Three Pretty Widows

by Barbara Else

  ‘An embrace of love and hope!’ declares the minister. ‘Embrace the person next to you to show our unity in grief today.’

  Eliot looks discomfited and breaks into a yawn. Ruth and Walsh are still sitting hugging each other. Bella’s spine remains erect. Her programme is embossed with little moon shapes, but her shoulders have stayed straight.

  During the last song Walsh nudges her and indicates that Ruth’s run out of tissues. Bella passes him a fresh one from her handbag.

  The pall bearers are beckoned to come and do the lifting and the sombre walking out. They all seem equally self-conscious as they group around the coffin. Both of the nephews are there, and some colleagues chosen for their height rather than how well Barnaby had liked them (Self-obsessed jerks, he would yell drunkenly to Bella, not a genuine spark of drive amongst the whole damned dismal lot!).

  They are about to lift. They do. The presentation bowl begins to slide. Nobody has remembered to remove it.

  Out of the far aisle appears Anna, wreathed in so much black she rivals Barnaby’s mother. She scoops up the bowl, inclines her head to the coffin and stands back. The pall bearers — all trying not to look too much appalled — heave the coffin away from the trestle and carry it out to the hearse.

  chapter nine

  So. This is my funeral. This is meant to be the end. A few songs, some mealy-mouthed words and myth-making, and Ruth bawling her eyes out while Bella stands unbending as a candlestick. A modicum of embarrassment with the sports trophy. Good Lord, Lydia could get it sadly wrong sometimes.

  That stupid nephew isn’t holding his end of the coffin properly. No, Mother, don’t fling yourself at the hearse, not until the coffin is inside — Oh. She was only re-flinging a scarf.

  Moment of silence and bowed heads, thank you everyone, while the hearse glides silently — No, no, the driver’s getting out again. Something must need fixing at the back. I’d prefer no more comic relief. This is becoming awkward.

  Now a lot of people, very few of whom I like much, mill round the parking lot waiting for the guy to fix the hearse. Wondering where and when the sandwiches will be, no doubt. If Lydia’s arranged it, they’ll be lucky.

  I don’t know what to think of it. Eliot was in good voice. Bastard. So was Walsh, till he sat down with Ruth.

  The choir was flat. After all those cheques I’ve signed.

  Lydia will have a go at the will, of course, but she won’t get very far. God knows what my mother will do. Declaim a bit, play on the histrionics as she’s done ever since Dad died. How the parishioners adored him. Street angel, that’s what he was, but a mucky little pup in his own back yard. All facade, with empty bottles and full ashtrays to the rear.

  I didn’t expect I would still care so much. I’m meant to be dead, after all. I hope to hell you don’t meet anybody else up here. I sure as hell don’t feel like socialising, not with the tippling archdeacon. Nor with Nicolas. Shit oh dear, oh no.

  Eliot has an arm round Bella’s back now — she’s not looking very chipper on it. But how I like her in expensive clothes. That purplish-brown thing suits her. Plain black would have suited her even better.

  Ah well, a man calms down. He must accept his fate — but hell’s teeth, I fail to understand why Bella left me. We were like most couples, weren’t we? After fifteen years of it you expect a bit of discord now and then. Marriage is usually a litany of bitch and moan about nothing, and on both sides, I admit. We’d have sorted it out if Bella had only had the courtesy to listen.

  Ruth’s still weeping. Flattering. What might have been. What was. Walsh. Eliot. No, I won’t think about them now. We didn’t do well, but we were young, we thought we were invulnerable. Nicolas. My God, he had a rare voice. My God, he was the perfect one. Shit. Young men only learn by growing older.

  The driver still hasn’t done whatever he has to, down by the rear door. Someone might offer the poor sod a hand.

  I hope they’re going to cremate me. That’s what I asked for. What can I do if it’s going to be a burial? It’s not the idea of decay so much as the thought of the spiders.

  Bloody Bella, she wound me up; she always could. Well, hell, I wasn’t prepared. I know I should have come clean years ago about having had the snip. It just slipped my mind, nothing sinister about it, nothing evasive, only natural. You can’t blame a man for that. It’s like those odds and ends of an estate that get popped into drawers and then forgotten. Dealer’s perks, part of the job.

  Good, Lydia’s saying something about the crematorium, a private ceremony, close family only. In the tone of voice she’s using, that means no Bella, no Maggie, no Louise. Damn. I should have been more specific about the details. I’d have liked just me and Bella. With Eliot outside the door like the Mr Plod he is. Walsh and Ruth despondent on the lawn. And yes, just Bella watching as the flames go up. It would be quite a moment: a private showing, a kind of artisan’s ritual, forging steel, or melting silver ingots.

  I am at risk of becoming sentimental.

  I wish Bella hadn’t nicked the cradle back. She wasn’t supposed to do that. I wanted to let her know — what? That I was genuine? I would have been, if I could. I was astounded when she replaced it with the migraine pills. Pack of bastards, nobody noticed. That was not the final touch I had in mind.

  Points to Bella, though.

  Maggie is talking to Louise. I don’t think it’s right for them to laugh, but I never liked a woman who was easy to control.

  That sounded patronising. But I liked a feisty woman.

  They’re going over to Bella. Well, my three wives in a clinch. Funerals certainly bring odd bedfellows together. They’re all laughing now, though Bella’s looking dangerously wobbly. Eliot’s holding her up again.

  He was always so bloody unobtrusive. You never were aware quite where he was, though you could always trust him to turn up when he was needed. I would have expected him to be the one who’d get Ruth in the end, not dull old Walsh. But that leaves Eliot there for Bella. I’m grateful. Yes, I am.

  All right, it’s patronising, but what’s a man to do? I did my best, sometimes. I kept a few of the Ten Commandments — I’ve had that thought before. It sounds evasive.

  Anna, standing by herself. Strange little girl, she was. Always felt odd with her, and tried to make up for it by giving her nice presents now and then. She liked that Sugar Plum Fairy doll. Damn thing, it cost a fortune. She swapped it for a guinea pig that died, as guinea pigs do. I rather liked her for that, I must confess. She has grown to be a strangely interesting young woman. Chock-full of energy. Wound up like a mosquito.

  Good God, there’s what’s her name. Jocasta. Strange old bird, she’s been around for years, sitting in the margins like a gloss.

  A funny business, this.

  Hang on. The hearse still hasn’t moved off but Lydia’s marched up to Bella. Bella’s turned as white as paper. I’ve never seen Eliot look so angry. Mother’s sweeping up as well. I can’t hear, I’m fading out. It’s no fun, feeling impotent. What the hell use is it when you can’t steer your spirit in the afterlife?

  I don’t feel like a ghost. Am I supposed to be an angel, then? Angels can’t fuck. If I am one, I’m fucked up.

  What a pack of weirdos at my funeral. And I cannot do a single thing about it.

  Mind you, I always enjoyed weddings and funerals. What are they, if not excuses to indulge in bad behaviour?

  chapter ten

  Backtrack a bit. Here’s how it was. Jocasta knows. The mourners watch the coffin as it’s heaved into the hearse. The hiccup happens down by the rear door. What are folk to do? How long can people hover in harsh sunshine looking pious? Maggie steps aside, nudges Louise. They sidle up to Bella, standing there with stolid Eliot.

  The Barnaby extolled in the mealy eulogies was not the man who had been anybody’s husband. But then, as they’d all noticed, not one of these three women had a mention. The power of Lydia. The scarlet talons of the proprietorial beldam. Sibling envy, with a twist. Jocasta
’s old enough and wise enough to wish these women some detachment, but that’s a hard-won thing, if it can be won at all.

  Here, look at Barnaby’s three wives, a strange triumvirate who could pronounce upon the man but do not need to. They knew him better than his mother and his sister did. They knew aspects of him better than most friends. They know what Barnaby was like at breakfast time — not the liveliest morning person; and in the shower — a singing (tenor) bear. They know what he was like in bed — matter-of-fact, very functional. They know what fury he worked himself into when he talked about his sister (tight-arsed hypocrite!), his colleagues (not enough brain to know which side of an egg is up, for flying Chrissake!), his various ex-wives (lovely woman, tried hard, but fragile, fraught and female, couldn’t learn to understand me. I’m not so difficult a man, am I?).

  See, in their eyes, how each of them loved him for his failures of personality — as, historically and universally, most women love their men. See how they’d loved him for the bravery with which he invented himself anew after every deflation. Mister Balloon Man, that was Barnaby. See his history in Maggie’s eyes, Louise’s smile, in the sadness in the undercurrents, in the odd laughter that bubbles from them in this complex, shifting moment. Bella also sees in Maggie’s eyes a glimmer of the fact that Barnaby had loved Maggie first — of these three here, at any rate. In the warm eyes of Louise lies the thought that Barnaby would still have loved her best if she hadn’t realised she was lesbian.

  Bella tries to damp the flickers in her own eye of the versions he’d told her. He said he’d dumped Maggie because he’d had enough of her two kids. Besides, her delicate looks were sure to crack like porcelain. They have: her skin is cobwebbed with fine lines. He’d dumped Louise — he said — when he could tell she’d put on weight in later life. How it suits her: Louise is a galleon with its sails up.

  With a hug, a pat, a smile, Louise and Maggie move away and separate in the crowd.

  Bella begins to shake again although her mind feels slightly calmer. She is definitely ready to leave but you can’t before the hearse has gone. The driver’s still having trouble with the flap — rear door. It was always hard to make Barnaby leave a party, no matter how deadly dull it had become.

  And Lydia stalks up to Bella and screws one of her high heels into the pavement. ‘I suppose I have to appreciate your need to be here. I could hardly make a scene in church.’

  Beside Bella, Eliot stirs. Bella stiffens her shoulders again: she’s managed on her own this far.

  ‘Lydia, I’ve been so stunned I haven’t been able to say much when you’ve phoned. How is Charlotte? I must say something to her.’

  The tendons in Lydia’s neck stand out. ‘We’ll be in touch if necessary when we see about the shop.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Bella asks.

  ‘This is hardly the time to go into it,’ hisses Lydia. ‘I know what’s in his will but it’s appropriate for me to look through his property before you do. Your lawyer has the keys; James was confused enough to hand them over. I’ll get them from him.’

  People are trying not to stare. The pair of nephews approaches: Jason gives Bella a moon-like glance and shrinks again into the crowd. James stays beside his mother although he looks as if he’d rather stand next to a nuclear reactor.

  ‘Has anyone been into the shop since …’ Bella asks, not trembling visibly, she hopes. James shakes his head. ‘No, Lydia, I have to see it first. It was …’ His life. Her life, with him. ‘I’ll use my own keys.’

  ‘You’ve got a set?’ Lydia has spoken much too loudly.

  Eliot shifts from foot to foot.

  Bella feels her voice about to evaporate. ‘Of course. The gallery … I’ll be able to sort out any business matters more easily than … of course there’ll be a few pieces …’ She is trying to say that Barnaby’s family must choose some mementoes, the nephews and Kirsten should be considered.

  ‘Goodness knows what Barnaby really intended,’ Lydia says. ‘But whatever it was, there’s a moral issue here not covered by the law.’

  ‘Mum, you’re upset. Uncle Barnaby never did what you expected. He made a point of it,’ says James in a low voice. ‘Bella will ask us to help out if she needs it. Okay, Bella?’

  ‘You wouldn’t get away with this if my father were still here,’ snaps Lydia.

  If the tippling archdeacon were here, he’d be trying to pat Bella’s bottom.

  ‘I wish you’d up and disappear!’ Lydia says and stalks away.

  For heaven’s sake. Bella isn’t a white rabbit, she didn’t live in Barnaby’s hat like a theatrical accessory. Barnaby used his hat to steal things in, not make them vanish, and at least he did his misdeeds in a spirit of good humour. Lydia wouldn’t know good humour if it sprang out and knee-capped her …

  Bella’s proud of herself. She is coping, more or less calmly, more or less amusingly. She is also not collapsing on to Eliot. She tries to catch sight of Walsh and Ruth. All she sees is Jocasta dressed like royalty, a peculiar twisted smile on her lips.

  Charlotte billows through the crowd, her black scarves flying. Bella steps forward, reaches out a hand to say something, anything. But Charlotte, head up, billows past. ‘Unbearable! Unbelievable,’ she says.

  Bella stares at her hand still out in front of her as if it’s alien. She is in the centre of the crowd, a space around her, and everyone has seen what Charlotte did. The world begins to go dark around the edges. Then the hearse door slams at last, a jolting sound. Young James gives her a hug and moves away.

  ‘Charlotte’s not herself,’ Eliot murmurs. ‘Come on, we can forgo the sandwiches and tepid tea if there is any. We’re going back with Ruth and Walsh.’

  In the centre of Bella’s vision, where it hasn’t turned inky, she sees the hearse with Barnaby’s body glide from the old church into the downtown traffic. Hearses are supposed to glide silently like barges, and this one does. Even in her anger, her distress, Bella thinks of King Arthur in the big black barge with black-garbed women from his past, his faithless wife, old lovers, sliding across the misty lake into more fog, into legend. Some of those women were very bad lots. They were also most forgiving, in their ways, to come along at all, when Arthur had screwed things up so badly and hurled his kingdom back into the Dark Ages.

  Barnaby was large enough to be a king, although of course you can get small ones. And sometimes he’d behaved like an extremely autocratic monarch, though he was just an independent businessman. Would you buy a used teapot from a man who smiled like Barnaby? You’d be astonished at how many people did. He was the King of Used Utensils. Call them second-hand. Oh, go on, call them antiques.

  Bella sees the ironies, the might-have-beens. In her tangled mood of anger at the oily eulogies, in her misery that she can’t fight with Barnaby any more, the lacy veil of disbelief is draped around her again.

  I’m pretty well convinced I’m not an angel. I am following the casket, drawn in the wake of the hearse as if the air is full of eddies — this could mean that when the coffin goes up in flames, I’ll disappear.

  Or not.

  So — what next? Hell or Heaven? Should I be worried? This floating-around stuff could be Purgatory. I’m not a Roman Catholic but I’ve an open mind as to whether they’re right. Purgatory would definitely be having to watch your woman have it off with someone else, especially Eliot.

  All right, all right. I’ll count my sins and try to work out what the story is.

  Honour thy father and mother. Good lord, don’t make me laugh. Don’t do what I do, do what I tell you. My father never liked it when I said that in his hearing. It is difficult to honour a drunken lecher. And Mother? Conspicuous non-consumption. What a pair. And Lydia. Never happy unless she found something to moan about.

  I suppose the coffin does go up in flames? In one crematorium I was at some years ago, you glimpsed the flames as the coffin slid past the black curtain. That freaked most people out. Now, I believe, it’s more discreet: the curtain rises, the coffin s
lides along, the curtain comes back down. Not much of a finale.

  Is it done by electricity or gas? I used to love watching Bella try to cook. Roasting that chicken, once. It kept falling on its side. ‘Sit!’ she shouted. ‘Sit!’

  I’m not concentrating. If I’m meant to be contemplating my sins, I hope God isn’t taking any notice. Because I do believe there is One. God. You don’t have to attend church in order to believe. Does this sound self-serving? So be it.

  It has always seemed clear to me that God must have a sense of humour. What’s the point in all of this, if it’s not driven by a cosmic sense of fun? It doesn’t have to be in the least a human sense of fun: good heavens, that would be very egocentric. Perhaps the point of death is that you finally get to hear the cosmic punchline. That’s rather good, I wish I’d thought of it before, could have used it to liven up a dinner table. There’s nothing like a spot of irreverence to ruffle a few feathers.

  The crematorium, boxy little yellow-painted building, here it is … And now, with nobody watching, the rear door of the hearse behaves perfectly.

  Well, how about that? The family’s arrived and they’re milling round outside, all five of them doing an excellent impression of a crowd. The driver’s popped the bowl back on the coffin. Nice chap. But the only use it has, in my opinion, is if someone’s crazy enough to pay a dollar for it. I suppose Anna slipped it into the hearse. Anna. Ah me, oh my.