How to Say Goodbye

by Katy Colins

  ‘Deano?’

  ‘Yeah, sure thing.’ He lolled to his feet and plodded out of the room as I hurriedly grabbed my things, pushed the chairs to the edge of the room and mumbled an apology at the sour-faced dance teacher.

  *

  ‘Grace, right? You got a sec?’ Deano was standing at the black chipped railings that lined the edge of the church building. Clearly waiting for me.

  ‘Oh, sure. Everything OK?’

  ‘Did you know that Queen Victoria ordered everything to be painted black after her husband died? So the whole of London had to paint their railings because she was in mourning?’

  ‘Er, no, I’d not heard that before.’

  ‘Well, turns out to be one of those urban legends. Actually black paint was cheaper and dried quicker, and even so most of the railings weren’t painted till after the Second World War…’ He trailed out. I had no idea why he’d hung around just to tell me this pub quiz fact.

  ‘Right… so…’

  He cleared his throat. ‘What you said in there made sense, you know?’

  ‘Oh, good. I think it’s called collective grief, what you feel you’re going through. Despite not personally knowing the person who’s died, you treat their death as if it was personal. Can I ask…’ I paused. I could be getting this wrong. ‘When David Bowie died, did it, er, did it bring up any memories or feelings of other people you’ve lost?’

  Deano chipped at some flaking paint, avoiding eye contact. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he eventually nodded.

  ‘My cousin, Trev.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘We were in a band together when we were growing up.’

  There it was.

  I nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He died of an asthma attack. Stupid fella never had his inhaler on him.’ Deano wiped roughly at the tears beading down his pale, hollow cheeks. ‘I’ll tell you something though, he could play a mean riff on the guitar. Bowie himself would have been impressed!’

  A small peek of a smile dared to shine through.

  ‘Does Bowie’s music bring you closer to Trev?’

  Deano nodded. ‘I guess so…’

  ‘Maybe you could find some other fans of his music online who are feeling this way? There might be a forum or something you could join? I imagine his death touched a lot of people.’ Was I clutching at straws, or was this decent guidance? I had no status to be handing out advice on matters like this.

  ‘Yeah, I could do.’ Deano blew out a sigh between his thin lips. ‘I’ll see you here next week then, Grace. Oh, and cheers.’ He nodded his head to me as if touching an imaginary hat, and strode off into the night on long, thin legs.

  I watched him go, wondering once more what had just happened. Had this evening been a success? I couldn’t possibly say. I had been so naïve not to realise that running an event about funerals might turn into a space for guests to share their experiences of death and grief with one another. Suddenly what Deano had just said sank in: see you here next week. It would appear I was now running a regular bereavement club – with the most unlikely of members.

  Chapter 12

  On the day of Abbie Anderson’s funeral, I woke up feeling a tug of restlessness. A mixture of nervous butterflies and anticipation swished around my stomach. I’d had a restless night, all the last-minute details dancing around my brain. I’d been running over the plans, flowers and timings in my head for the past few days, certain that nothing had been missed off or forgotten.

  I tried to picture Callum getting ready this morning. How he would have struggled to sleep last night, maybe popped a sleeping tablet or knocked back a couple of glasses of whisky. How he would be in a state of shock that this unimaginable day was happening. I wondered if Mel had stayed over, or if he’d been alone in their house.

  I pictured him surrounded by reminders of his wife everywhere. Her favourite perfume on the dressing table, possibly a collection of printed-out photographs of the two of them tacked to the wall, her smiling and very much alive face beaming down at him. Her razor on the side of the shower, a silk kimono hanging on the back of the bedroom door waiting to be worn again. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have reminders of your lost love thrust in your face the moment you woke up.

  These thoughts ran through my brain like images from a film that I’d snuck into halfway through. I brewed my morning coffee, wondering if he was able to stomach anything to eat. If friends or family members had started arriving at his house, milling around and putting the just-boiled kettle back on for something to do. Making trays of weak tea that wouldn’t be drunk, rounds of buttery toast that would go cold. The hubbub of being surrounded by those who knew you the best, yet feeling the loneliest you’ve ever felt.

  I’d cleared my schedule so I could be at the crematorium earlier than normal to ensure everything was as it should be. I had heard from the local paper that a reporter had agreed to the stipulations set by Callum, but it still made me feel uneasy. Obviously if he was happy with them being there then that was all that mattered – I just hoped they behaved themselves, acted respectfully, and that the published article was what Callum wanted.

  *

  I pulled up to the car park at the crematorium feeling flustered. People drove like maniacs. I couldn’t understand why other drivers were so blind to the clear signs displaying the legal speed limit. It seemed others struggled to understand the concept of leaving a two-second gap between them and the car in front. For some reason other drivers liked to beep and wave aggressively as I trundled my way through town. I was used to it. I’d seen too many cases of the after-effects of shoddy driving to let their frustration affect me.

  I headed inside and quickly busied myself with the final checks. The Balinese sarongs draped over the pews softened the room. The bright paper umbrellas I’d sourced online, and asked Leon to hang along the far wall, looked even better in reality. I’d ended up watering down the props that I’d hoped to put in place. I’d even had to fight for these additions, when Frank had asked me what ‘look’ I was going for this time. He was keen for the room to stay traditional, but I’d argued that Abbie wasn’t that person. We’d reached a compromise, but the batik wall hangings draped over the windows hadn’t made the final cut. Despite that I smiled; it was coming together in here, that was for sure. A taste of the exotic world that Abbie had experienced, brought to a chapel in Ryebrook.

  ‘Thanks for your help getting those up,’ I said to Leon, nodding at the umbrellas. ‘They look great.’

  I pulled out the typed to-do list from my suit jacket pocket at the same time as my mobile phone rang.

  ‘Here, pass me your list. You get that and I’ll get cracking with this,’ Leon said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Hurriedly excusing myself I jogged out of the back door, knowing the front would soon be filling up with mourners. I stepped out into the spring sunlight – it felt warm against my skin – and pressed answer.

  ‘Grace Salmon speaking.’

  ‘Ah, Grace, lovey.’

  Ms Norris. What was she doing calling me?

  ‘Sorry to bother you but I’ve been having some thoughts about your Ask a Funeral Arranger events.’

  ‘Oh, OK, well, the thing is I’m kind of tied up right now –’

  ‘Yes, well, I mentioned it to some of the ladies at bingo who were quite interested to come along.’

  I heard the sounds of ‘Ave Maria’ start up. The doors would be opening any second, Callum and his loved ones filing in. I needed to get back in there to make sure everything was ready.

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘I know you’re disappointed not to get the numbers you’d hoped for by now, but I think once word gets out you’ll be inundated with people. I’m certain that it could be quite beneficial, for everyone.’

  ‘Let’s discuss this on Friday, shall we? I really do have to get on –’

  She spoke over me, clearly excited by the prospect.

  ‘I just thought
that it could be a talking point for the community. A way to bring people together. Like I said, I have been spreading the word. Telling my friends that they must come on a Friday to have a cheerful chat about death.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re finding it helpful –’

  ‘And young Marcus could clearly do with having a supportive ear to turn to.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I must say that Deano is an interesting chap, although I’m not entirely sure about those funny things in his ears, stretching them out for some unknown reason, maybe it’s a medical condition. And Raj, well he is charming. He’s a comedian, did you know?’

  The music had ended and the collective sound of bodies taking their seats filled my ears. Two smartly dressed members of the crematorium staff walked out and began placing flowers in the section marked off for Abbie. I nodded a brief hello as they gently positioned the arrangements on the ground.

  ‘So, I was thinking maybe we could do a flash mob? Have you heard of those, dear? We could wear matching T-shirts and parade through town handing out leaflets to encourage others to come along? It would be ever so fun!’ As Ms Norris spoke, I walked along the row of blooms, straightening them here and there, making sure the cards were clearly displayed.

  ‘That’s great, I’m so sorry, Ms Norris, but I really must go now –’

  The flowers were beautiful. A real mix of shapes and sizes, summing up Abbie’s vivacious personality. No bog-standard carnations here. They ranged from a riot of colour with tropical and exotic wreaths that her parents had sent, to fresh springtime greens and yellow buds from her modelling agency.

  ‘Anyway I’ll let you get on. See you then, deary!’

  I stared at my phone as she hung up. Her heart was in the right place, but she needed to work on her timing. As the droning melodic notes of the organ started, I realised they were already onto the hymns. I had to get a move on. I was about to jog around to the front of the building when something caught my eye. The flowers at the far end of the row stood out – not just because it was the only pure-white collection, lilies and gypsophila – but because it didn’t have a card showing who had sent it. Judging by the size of the bouquet it must have been expensive. The icy coolness was a classic choice, but very much out of place compared to the warm colours of the other bouquets and wreaths.

  Where was the note? I scanned my eyes around to see if it had come loose and blown off, but there was nothing. The area was pristine, swept clear of any fallen leaves. Whoever had sent such a tribute would not be pleased that they wouldn’t be credited for it. This had never happened on my watch before. I tried to run through my mind who we had taken flower deliveries from, but I was too harassed to remember properly. Ms Norris’s call had thrown me off kilter.

  I couldn’t stand around fretting any longer. I had to get inside and make sure nothing else went off plan. I jogged around to the front door, forcing myself to slow my pace down and take a breath. I would slip in the back as quietly as I could.

  I gasped as I did. I’d never seen the place so packed. Grim-faced mourners all squashed in together. Each row was completely full, with extra people squeezed onto each pew. Standing room only for the rest. It was clearly a compliment to Abbie that so many people wanted to pay their respects. A cocktail of intoxicating perfumes filled my nose as I took a space on the right, huddled next to a familiar-looking man with chiselled cheekbones, jet-black glossy hair and a suit that oozed money. He smelt of expensive aftershave and cigarettes, and judging by the fact he was standing at the back with me, had arrived late too.

  It was impossible to crane my neck to try and spot Callum or Mel on the front row. A sea of tailored suit jackets, impressive black-feathered headpieces and sombre shirts were laid out before me. I hoped we had enough orders of service.

  The celebrant was finishing the eulogy, his voice calm and measured as he got through to the final sentence on the card placed on the oak lectern in front of him. It’s such a huge and terrifying job – summing up someone’s entire existence in just five minutes.

  ‘It’s so fucking unfair,’ the handsome man next to me said in a low Welsh accent. Talking to me but not really. I spotted the flash of a wedding band on his hand as he gripped a packet of tissues and shook his head.

  I wondered why he looked familiar. Maybe he was a model at Abbie’s agency; he was certainly good-looking enough, but then half of the congregation wouldn’t have looked out of place in a fashion magazine.

  Another man stood up and walked slowly to the front, swapping places with the celebrant. His hands were shaking. The colour drained from his long face. This must be Nick, Mel’s husband, about to do his reading. He kept his eyes fixed to the piece of paper in his hands, and spoke self-consciously about the shortness of time and how the days are long but the years are not.

  Nick did an awkward bow and went to take his seat, just as Enrique Iglesias’s voice started up from the speaker. The Welsh man loudly sniffed back the tears next to me. I offered him a fresh tissue to replace the one he was pulling to shreds, his head bowed and chest shaking.

  *

  ‘Grace?’

  I was rummaging in my bag for my car keys when I heard someone call my name. I’d taken the longer route to the car park in order to stay out of the Anderson family’s way. No doubt Callum would be feeling utterly overwhelmed with all the faces and handshakes he was battling through. I’d give him a call in a few days and offer any more help or support. Luckily the newspaper reporter had followed his wishes and slipped in and out the back without trying to grab an interview.

  I was still feeling irritated about the missing flower note. How could that have escaped my notice? I would need to be ready with an apology for the family for letting it get overlooked. I just hoped it hadn’t come off in the back of the hearse. I sighed and tried to let it go.

  I turned round to see Mel standing by an ornate water fountain, half tucked behind a fir tree. She was crouching down watching a little boy with red wavy hair pointing at what looked like a squirming worm in the slate chippings. Flecks of dirt clung to the hem of her flowing black skirt, her chunky black cardigan had small prints of white butterflies on it. She stood up and wiped her hands on her thighs before smiling politely at me. The little boy, her son I presumed, flicked his face at me, squinting in the sunshine, then clearly decided I was much less interesting than the insects.

  ‘Hi!’ Mel ran a hand through her hair. She’d tied it back but a few tendrils had escaped. She looked exhausted. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘Hi, you too.’

  Mel’s attention was drawn back to the boy who had found a stick and was attempting to lift the worm up with it.

  ‘Noah, put it down. Mr Worm doesn’t want to go flying today, thank you very much.’ She tutted lovingly and rolled her eyes at me. ‘He’s fifteen months old. I hadn’t planned on bringing him but the childminder called in sick so…’ She trailed off. ‘Luckily my neighbour was able to come and wait with him out here, but she’s had to rush off and this little man has decided he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his new friends.’

  Noah giggled as the worm flicked its marshmallow-pink tail and found itself back on the ground, writhing around, trying to free itself from his pudgy starfish handprint.

  ‘It was a good turnout,’ I said, filling the silence as Mel tried to get her son’s attention away from the worm and onto a large leaf. I glanced back at the chapel. The last of the mourners were chatting next to the open doors of their cars. A few were smoking.

  ‘Yes. She was very popular.’

  ‘How’s, er, how’s Callum doing?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ she sighed. ‘You know…’

  I nodded. I was about to leave when she cleared her throat.

  ‘I, er, I actually wanted to speak to you. I’ve been thinking about how I probably came across when we first met. You know, with my views on Abbie.’ I waited, wondering what she was about to say. ‘You probably picked up that we were hardly the best of fr
iends. I just didn’t want you to think badly of me. Nick is always telling me off for overthinking things but, well, I just wanted to say that although Abbie was certainly no saint, she didn’t deserve what happened to her.’

  ‘Oh. Er, right…’

  ‘Now you think I’m even more of a weirdo!’ Mel clapped a hand to her mouth, making her son giggle.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Mel flashed a brief smile.

  ‘Thanks. Right mister. I think it’s time we went back for your nap.’ Noah broke into a long whine and scrunched his face up in protest. He began banging his tiny feet on the ground. ‘It looks like someone is starting early with the troublesome twos,’ Mel sighed, starting to pull her son to his feet, despite his protestations. ‘Are you coming back to the wake, Grace?’

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t really think…’ I started, but she could barely hear me over Noah’s increasing wails, tears falling down his rosy cheeks.

  ‘I need to get this one back, then Nick is thankfully taking over. He had to rush off as our other son, Finley, has had a bump at school.’ She rolled her eyes whilst pulling a rigid little arm through a small puffer jacket. ‘The joys of parenthood. I’m sure Callum would love to say thank you. Well, that’s if he’s not drowning himself in a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.’ A flash of concern crossed her harassed face. ‘There’s going to be way too much food and I certainly can’t eat it all.’

  Noah appeared to be turning his small frame into a rigid plank. His mum eventually managed to successfully get his other arm in the bright yellow sleeve.

  I wanted to say thanks for the kind offer, but I had to get back to work. I swear the words were on the tip of my tongue, but curiosity got the better of me. This could be my only chance at seeing what life really was like behind closed doors for the Andersons. To see if the picture I’d created in my mind was spot on or not.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be in the way.’

  Mel waved a hand, dismissing my concerns. Noah had relaxed, sobs replaced by giggles at an orange rubber monkey that she had pulled out of her pocket.