by Mike Gayle
I want to say something along the lines of: ‘That’s karma for you, love,’ because I’m a long way from forgiving Gershwin, but what I actually say is: ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for him.’
We fall into a comfortable silence until Ginny sets down her food, takes another sip of water and wipes her lips on a serviette, making it clear that the time to talk has arrived.
‘My gran died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I reply. ‘How old was she?’
‘Eighty-four. We weren’t close. It was Dad’s mum so it’s not like I’ve had a great deal to do with her or the rest of his family over the years. My Aunt Louise called me last week – it’s been so long since we spoke that she wasn’t even expecting the number to work let alone that I’d answer – and she apologised for all the family arguments that got in the way of us seeing each other and ended up inviting me to the funeral.’
I make the connections in my head: if Ginny’s gran has died, chances are that her dad will be at the funeral and Ginny hasn’t seen or heard from him since she was ten, when he walked out on her and her mum. ‘And you’re not sure whether you should go because your dad’s going to be there?’
‘According to my aunt he’s been living in Ireland. She didn’t say whether he’d got a new family, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘So how did you leave it?’
‘How do you think? Why would I want to see him after all these years? What could either of us possibly have to say to each other? I told her I doubted I’d come but that I’d definitely send flowers.’
‘And now you’re having second thoughts?’
Ginny nodded. ‘Is that weird?’
I shake my head. ‘You’ve probably got more to say to him than you think. What does Gershwin say about it all?’
Ginny doesn’t reply which I take to mean she hasn’t told him yet.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘He’s got enough on his plate with work – he doesn’t need all my mental baggage in his lap right now.’
‘You should tell him,’ I say, trying to be charitable. ‘If I was him I’d want to know.’
‘What would be the point? He’s up in Glasgow fighting for his job. I just want to know if I’m doing the right thing in going or not. Every time I convince myself I should stay away I change my mind and want to go; and then just as I think I’m settled I find myself shaking at the thought of seeing him again.’
‘And where are you now?’
‘Wanting to go.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
40
‘So are you going to tell me what that was all about then?’ asks Gerry as we sit in the pub for our first after-work pint.
‘What what was all about?’ I ask innocently.
Gerry sighs like I’m a five-year-old trying his patience. ‘So you don’t want to talk about it? That’s fine by me, but we do need to talk about something because you haven’t said a word in over five minutes and as much as I enjoy the comfortable silence that only male company can provide, truth is it’s not even the good kind.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that when you asked me if I fancied a pint after work I didn’t think it would involve me watching you stare listlessly into your drink. Now, either you start talking about whatever’s on your mind or I’m going to take my pint back to the bar and do the crossword until Kara arrives.’
‘All right! All right!’ I hold up my hands in surrender. ‘I think I have what’s called in the trade a dilemma.’
‘And what might that be? It’s not like you disappeared for an hour today with a right cracker who you categorically promised your live-in girlfriend that you’d never see again, is it?’
I take a long sip of my pint and let the taste of the beer roll around my tongue. How long had I been drinking this stuff? Twenty-five years? More? Would I still be drinking it in another twenty-five? What would the world look like then? Who would I be with? Where would I be living?
‘I’ve volunteered to go to a funeral with her.’
Gerry raises an eyebrow. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. ‘Whose?’
‘Her grandmother’s. Gershwin’s away with work and it’s a bit of an awkward one because it’s her dad’s mum who’s died, and Ginny hasn’t seen him or any of that side of the family since she was ten and he walked out on her mum.’
‘Can’t she find someone else? A female friend or something?’
I shrug. ‘I’m guessing that if she could’ve she would’ve. The bottom line is I’ve volunteered my services.’
‘And what are you going to tell Rosa?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question. I can’t tell her the truth and I don’t want to lie to her.’
‘So you’re going to say nothing,’ says Gerry, thankfully reaching the same conclusion that I had moments earlier.
‘What else can I do?’
‘Nothing,’ says Gerry, ‘it is what it is.’
I limit myself to just the one pint and leave within the hour as Kara and her mates turn up. As I start walking home I wonder if Gerry is as happy with the life he leads as he makes out. With the girls and the drinking and the being out all the time it seems like he’s never stopped living in his twenties, but as I think about going home to Rosa and the meal we’ll share and the evening we’ll spend together the thought of Gerry’s evening exhausts me. I don’t want to relive my twenties, I don’t even want to revisit my thirties. I want this next stage to be the one where I finally get my act together so I can start living the life I was meant to.
It’s quiet inside the flat and for a moment I think that maybe Rosa’s not in but then I hear her laughter coming from the kitchen, and I find her leaning against the counter with the phone pressed up against her ear, chatting animatedly into the receiver.
‘I know,’ she says into the phone.
And then, ‘That’s exactly what I always say to him.’
And finally, ‘He won’t listen, and he thinks he knows it all, but we know better don’t we?’
That is when I realise that she is talking to my mother. My mother!
‘Why are you talking to my mum?’ I mouth in silent anguish at the thought of how long this conversation may have been going on.
Rosa waves and turns her back on me.
‘Stop this madness now!’ I mouth once more having circled round so that she can see me, ‘Stop before it all goes too far!’
Ignoring me, Rosa turns again and says into the phone, ‘Oh no, not at all . . . it has been an absolute pleasure talking to you Cynthia . . . Of course! Can’t wait to meet you and the rest of the family either . . . and you must let me bring something along . . . I make a really mean pavlova . . . of course, it goes without saying I’ll make sure that he’s there on time . . . I can’t stand it either . . . take care . . . no, I don’t mind you calling . . . you can ring any time.’
She returns the phone to the charger with a flourish. ‘How was the pub?’
I narrow my eyes at her. ‘Why are you talking to my mother?’
‘Because she called.’
‘I only gave her this number for emergencies! I told her a million times that if she needed me she could call my mobile.’
Rosa pulls her very best comically patronising face, the one she uses to put me in my place. ‘Matt, if you knew Cynthia like I know Cynthia you’d know that she doesn’t really like mobiles.’
‘You’re loving this aren’t you?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She plants a kiss on my lips. ‘She loves me, Matt, she adores me, she said I’m a good influence on you.’
‘She actually said that?’
Rosa scrunches up her nose and shrugs. ‘She might as well have done for all the praise she was passing my way.’
‘How long did you talk for?’
‘Half an hour, maybe forty minutes, who knows? All that matters is that we’re having lunch at your mum and dad’s on your birthday and so I
will get to see them in person and wow them even more.’
Clearly amused to have one over on me Rosa exits the kitchen, leaving me alone to ponder once more my decision not to tell her about Ginny.
Later that evening as Rosa’s lying on the sofa with her slender limbs stretched across my lap as she reads through half a dozen reports she’s brought home with her, while I plough my way through a Rolling Stones’ biography that Gerry recommended, it occurs to me that I should come clean. Young as she is, in many ways she’s more mature than I am and if only I can find a way of explaining why I’m helping Ginny, she might understand there’s nothing in it, that this is simply one old friend helping another in their time of need. I take a deep breath, prepare for her reaction and open my mouth ready to give birth to the words, but it’s as if I’ve lost all power to communicate.
‘What’s up?’ Rosa looks up from her papers. ‘You look like a man with something on his mind.’
‘You know the other day when you said that you thought that I didn’t feel the same way about you that you do about me?’ She nods and puts her papers down, giving me her full attention, ‘Well, that’s not true. This is going to sound like something inside a Hallmark card but I love you, I really love you, I think I have for ages but just haven’t known how to get the words out.’
The interesting thing about this unexpected moment, the thing I hadn’t seen coming, is that despite half a lifetime during which I’ve seen, done and felt everything there is a million times before, these words feel as fresh and as new as the first time I said them on the day that Elaine moved into my apartment in New York all those years ago. How can something so clichéd and jaded feel so newly forged? I feel like no one in the history of the world has ever said these words and meant them with the intensity that I mean them now, and as Rosa leans in to kiss me, I know that she feels this too.
The morning of the funeral Rosa’s up and out of bed early as she’s got a meeting in London she has to attend in lieu of her boss who is off work with the flu. It’s the first meeting of its type that she’s ever been to and the opportunity to network with people she doesn’t usually get to see means that she’s a bundle of nerves.
‘What if I say something stupid?’ she asks as she sits on the edge of the bed. ‘What if I just dry up and nothing comes out?’
‘It’ll all be fine,’ I reassure her, ‘I used to get like that when I first started chairing meetings but the more you do it the better you get. Just talk like you know your stuff – which you do – and they will all fall into line.’
‘Can I call you if I panic? I probably won’t but it would be good to know that you’re just at the end of the line if I really need talking off a ledge.’
‘Of course you can, but you won’t need to because you are going to be amazing.’
She seems suitably reassured, and after one last kiss she picks up her bag and leaves. For a moment after I hear the front door slam, I lie in bed as though I’m expecting her to return having forgotten some key item for the day ahead but she doesn’t. Even if she had my lying still wouldn’t have made any difference to the tang of deceit in the air. As I stand at the bathroom mirror waiting for the shower to heat up I study my face and while the steam starts to obscure my expression it does little to make me look less guilty.
41
‘How do I look?’
Standing on Ginny’s front doorstep I give her a twirl. I’d only got one black suit and that was in London. The only one I have with me in Birmingham is a dark grey Paul Smith that I’d only packed on the off-chance that if my resolve caved and I needed to go back to work I’d have an interview suit. ‘It’s not black but you have to admit it is pretty smart.’
Ginny smiles but it’s clear from her eyes just how much effort it’s taken. ‘You look very handsome,’ she says, ‘and I’m sure any woman would be proud to be seen with you. Good enough?’
‘You look really nice.’ It is the blandest of bland comments but given that my gut response had been to tell her that she looked incredible, I reason that for now nice will just have to do.
‘Thanks, it’s hard trying to work out what to wear to things like this. I always think about the day of Mum’s funeral and how I ended up in jeans and a top I’d been wearing for two days in a row because I couldn’t make up my mind between the three dresses I’d bought.’
I try to make conversation to distract her but if her half-mumbled answers to even the most basic of questions (‘What plans have you got for the weekend?’) are anything to go by she’s more than distracted enough so I leave her to her thoughts and she leaves me to mine until we find ourselves approaching our destination. It dawns on me when I was last here at this very cemetery.
‘This is where Elliot’s buried isn’t it?’ I say of our old friend.
Ginny pulls the car over and turns off the ignition. ‘That didn’t even register with me. What kind of person am I that I can’t even remember something like that?’
‘I forgot too.’ I’m aware we both tend to feel guilty about Elliot. ‘I don’t think he’d mind. I think he might even find it funny. Maybe we can go and see him later?’
‘We haven’t any flowers.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘He was never all that keen on flowers anyway.’
We park on the gravel car park between a white panel van and a yellow digger and as we climb out of the car Ginny looks towards the stream of mourners heading inside the chapel.
‘You worried?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ve just told myself to grit my teeth and get on with it.’
‘The daily mantra for everyone our age.’ Ginny manages to raise half a smile. ‘Sometimes my jaw aches so much from gritting my teeth I think they might fall out.’
We enter the chapel behind a couple in their fifties who are walking with their arms round the shoulders of their two tearful teenage daughters. Ginny doesn’t recognise them. In fact she doesn’t recognise anyone at the funeral at all. We plant ourselves in the only space available on the third pew from the back. The elderly woman next to me smiles and offers me a Polo mint. I take one because it feels rude not to.
Ginny’s hand tightens round mine when the congregation rises to its feet as the coffin, followed by the immediate family, is brought into the chapel by pallbearers, one of whom must be her dad. How difficult it must be for her to see these relations after so many years, a relationship with them denied by circumstances brought about by her father. How odd it must feel to be at the funeral of your own grandmother and not feel a thing.
The service commences with ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, and as we stand I remember that my phone’s still on. I reach into my pocket and switch it off. After the hymn the vicar begins reading from the Psalms and this leads me to think about my own funeral, who I’d want there and what sort of music I’d like played. I make no firm decisions other than the following:
1. Even if I die at eighty I still don’t want Gershwin at my funeral
2. I’d like my casket to enter to The Rolling Stones’ ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’, thereby summing up the whole tenor of my life
3. If I die single (which let’s face it is highly likely given my track record) then I’d like Ginny to give the eulogy because she’d make a good go of it and at least wouldn’t get any of the salient facts wrong.
Twenty minutes into the service the vicar instructs Terry Pascoe to come up to the lectern to give the first of three eulogies and if he wasn’t obviously Ginny’s dad from his colouring, Ginny’s involuntary shudder would have given the game away. Terry Pascoe is a big man, bigger than I’d expected, and he looks uncomfortable in his suit as though he isn’t used to wearing one. His eulogy is heartfelt and I’m moved by the love for his much-missed mum that he conveys to the congregation. I wonder if he knows that Ginny is here too, and if so whether he is aware of the irony of a child talking about the love of a parent when he himself has made such a mess of loving his own flesh and bl
ood. Part of me would take great pleasure in informing him because even though I’m not looking at Ginny I know that every word this man is saying is breaking her heart, reminding her of his absence from her life these past thirty years.
When the service is over the old lady offers me another mint.
‘Lovely service, don’t you think?’
‘Yes it was.’
‘How do you know the family? Are you related to them or is it on your wife’s side?’
It takes me a moment to realise that she’s talking about Ginny. ‘She’s not my wife.’
The old lady nods sagely. ‘It’s what people do nowadays.’
There’s no real point correcting her and anyway, I can feel Ginny tugging at me like she wants to make a quick exit and so I make my excuses to the old lady.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask Ginny, as we stand in the side aisle while people leave the chapel.
‘I’ve been better,’ she says. ‘But at least we can go now.’
‘Are you sure?’
Ginny nods. ‘I don’t know what I hoped for from today but I don’t think I’m going to get it. Sorry Matt, to put you through all of this.’
‘You haven’t put me through anything,’ I reply. We join the queue and file outside.
It’s a little after three by the time we pull up in front of Ginny’s house. She’d asked me several times if I wanted dropping off at Gerry’s but I insisted that I had some errands to run on the high street and that it would be easier if she took me to hers. I feel bad carrying on this lie now that we’re properly back to being friends but this doesn’t seem the right time for revelations. I’ll tell her about Rosa soon, and it’ll all be fine, and maybe if the stars and the moon are aligned correctly and I’m feeling sufficiently lucky I’ll tell Rosa about today, and I can get that off my chest too. How did my life get this complicated? How did I end up being involved with so many people who needed protecting from the truth?