by Maggie Joel
Perhaps she wasn’t coming?
The convoy successfully negotiated a mini roundabout and a set of traffic lights.
Would Charlotte miss Aunt Caroline’s funeral? She’d missed Christmas, spinning some tale about end-of-term papers and departmental meetings that no one had believed for one minute. Well, Jennifer hadn’t believed it. Mum had spent Christmas Day banging on about how Charlotte was about to be tenured or made emeritus professor or vice-chancellor of the whole bloody university or something. Charlotte hadn’t even rung up till halfway through the Queen’s speech.
The church, a small stone and slate affair with an ivy-covered lichgate, was on the left and Mum leaned out and pointed to a suitable parking spot. Jennifer ignored her and pulled up on the other side of the road. She sat for a while, watching in her rearview mirror as her family plus extras climbed out of the Vauxhall, retrieved hats and gloves and bags and walking sticks, and generally sorted themselves out. Only when it was safe did she venture to get out of her own car and join them.
One or two elderly people dressed similarly to Iris and Arthur were standing about outside the church and in the vestibule. In the middle of this group stood Graham and his girlfriend, Su. Graham, despite the fact he must have driven up from Bristol this morning, was in a suit that looked as though it had come straight from the dry cleaners, it was so precisely pressed. His shoes had a shine to make a drill sergeant drool.
Beside him, Su was dressed in a woven cotton longyi in different hues of red and brown that wrapped around her slender waist and reached almost to the ground, and over this a short white tunic buttoned to her throat. Despite the fact that her outfit was clearly more suited to a rubber plantation than a Skipton churchyard in very early February, she still managed to look serene. She was busy explaining to the group of elderly listeners why Burma was now called Myanmar. There was a lot of smiling and nodding and arm touching and they all appeared to be getting along famously.
Typical, thought Jennifer. If Graham and Su didn’t score invites to tea from most of Skipton’s over-seventies it wouldn’t be for want of trying. Had they played their trump card yet, she wondered, looking around for Su’s two little boys, but there was no sign of them. This didn’t mean the boys weren’t here—it wouldn’t occur to Graham or Su that kids might not be appropriate at a funeral—it simply meant they were sitting somewhere looking impossibly cute.
Graham looked up and gave a wave of welcome, indicating their arrival to Su with a nudge, and Su gave a big smile as though she had been waiting all morning for Jennifer to arrive. Jennifer raised her hand in a half-wave but didn’t go over.
Hovering in the church vestibule with two elderly mourners was a very young vicar. When he spotted them, he excused himself and came over with both hands outstretched, producing a warmly sympathetic smile as though it was something they taught you at theological college.
‘Mr and Mrs Denzel! Welcome to St Luke’s.’
The very young vicar (‘Oh, please call me Justin’) took both her parents’ hands and clasped them for a moment longer than was necessary before guiding them all into the church.
Not a bad turnout, thought Jennifer, turning discreetly around from her seat in the front pew to survey the congregation. She counted fifteen who had now entered the church and were sitting in twos and threes just behind the family. There were still a few minutes before the service was set to begin and she slipped her mobile out of her bag and glanced at it. No messages. Damn Gaspari!
She was distracted by someone appearing at the end of their pew and, looking up, she saw Charlotte slide in next to Dad.
Well, finally! What she had done, cycled here?
Charlotte was wearing a surprisingly smart black jacket (surely not D&G?) and noisy black boots, and had a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. She was carrying a purple backpack (a backpack, for God’s sake!) which she slid under the pew, then she slumped down in her seat the way she had done since she’d been a teenager.
For a second Jennifer remembered another funeral and another church and Charlotte sitting just like that, slumped in a corner, silent.
The vicar appeared magician-like from behind a curtain, robed up, and a hush fell over the congregation.
‘Hello and a very warm welcome to you all on this cold, cold morning,’ he said with a big smile.
Charlotte looked up then and for a brief moment their eyes met. And Jennifer thought, I never said sorry. I never told her it was all my fault and I’m sorry about what happened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DECEMBER 1981
‘DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE gathered here today in the sight of God our Father to mark the life and the sad passing of one of our flock.
‘Bertha Mavis Lake, nee Flaxheed, lived but a short time in this parish, where she came in the twilight of her years to be cared for by her loving family.’
Jennifer fidgeted irritably in her seat. It was freezing in here! Why didn’t they put on the central heating? How could anyone be expected to sit through a church service in this cold? No wonder people didn’t go to church anymore. It wasn’t exactly welcoming.
A fierce glare from Mum brought her attention back to the service.
‘Though Bertha Lake lived less than two years in this parish and I did not have the pleasure of being acquainted with her personally...’
Lucky you, thought Jennifer automatically, then she felt guilty and made herself pay attention.
‘...I know from my conversations with her family that she was a caring and loving daughter, mother and grandmother, and a much-loved and much-valued member of our community.’
The elderly vicar, Mr Gilchrist, paused for effect or perhaps to check his notes. He was knocking on a bit, Jennifer observed; his shoulders were stooped and a tremor passed over his hands as he held tightly onto the pulpit. His voice rasped the words with difficulty but then, she had to concede, it would be a challenge for anyone, giving a funeral service for someone they’d never even met. Although nowadays vicars probably did more funerals for people they’d never met than for those they had.
Sitting beside her, Graham was flipping through his hymnbook in preparation for the first hymn. He held the hymnbook up between them as though he fully intended to sing. As though he expected Jennifer to sing too. Jennifer glared at him and he withdrew the book. On the other side of Graham, Charlotte was slumped in her usual bad mood, not paying attention to anyone, and probably wishing it was her own funeral.
Jennifer winced.
And then she felt a rush of irritation. It was getting so she couldn’t even think her own thoughts anymore without someone to make her feel guilty for it.
Suppose it had been Charlotte’s funeral?
‘Let us stand for hymn number one hundred and four on page ninety-eight of your red hymnbooks.’
The vicar had to say that, ‘your red hymnbooks’, otherwise most of the congregation wouldn’t have a clue what book he was talking about.
Everyone got to their feet with a rustle of clothes and a rustle of hymnbook pages. Jennifer glanced sideways at the line of mourners. It was odd to see people—well, basically her own family as that was all that was here—dressed in black suits and looking very sombre. And inside a church.
Aside from Graham, who looked as though he was enjoying the whole affair immensely, everyone looked very ill at ease. Mum was trying very hard to give out a dignified ‘I come here every Sunday’ sort of air that was fooling no one. Dad perched on the edge of the pew gripping his hymnbook, glancing from side to side to see when to stand and when to sit and when to kneel, and clearly hadn’t set foot inside a church since his own wedding day.
Uncle Ted, who was a valuer and auctioneer from North Yorkshire and presumably spent the majority of his time tramping about in James Herriot boots in muddy farmyards, had scrubbed up surprisingly well, though his suit was more Incredible Hulk than Dynasty in terms of its vintage and fit. His large round face and large round ears were bright pink from the cold though you’d think h
e’d be used to it, being from Up North.
Beside him, Aunt Caroline looked very elegant, and whereas Mum had spent the morning orchestrating everyone and getting quite hot under the collar doing so, Aunt Caroline had spoken very little. Whatever she thought of the proceedings, she wasn’t letting on.
Charlotte, who had so many black clothes she must have been spoilt for choice this morning and whom you’d think would therefore be right at home in a funeral, had fidgeted and scowled and glared at everyone all morning so that even Mum hadn’t approached her.
‘Charlotte’s just sad that Grandma’s gone,’ Mum had explained, as they all waited silently in the car for her to come downstairs and join them. This had seemed so patently unlikely that Jennifer had almost laughed out loud.
‘She’s probably in the second stage of grief,’ Graham had explained helpfully. ‘Shock is the first, then denial. The last is acceptance.’
‘And the fourth is a belt round the head with a cricket bat,’ Jennifer had observed, and Mum had said, ‘Jennifer!’
The thing was, no one appeared to be grieving for Grandma Lake. Or at least no one had been shocked by her death. She had died at the hospital at midnight on Sunday following an angina attack the previous evening. Her rapid deterioration during the night and the final, sudden end had seemed the most anticipated thing on Earth. As for denial, well no, there didn’t seem to be much of that either.
Acceptance, yes. They had all, as far as Jennifer could tell, accepted Grandma Lake’s parting with surprising ease, and already her room had reverted back to being the study. Dad had reclaimed his favourite chair, moved his stuff out of the garage and driven the car back in. Mum had cooked a really spicy chicken curry then a bolognese, they had had takeaway from the Bamboo Palace and Dad was openly watching Match of the Day.
All in all, they seemed to be coping very well. And any acting up from Charlotte had nothing whatsoever to do with Grandma Lake’s death. That Mum would have no idea of this, or of anything really, was entirely natural. Anything else would be shocking.
The hymn ended in a straggle of voices and a loud chord from the organist, who obviously thought he was Elton John. Everyone sat down with more rustling of coats and bags. Someone dropped their hymnbook with a sharp thud. Mr Gilchrist gripped the pulpit once more and everyone settled back, content to let him run the show.
‘Bertha Lake lived a long life. A life that spanned a large part of this century. And, we must suppose, she would have experienced first hand much of the good and the evil that man has produced during this time.’
That Grandma Lake could experience good and evil was hard to imagine, she having spent her final years waddling from her room to the television set to the bathroom in a sort of eternal triangle of torpidness. But no doubt this was the customary sort of twaddle that vicars were meant to come out with at a funeral for someone about whom they knew nothing. Or knew only what the relatives chose to tell them.
Had Mum or Aunt Caroline provided him with the relevant biographical details or was he flying solo? Aunt Caroline had only come down south this morning so it seemed unlikely she had spoken to the vicar. Mum then. Mum must have given him some brief outline. Very brief, by the sound of it.
‘She was born at the start of the century...’
There! He didn’t even know what year Grandma Lake had been born.
‘...in Acton, a suburb where she grew up and married and where she lived as a wife and, for many years, as a widow, until just two years ago.’
When she was forcibly wrenched from her home and dumped here.
‘She married Matthew and they enjoyed a happy and successful marriage that spanned twenty years until Matthew’s untimely death in 1945.’
Mr Gilchrist paused to allow the impact of this tragedy to sink in.
‘As a widow in post-war London, Bertha raised her two daughters, Caroline and Deirdre, on her own and she was fortunate enough to live to see both her children marry and make homes of their own and present her with three grandchildren, Jennifer, Charlotte and Graham.’
Jennifer frowned to cover her embarrassment. Graham beamed and looked around at everyone as though seeking congratulations from the congregation for a job well done. Charlotte continued to sulk in the corner and probably wasn’t even listening.
So, Grandma Lake’s life was to be judged by how long her marriage had lasted, how many offspring she had produced and how many grandchildren she had had. What about Aunt Caroline? Never mind that she’d existed for fifty-odd years on her own, all that mattered was that she was now married and settled down with Ted.
Jennifer tried to imagine what Mr Gilchrist might say about her if she should happen to die tomorrow: poor, sweet Jennifer, struck down in her prime, denied the joy of motherhood, of holy union with another—well, that’s what the vicar would say and Darren, sitting in the congregation gripping Roberta Peabody’s hand and fighting back tears of self-recrimination, would know it wasn’t true, would know they had shared holy union on a number of occasions, thank you very much, in Darren’s bed no less, while his mum and dad were downstairs entertaining their city friends over dinner. Oh yes! Darren would be remembering all that and he’d regret dumping her then, wouldn’t he!
The vicar peered short-sightedly at a piece of paper he was holding in his hand, his eyes scanning the contents to make sure he had missed nothing. Then he looked up at the congregation brightly. ‘Let us pray.’
Is that it? thought Jennifer, outraged. Eighty-odd years and all Grandma Lake got was three paltry sentences? It was nothing. Couldn’t Mum have come up with more than that?
She turned to look at her mother but Mum was already rearranging herself on the kneeler before her and didn’t seem the least bit outraged. Further along the row Aunt Caroline wasn’t kneeling. She was sitting up in her seat and didn’t even bow her head when Mr Gilchrist began the prayer.
At least it meant they could all go home soon to the mushroom vol-au-vents.
Mum had explained that after the service, the family were expected to stand at the church door and shake hands with everyone who had attended. In reality, this meant shaking hands with the vicar and that was it. Apart from the family no one else had come.
They piled into two cars, Dad’s red Cortina and Uncle Ted’s large and mud-splattered dark green estate (‘I do think he could at least have given it a wash before coming down,’ Mum had observed in an aside to Dad), and drove off after the hearse to the crematorium. Here a nervous, shuffling wait was followed by a ten-minute service, a moment of horror as the coffin slid soundlessly and eternally behind a curtain and vanished, then a half-hour journey home again, by which time Jennifer was starving.
‘I set the oven to come on at twelve,’ Mum explained as they filed into the house. The dining room table was already groaning under the weight of a ton of cheese, ham and tomato sandwiches, a vast bowl of French onion dip, pineapple chunks and little cubes of Red Leicester held together with cocktail sticks, plates of Ritz biscuits and rolls and rolls of neatly folded table napkins.
‘Tuck in,’ said Dad, nodding towards the feast he had been heroically slicing and buttering that morning before anyone else was even awake. ‘Tea or coffee, Ted?’
Ted, who was removing his boots in the doorway, met Dad’s suggestion with a barely concealed look of dismay.
‘I could sink a nice glass of bitter, if you’ve got one, Eric-lad.’
‘Aren’t you driving, Ted?’ said Mum, shocked, standing forlornly in front of the oven with a tray of frozen vol-au-vents in her hands.
‘We both drive, Deirdre,’ said Caroline coming in from the hallway and removing her coat thoughtfully as though she hadn’t quite made up her mind to stay.
‘I’ll have a beer, too,’ Jennifer called out as Dad went to the fridge.
‘Tea or coffee?’ said Mum firmly. She glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Now I’ve put the vol-au-vents in but they’ll take about 35 minutes so don’t fill yourselves up.’
‘Grand,’ said Ted obligingly, helping himself to a plate and a napkin and a huge spoonful of coleslaw. ‘Mek em yourself, did you Deirdre?’
‘Fat chance,’ muttered Charlotte, who had come slinking into the room last and was now sitting in her usual spot in the furthest corner of the sofa.
‘Caroline? What can I get you?’ said Dad, hovering halfway between the fridge and the dining-room table.
‘Well, what have you got in that drinks cabinet of yours, Eric?’ she replied, earning her the instant respect of Jennifer. Graham looked up from his inspection of the potato salad to gauge Mum’s reaction. Mum straightened up, having placed a quiche in the oven alongside the vol-au-vents, and made a great show of regarding the kitchen clock. Then she surprised them all.
‘Oh, why not? Eric, I’ll have a tiny sherry,’ she said, throwing caution to the wind.
Dad blinked. ‘Right-ho,’ he said. ‘Caroline? Sherry? Or we’ve got Dubonnet, vermouth, advocaat or Cinzano.’
Ted spluttered and a mouthful of lager dribbled down his chin. ‘By ’eck,’ he muttered, for no obvious reason except that this choice of drinks was not, perhaps, what he had been expecting.
‘Sherry’s fine, thanks, Eric,’ said Aunt Caroline and she sat down beside Charlotte on the sofa. ‘After all, it’s not every day you bury your mother, is it?’
‘We didn’t bury her,’ Graham corrected, and before he could add, ‘We burned her,’ Mum leapt in.
‘You girls? Tea or coffee?’
It’s not every day you bury your mother.
Jennifer regarded Aunt Caroline and noticed that Charlotte was watching her too. She’d always been different, Aunt Caroline. Different from themselves, at any rate, and that was the only difference that mattered. It was hard to picture Mum and Aunt Caroline as sisters, let alone Aunt Caroline being Grandma Lake’s daughter. They had hardly been in the same room as each other twice in the last two years.
‘You’re looking peaky,’ said Aunt Caroline, taking the tiny sherry glass that Dad offered and studying Charlotte’s face.