’s office. This made everything easier. Even so, the experience was still gruelling and overwhelmingly sad. How much harder must it be for Mel, having to deal with the death of her firstborn child, taken from her under the worst circumstances imaginable.
As I drive back to her house, Mel is leaning back against the headrest, her face turned towards the window. She appears lost in thought. I want to say something comforting. To tell her everything will be all right. Time will pass, and she will get to a stage where the pain is not so acute. Say that eventually the good memories will begin to outweigh the bad ones. I’m usually pretty good in these sorts of situations. But not today. I’m all out of platitudes.
A part of me wants to drop her off at home, make my excuses and leave. I weigh up the options. Make my escape, or stay for a while in case I’m needed. Somehow it feels wrong to just abandon her, especially as it becomes apparent when we arrive that there is no one at the house. Even the dogs are absent.. I think back to what was said earlier. Gabe was going to the funeral home later on with Tyler’s friends, she had said. I’m hoping his absence means he is at school, where he should be. If I leave now, she will be alone, although it does occur to me that she might prefer her own company.
‘Can I make you something before I go, Mel? Maybe a cup of tea and a sandwich.’
She is sitting on the sofa, her legs drawn up under her. I can see she is shivering, and I take a throw from the back of the sofa and place it around her shoulders. There is an electric fire in the hearth with realistic-looking coals. Locating the switch sends a blast of hot, dry air into the room.
‘It didn’t look like him, you know. He was waxy, like those figures at Madame Tussauds. We took the kids there once when they were little, me and their dad.’
This is the first time I have heard her mention the boys’ father, and my ears prick up in interest.
‘Tyler thought they were real,’ she continues. ‘He kept trying to poke them to make them move.’
She has a faraway look, and her voice is distant.
‘He was such a lovely baby. All that dark hair and those soulful eyes. People were always looking into his pram and telling me how gorgeous he was. He gets his looks from my side of the family. I know everyone thinks he and Gabe are alike, but Tyler is the spit of my dad. Gabe is an Ingram, but Tyler is a Driscoll.’
I’m still standing after lighting the fire, and she gestures for me to sit in the chair opposite her.
‘You might find it hard to believe with this colouring.’ She lifts a lock of her hair with her hand, then runs it through her fingers. ‘But I’m from an Irish Traveller family.’
I must look surprised, because a ghost of a smile plays around her lips.
‘Ya wouldn’t think it now, would ye?’ she says, putting on a strong Irish accent.
‘I wouldn’t, no,’ I say, thinking of the Traveller families I have encountered in the past. Almost without exception, they viewed social workers with suspicion, convinced we were all potential child snatchers.
They kept themselves separate, outside of society, adhering to their own rules and code of ethics, priding themselves on living on the margins of society. With their cheeky, knowing children, their immaculate homes, the outsides surrounded by rusting scrap metal, their bling-related collections, an overt manifestation of wealth captured in crystal and diamanté, they viewed those not part of their community with suspicion seeing it as fair game to give anyone viewed as part of the establishment the runaround.
You couldn’t really blame them for having that outlook. Building up a level of trust is a time-consuming business, difficult when you are moving around from place to place. And Travellers are never a welcome sight in any community. Overarching everything, mutual prejudices prevail and are difficult to shift.
I try to place Mel within this community, but it’s a struggle. She i
s distant and suspicious, and she certainly has a taste for the good things in life. Taking all of this into account, I still find it difficult to imagine her living a life so removed from the one she has now.
She seems to read my thoughts, and her voice rises, becoming animated. ‘It’s a bit different to a Gypsy caravan,’ she says with a sweep of her arm, taking in the tasteful, understated opulence of her living room. ‘I was glad to get away, I can tell you.’
‘How did you get away?’ My interest has been piqued, and I’m keen to find out as much as I can while she is in the mood for talking.
‘I met Joel.’
Joel, it turns out, is the father of Tyler and Gabe. It’s difficult to hear. She makes Joel sound like an unsavoury character, and there are parts of the story that set off alarm bells. Mel tells me her dissatisfaction with her life began at an early age, and she hated the restrictions her parents imposed on her. At fourteen, she had started to go off the rails. Moving frequently meant she had little education and few opportunities. Her mother and father, fearful of what might become of her, resorted to the only solution they could come up with. They decided they would send her to live with relatives in Ireland.
Once she reached sixteen, arrangements would be put in place for her to marry one of her second cousins. Her parents believed an arranged marriage was best for all concerned. A husband, her own caravan and a baby would settle her down before she got the chance to bring shame on the family.
Her saviour came in the form of Joel, ten years older and, in her words, involved in every dodgy deal going. They ran away together, first to Lincolnshire and then to Scotland, where Joel had connections. When she was eight months pregnant with Tyler, they married in a Register Office in Scotland with only two witnesses present. By the time she was twenty, she had two toddlers, few friends and no family around for support. She begged Joel to take her back to her family, who were by now living on a permanent site in Birmingham. She was heartbroken to discover that her dad had died from a heart attack around the time she was expecting Gabe. Soon after his death, her mother had taken her younger brother and sister and gone back to Ireland to be near her extended family.
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 14