by Anna Maxted
At home, my mother reverts to a fairytale of her own. She is a north-west London princess, with a handsome prince called Maurice to look after her. You’d never guess she was an intelligent, educated woman. She flaps if she has to program the video. She is famed for not returning phone calls from Nana Flo or anyone else who is emotionally taxing. She follows the thick ostrich school of thought – that if you ignore your demanding friends and relatives they’ll go away instead of getting angry and offended. She wants everything to be nice and if it isn’t she stamps her feet until it is.
This is partly why my father’s death – my father’s death! – is a problem. She doesn’t want to get involved. She didn’t want to ‘view’ his body (although to be fair, neither did I), she refused to see the hospital’s Bereavement Services Officer – ‘Don’t say that word!’ – and she wanted nothing to do with the funeral arrangements. So it’s been left to me and Nana Flo who, amazingly, has become a whirr of efficiency.
Work have been great. I called Laetitia on Monday morning. She was sympathetic but pressured and suggested that I come into work ‘to take your mind off things’. I said, ‘Er, I think he’s on the brink, actually.’ She also offered to send me some magazines ‘To keep you ticking over’. I accepted, it’s rude not to. Anyhow I’ve got a week off, free, compassionate leave. If I’m still off next week, I get half-pay. Feeling mad and light-headed, I ring in to confirm what’s happened to my Dad on Tuesday morning. I say the words but I’m not convinced. Immediately, the Editor’s secretary sends a huge bunch of orange flowers to my parents’ house. Luke’s agreed to nanny Fatboy and my mother’s a wreck, so I’m staying there. One thing I’ll say about Girltime, they do a good bouquet.
Lizzy calls me, says how sorry she is, and asks in a hushed voice if I’m okay.
‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly, before I can think about it.
She says, ‘Are you sure?’
Really, I tell her, in a brittle pantomime voice, I’m fine, I’m busy, my mother’s freaking because she can’t believe the Passport Office are ‘cruel’ enough to demand back my dad’s passport.
Lizzy wants details and when I tell her about collecting my dad’s clothes and his watch in a plastic bag and my mother not wanting to leave the hospital, she starts sobbing. Unfairly, I am annoyed by this. How dare she cry! She then tries to regale me with jolly tales from the office. Today, she says, the managing director showed the former hostage Terry Waite – she actually says that! ‘the former hostage’ – around the office and everyone ignored him because there was a beauty sale on. This is when the beauty department sell off all the cosmetics they’ve accumulated for 50p apiece and give the proceeds to charity. Everyone bites and punches in their determination to nab the designer stuff. I couldn’t give a shit but I muster a small appreciative snort.
Then Lizzy says something no one else would dream of saying. ‘Helen,’ she says solemnly, ‘I’m sure you were a wonderful daughter. I’m sure your father was very proud of you.’ Jesus! That is horrible. What a horrible thing to say.
‘Lizzy, please don’t say things like that,’ I whisper, and hurriedly put the phone down. I’m trembling. My head feels leaden and unstable, like a boulder about to topple off a cliff. I grit my teeth so hard my whole face is a rictus. I breathe in quick short sniffs until the comfort blanket of numbness resettles. Only then do I trust myself to speak. ‘This house is pitch dark and freezing cold,’ I say crossly to Nana Flo. I add spitefully, ‘It’s like a bloody morgue.’ I stamp around turning on radiators and switching on lights. I remain chilly but feel calmer.
My mother is sitting on their, her bedroom floor sniffing my father’s jumpers. I leave her a cup of decaffeinated tea as I fear the real thing would send her into a drug-crazed frenzy. I’ve also hidden the Nurofen. Meanwhile, Nana Flo and I have divided the death duties of which there are roughly a million. Lawyers, notices, certificates, application forms, wills, probates, pensions, policies, insurance, tax. Jesus. If I think about how much I have to do I will scream and go mad so I am trying not to think. All I’ll say is I hate looking after people and I hate organising so today is not a great day. Ideally I’d like to slump on my bed and stare into space but my heart is still pounding so it’s impossible to relax. It’s doing wonders for my metabolism and I now know why bereaved people get so thin. Michelle will be rabid. Also, I never thought I’d say this but thank heaven for Nana Flo. She managed to shake my mother out of her stupor for long enough to show us where Dad keeps his paperwork. She’s phoned all our ghastly relatives and told them not to come round just yet and she insisted on registering Dad – which involves an exhausting trek to Camden Town Hall.
I make her take a cab. She starts to protest that the bus is fine so I say ‘my treat’. I tell the driver to wait for her and drop her back and I’ll pay. Hey, it’s only money, my dad’s dead, let’s live a little. I don’t know if it’s the delirium but I’m beginning to talk in clichés. When I phone the local funeral home listed in the Yellow Pages – home! are they kidding? – I say, ‘I’m ringing on behalf of my father.’ Like I’m booking him into a hotel!
I haven’t a fucking clue what I’m doing and am using a blue leaflet the bereavement woman gave me entitled ‘What to do after a death in England and Wales’ as a recipe book. It’s a lot more use than my useless friends. Lizzy rings again to tell me she’s been talking to the Health & Beauty Director who says there’s an organisation called the Natural Death Centre which does eco-friendly funerals and biodegradable coffins. Then she says the words ‘woven willow pod’ and I say ‘I’ll stop you right there.’ About six hours later, Nana Flo returns triumphantly with the death certificate – huffing because it cost her £6.50. I drop the cash into her purse while she’s in the loo. She’s also got the infamous green form everyone’s wittering on about. It allows you to bury the body and dead people wouldn’t be seen dead without it. Ah ha ha ha.
Despite the laughable horror of the situation the funeral guy is very sweet. He looks, as I expect, like Uriah Heep (or what I imagine Uriah Heep to look like having never got further than the first page of any Dickens novel apart from Great Expectations which we were forced through at school). He is tall, bony, with watery blue eyes, and grey hair in a critical stage of combover. His handshake is creepily limp. I brace myself for a grasping parasite but he turns out to be kind. He ushers me into a room, the focal point of which is a very unsubtle painting of a stag in a dark forest, a bright ray of sunshine pointing directly at the stag’s head. He offers me a coffee and talks me through the options. We flick through a coffin brochure. Any minute now Nicky Clarke will appear. Uriah says that if a client chooses a cremation, ‘We recommend what I call a plain, dignified coffin.’ He adds tactfully, ‘It’s not top quality wood, but you know what happens in a cremation.’ I nod and smile as if I discuss cremating my father most days. Uriah continues, ‘It looks beautiful and on the occasion, you would not be dissatisfied if you saw it.’ Bless his heart.
He also shows me a wreath brochure full of big blowsy angel, pillow, trumpet and chair shapes. Weird – surely death is more of a lie down than a sit down. The cost of a grave is unbelievable and Uriah is suitably disparaging about London prices. ‘A plot of land that would eventually cater for three people’ – excuse me? – ‘would cost a thousand pounds.’ He sees my shocked face – although I’m less shocked by the rip-off cost than the prospect of a threesome – and adds, ‘London land is very expensive. A plot in Highgate cemetery can cost fifty thousand! Whereas, not so long ago, I had cause to bury my mother, in Cornwall. The plot was five pounds!’ At the punchline I raise my eyebrows and say that, despite the cost, I think my family want a burial.
My father’s burial grave death body – a new vocabulary of ugly, alien, disgusting words. It’s grotesque and I can’t believe I’m here. I sit frozen in my seat, feet neatly together, and all the while my head is spinning like I’m riding on the big dipper and my brain is screaming this is ridiculous it can’t be real and I
want to run and run until it’s not. Uriah, meanwhile, is keen to stress that he’d liaise with the hospital, the minister, provide the hearse, the cars, remove all the hassle from my girlish head, and until the funeral, ‘Dad would stay here with us.’ I smile and nod although I can’t imagine anything Dad would like less. ‘You can,’ adds Uriah, ‘pop in and see him whenever you want.’ He suggests that I go home, discuss the finer details with my mother, and ring him tomorrow. He sees me off with another weak handshake and ‘It’s a horrible day, isn’t it?’ He’s right. It’s raining hard and the sky is as funeral grey as Uriah’s grey suit.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and run to the Toyota.
I walk in the door and, do I believe my eyes! (I love that phrase – the Wizard of Oz says it – I even prefer it to my other favourite, ‘Would you credit it!’) Who do I see sitting at the kitchen table charming the bloomers off Nana Flo – who is old enough to know better – and my mother – who has magically applied full dramatic widow’s make-up plus long black dress – but Jasper.
‘Jasper?’ I say in a shrill squeak.
‘Heeelen!’ bleats my mother, sweeping out of her chair and crushing me in a long, sorrowful hug. ‘You’ve been gone so long! I was terrified! I thought you’d had an accident!’ Oh please! Like she ever hugs me!
‘Mum, don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I was sorting out Da—, the funeral. I’ll tell you about it later.’ I wriggle out of her steely arms and kiss Jasper chastely on the cheek. Foolishly, stupidly, I am delighted he’s here. Nana Flo and my mother show no sign of wanting to give us any privacy, so I suggest to Jasper that we go upstairs. We plod up to Dad’s study, which is in fact my old bedroom. My parents turned it into a study the day I moved out.
Jasper has got something to say. His face is very serious. ‘Helen,’ he begins. ‘I am so sorry for your loss. Poor you. At least he didn’t suffer. And he had a good innings. And, I promise, time does heal.’ He stops. I am furious. Mealy mouthed twit! What else? Try to keep busy? It’s good to talk? Have a bubble bath?
‘That’s very comforting,’ I say, not bothering to hide the sarcasm, ‘although Jasper, I’d actually prefer it if he was still alive.’ This throws him. In Jasper’s world of Victorian etiquette women don’t snap back.
He falters, and adds, ‘Quite. It must be very difficult for you. And it must be even worse for your mother, she’s known him for longer than you.’ Jesus Christ! It must be worse for all of us, you stupid prat!
‘Look, Jasper,’ I say. I am so angry I can barely speak. I am shaking and – if you want the grim details – my sphincter clenches in three sharp spasms. Probably because it’s so damn amazed I’m saying what I think. ‘Look, Jasper, my father has just died and I have a lot to do. And you, saying things . . . saying stuff like . . . like what you were saying, it just isn’t helping.’ For the first time since this fiasco started I am close to tears. ‘Now, Jasper. Do you have anything else to say to me?’
He looks at the floor. Then, to my surprise, his face turns slowly crimson. ‘Sunday,’ he announces. ‘I lied. I saw Louisa last week. And we boffed. I – I didn’t mean to. It just happened.’ He looks straight at me. I stare back. ‘I felt bad,’ he explains, ‘And, seeing as your father passed away, I thought I owed you the truth.’ What a fine courageous upstanding citizen you are.
‘Well!’ I say, ‘How kind. Some good came of my father’s death after all!’
Jasper doesn’t get it. He looks pleased, and says, ‘Yeah.’
‘Jasper,’ I say, clenching my fists. ‘You are a wanker. Please leave. It’s over.’ His head jerks in surprise.
‘But,’ he stammers, ‘but Babe, it was a mistake. An error of judgement.’
I glare at him. ‘It certainly was,’ I say. I say it and I don’t even know if I care any more, maybe I’m just saying it because that’s what you say.
Jasper pushes his hand through his hair and in a patronising tone says, ‘Helen, you’re—’
I interrupt. In a harsh voice I say, ‘Jasper, you’re dumped.’
The paradise blue eyes harden and he shrugs.
Then he leaves. He shuts the door quietly behind him.
Jesus. What have I done. The dizziness is back. Angry tears start falling, fast, uncontrollably. Furious, I sniff aggressively and smear them away. I walk into the kitchen in a daze. I feel ill, headachey, exhausted.
My mother looks up. ‘Helen! What a nice boy! I can’t believe you never introduced us. He bought me lilies.’ Pause. She sees my blotchy face and adds gently, ‘Darling. Did you know that during the war they grew vegetables in the Tower of London moat?’
Chapter 4
FOR MY FOURTH birthday, my father took me to see The Nutcracker and I shamed him by roaring, ‘I want to be a fairy too!’ I have since revised this ambition, for the sad single reason that fairies wear skirts. I don’t wear skirts. I refuse to wear skirts. I haven’t worn a skirt for approximately five years because my legs are short and stocky and if I wear a skirt I tend to look like a dressed up bulldog. That said, I recently spied a slender, tapering Breakfast At Tiffany’s creation in Miss Selfridge and madly, recklessly broke my rule. I wore it to work, thought, ‘Actually, my legs aren’t that bad.’ Then I saw someone else’s and I thought ‘My god, what were you thinking?’ The next day, I gave away the skirt to Michelle – who was pleased to accept it and said she’d get the dry cleaners to take it in for her.
Incredibly, my mother refuses to accept my no skirt rule. ‘You can’t wear trousers to a funeral!’ she squawks.
‘Why not?’ I snap. ‘I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind.’
When I say this, she stamps her foot. She’s fifty-five years old! ‘Yes, but I mind!’ she screeches.
‘But—’
Her voice starts to crack: ‘Just do it, Helen! Don’t argue with me, I’m warning you, I can’t take it!’ My mother could teach Elton John a few things about being a drama queen and my patience is wearing so thin it’s anorexic. My father wouldn’t care if I attended his funeral dressed as a fireman.
Did I mention he deemed nudity on a par with Satanism? Well, he also deemed religion on a par with Satanism. Consequently, his funeral is to be – as I commanded Uriah – spiritual-lite. No hymns, no house of worship. And no yellow because my father hated yellow. Just a simple graveside ceremony.
‘Performed by whom?’ asked Uriah.
‘A minister, of course!’ I said. This puzzled Uriah until I explained that I couldn’t think who else could perform it (although cousin Stephen offered) so a minister would have to do. But he’s to keep it brisk and, if possible, avoid yellow and God references.
My mother is well aware of all this, yet blows up the skirt issue to intergalactic proportions. Suddenly, the thought of spending one more minute in her shrieky, flailing company is unbearable. ‘Fine,’ I say. I spit out the words like grape pips. ‘You win. I’ll wear a skirt. I’ll wear a skirt but I’ve decided’ – and I decide this as I say it – ‘I want to drive to the funeral myself. I don’t want to go in the procession thing. I think it’s grim. I refuse.’ Cue, world war three.
There is no way. Am I mad. Do I want to kill her. It’s unheard of. What will people think. Boo hoo hoo. Happily, part of my job involves phoning experts for extra quotes to bump up dull features written by lazy, overpaid freelance journalists. So I employ a ruse gleaned from one of the many psychologists I interview at Girltime. The Broken Record Technique. Whatever my mother throws at me – accusations, threats, pleas, the crumpled up Guardian Education section – I calmly repeat the same intensely irritating statement: ‘Yes, I realise that, but I’ve decided to drive to the funeral myself.’ On the fifth repetition, she gives a deep yowl, screams, ‘Shut up shut up shut up I can’t stand it!’ and runs upstairs. I take this to indicate surrender and drive back to the flat triumphant. I don’t feel guilty, why should I?
The morning of the funeral dawns. I lurch into consciousness and feel the nauseating grip of fear without knowing why. Then I remember.
The sky is blue but it is a cold, blustery, vicious day. The kind of day that ruins your hair even if you’ve moussed and blasted it to a brittle crisp. To make matters worse, Tina has been in New York on a fashion shoot until yesterday and so unavailable for consultation, and the only cheap skirt I could find on my lone shopping trip was long, black and stretchy with a nondetachable material bow at the waist. I put it on and immediately look like Alison Moyet.
The flat is silent and I bash about and slam doors to make it less silent and feel angry with my mother for not ringing. I am slightly cheered when I switch on the radio and hear that a hot air balloon containing two nerds has crashed into the sea, thus ruining their attempt to beat the boring Balloon Around The World world record. Jesus! It’s their hobby! I am looking for my earrings and wondering what sort of needle it would take to pop a hot air balloon when I glance at the clock and realise that it is twenty-five past ten and the funeral starts at eleven.
Six road raging minutes later I am crawling through Golders Green, trying to apply lipstick in the rear-view mirror. At least twenty-five Volvos are double-parked in the middle of the road. I’m wishing I’d taken a different route when I sense a familiar movement in the blurry distance. I focus on it and I see my father walking along the pavement. My stomach flips as I watch his striding march, his confident gait, the broad square of his shoulders, and then he glances, quickly, once, behind him and he isn’t my father at all and there is an enormously loud tinny bang and I jolt forward and stop abruptly, having veered – slowly but with conviction – into a parked orange Volkswagen Beetle. ‘Oh nooooo!’ I shout.
My first thought is to ring Dad. I could burst out crying but I’m wearing non-waterproof mascara. Instead, I leap out and run to inspect the damage. Immediately, other cars start hooting. A well-preserved woman in a Jeep Cherokee whirrs down her window and says helpfully, ‘You were going too fast.’ Then I hear the sound of screaming.