by Roddy Doyle
—Paddy was populler wit’ al’ the neighbours.
—He was not, he heard his father whisper.
—Shush, Liam.
There was the walk to the graveyard.
—There’s the clouds now, look.
—We’ll be drenched before he’s buried.
—We might make it.
—Wait and see. The bastard’s up there, orchestrating the whole thing.
The coffin was lowered and they went back to the village’s one pub for coffee and a few sandwiches. Bill met cousins he didn’t know he had and an uncle he thought had died in 1994. He kissed a woman’s cheek because he thought they were related, then watched her filling a tray with empty cups and bringing it through a door behind the counter.
They went back to the car. His father climbed into the front this time. Bill turned the car towards Dublin.
—All this fresh air, said his father.—It’s not good for a man.
—I was surprised there were so many there, said his mother, in the back.—He was a cranky enough little man.
—It’s a small town, said his father.—A village. They’d have to go.
—I wouldn’t have gone.
—You were there.
—That’s different, said his mother.—He was my sister’s husband.
His father turned – groaned – so he could look at Bill.
—That was how I ended up with your mother, he said.—Her sister dumped me for the bollix we just buried.
—Don’t listen to him, said his mother; she was laughing.
—A fine bit of stuff she was too, said his father.
—Ah now, said his mother.—She had nothing on me.
—She had morals, though, said his father.
—Ah, Liam!
Bill could laugh. He could enjoy their company and listen to them flirting. They weren’t his parents any more; he wasn’t their son. He was a middle-aged man in a car with two people who were a bit older. Once or twice, in a rush that made him hang onto the steering wheel, he was their son and the car was full of himself as a boy and a stupid, awkward young man, hundreds of boys and men, all balled into this one man driving his wife’s Toyota Corolla and trying not to cry.
He drove back up to the main road, straight past the big ice-cream cone.
—There’s a tractor in the field there, look.
—That’s the place for tractors.
His father’s sarcasm, his mother setting him up, the easy words they’d always petted one another with, even when they were angry, the routine Bill had loved, then hated and hated and hated, until he’d started to hear it in his own kitchen and he saw his daughter – she was twenty-two now – strapped into her high chair, looking from him to her mother, back to him, her big eyes like spotlights following them.
He slowed down, indicated right. They were home, at the corner of the cul-de-sac, a hundred yards from the house he’d grown up in.
—No no, said his father.—Go on ahead. You can drop us off at the chipper.
—The chipper?
His mother, behind him, explained.
—We always go to the chipper after a funeral.
—That’s right, said his father, and Bill could hear him shifting in the seat so he could look at Bill full on.
—Grand, said Bill.
He looked in the rear-view, made sure there was nothing behind them, and kept going, to the row of shops, Costcutter’s, Ladbrokes, the chemist, the chipper. None of them had been there when Bill was a kid. The chipper had been a hardware shop.
—Mind you, love, said his father, to his mother.—The amount of funerals we’re going to, we might have to pick and choose.
He patted his stomach. He actually thumped it.
—We can’t be eating chips every day.
—I don’t know, said his mother.—I have the waist I had when I was ten.
She was probably telling the truth.
There was a space outside the chipper. Bill took it. He looked over his shoulder, at his mother.
—There y’are, Miss Daisy.
—You’re a better-looking man than Morgan Freeman, she said.
—Who’s Morgan Freeman?
—An actor, said Bill.
—Black, said his mother.—He’s very good.
—What was he in?
—Lots of things.
They hadn’t moved to get out of the car. There was a queue inside the chipper, five or six people.
—Do you bring the chips home? he asked.
He was hoping they wouldn’t expect him to wait.
—Usually, yes, said his mother.
—But not today, said his father.—There’s another funeral on the agenda.
The ex-President, Paddy Hillery, had died. His hearse would be going past the top of the road, on its way to the graveyard in Sutton.
—We’re going to go up and watch, said his father. He opened his door. Bill heard him groan as he got one leg out and leaned forward.
—That rain’s staying away.
Bill got out and opened the door for his mother. She looked so small, just a little head and a coat. He’d never get used to being much taller than her.
He kissed her cheek.
—Enjoy the funeral.
—Paddy Hillery was a decent man, she said.—Not like the crowd that are there today.
—You’re right there. Seeyeh, Da.
—Good luck.
He got back into the car, reversed slowly, and watched them walk, slowly, into the chipper, to the back of the queue. His father stood aside to let her go in first. She was taking her purse from her coat pocket. He decided not to hit the horn. He went on to work.
In the version he told the family later, he watched the funeral with them. He added the chips to the 99s. He planted himself beside them, the three of them sitting on a wall – he had to lift his mother – as they watched the ex-President’s hearse go by, and the limos with the widow and family and the country’s leaders.
—Here’s poor Paddy now.
Politicians had always been known by their first names, even nicknames. But that had stopped. It was surnames only now.
—He wasn’t the worst.
—He had a bit of dignity about him.
—That’s it, said his father.—Over. These cars here are just caught behind the funeral.
—We’ll go home, so, and watch it on the telly.
Bill didn’t know why he did it, why he embellished, or just made up, his parents’ lives. They didn’t need it.
But he did.
He started going to more funerals with them. The ones that needed a bit of travel. He’d drive them there and home. Men his father had worked with, or their wives, even their children. Cousins of his mother’s. Old friends, women his mother had gone to school with. They’d make a day of it, stop for coffee, look at a monument. He stayed clear of the local funerals, the old neighbours. He didn’t want the conversations. What are you up to these days? How many kids is it you have? He didn’t want to talk to men he’d once known who’d lost their jobs so recently they still didn’t understand it. Great, great. Yourself? There’d be too many middle-aged women who used to be girls, ponytailed men he used to play with, a mother he’d fancied – in the coffin. Fat grannies he’d kissed and – the last time he’d gone to one of the local ones – a woman with MS, shaking her way to a seat in the church, the first girl he’d ever had sex with.
And there were the Alzheimer’s stories. The parents of friends he’d grown up with. He’d listen to their children while they waited outside the church for the hearse and told him about the Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons, the drive to nursing homes out past the edge of Dublin, sitting with the women or men who’d reared them – who’d helped rear Bill – who hadn’t a clue who their children were. There was the angry, roaring woman who’d been lovely, and the man – he’d trained Bill’s under-15s Gaelic team – who claimed he’d piloted his plane into both Twin Towers. There was the eighty-seven-year-old
grandmother who’d slept her way to the top. The top of what? She never says. She just likes saying ‘Fucked’. She never fuckin’ blinks. And the man who’d gone to school with Robert Mugabe. They were all bright sparks, the Mugabes. The stories, the laughter, followed quickly by the violence, stenches, stares into nothing, silence. Jesus, Billy, you’re lucky.
He phoned his parents every Sunday night. His father always answered and immediately got rid of the phone because his hearing aid was roaring.
—I’ll hand you over to your mother!
He’d hear her walking across the room to take the cordless phone from his father.
—Hello?
—Howyeh.
—Ah, William. How’s everyone?
She’d tell him if he was needed for the first half of the week.
—Nothing to report. No one’s dead since the last time.
He’d feel relieved, and let down. The fact was, his own job was crumbling away. There was still work – there always would be – but less of it, and less. He sold insurance, group policies, to companies, nearly all of them small, even during the boom years. SMEs, as he’d learnt to call them. Small and medium enterprises. He’d noticed it about eighteen months before: he was frightened whenever he phoned one of the men or women he’d done happy business with for years, hoping they’d answer, hoping they wouldn’t. He’d put it off. He’d drive past, see if the place was still open, then park and phone. The funerals filled his week.
But there was more to it. Maybe it was his age, maybe the fact that his kids weren’t kids now, that they were becoming people he used to know, like the old friends at the funerals. He wanted to be with his parents. Maybe it was because they were old, no longer growing old.
He phoned again on Wednesdays.
—I’ll hand you over to your mother!
—Ah, William. How’s everyone?
—Grand.
—Hazel?
—Great. She says hello.
—I’ve a bit of news.
—Yeah?
—Martin Ferritor. He worked with your daddy, oh, years ago. When he was with Hibernian Motors.
—I don’t remember him.
—Well, he’s after dying, whether you remember him or not.
It was good news; they both knew it.
—Where did he live?
—Well, when your dad knew him, he lived in Whitehall.
Whitehall was ten minutes from Bill’s house.
—But he moved to Wexford, somewhere, when he retired. Is that too far?
—No, said Bill.—I should be able to manage it. I’ll need to sort a few things. When?
—Friday, she said.—I have it written down. Hang on a minute.
He heard her bringing the phone into the kitchen. He knew exactly where she was.
—Whitechapel.
She was reading the name – he could tell.
—I know Whitechapel, he told her.
—Near Whitechapel, she said.—You have to go through Whitechapel.
—We were there years ago. Me and Hazel. With the kids.
—Oh, that’s right.
—It must be ten years, he said.—It’s near Gorey.
—Oh, grand, she said.—Well, anyway, the mass is at eleven. Is it too early for you?
—I’ll sort something, he said.—It’ll be grand.
—Jesus, look it, said Hazel.—I don’t want to be mean. But you can’t bring them to every funeral, can you?
He said nothing.
—Billy?
—No.
—It’s getting a little bit weird, she said.
They were out walking. If they’d been in a film, they’d have stopped and looked at one another. But it wasn’t a film; they didn’t stop.
—You must be going to a funeral a week, said Hazel.
She wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t angry either. She was still holding his arm. She wasn’t pulling him back. He wasn’t trying to walk away.
—It’s – I don’t know, he said.—I’m a bit stuck.
—How?
—Well, I did it once or twice. Drove them, you know. And it’s become a bit of a routine, like. It’s expected.
—It’s unreasonable.
—My fault, he said.—What can I do?
—Say no.
—I do.
He had: once. But he’d driven them to five.
—Now and again is grand, said Hazel.—It’s nice. But you’re not a fuckin’ chauffeur. You have your own life.
But it was his life, a big part of it. Going to funerals with his parents, or just being with them. He couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to. They’d have stopped walking if he’d told her that. Her grip on his arm would have tightened.
—I know, he said.
Or she’d have taken her hand off his arm. She’d have stared at him.
—I can’t say no this time, he said.—I’ve already told them I’d bring them.
—I know you enjoy it.
—I don’t.
—You do, she said.—You told us. It’s obvious. And it’s okay. It’s lovely.
Hazel’s parents were horrible. She never went near them.
—But Jesus, she said.
—I know.
—You’re busy.
—I know.
—And there’s another thing, she said.—I’m jealous.
—There’s no need to be.
—Well, I am. You’re spending more time with them than me.
Now she stopped – kind of. She hesitated.
—And that’s not natural.
She was right.
—You can come with us.
—No way, she said; she laughed.—But you can drive your own car. You’re not having mine.
They were walking again. She was holding his arm. She squeezed it.
—Fair enough, he said.
His own car had needed a service, new tyres. He actually needed a new car – the lad in the garage had told him. He couldn’t afford one; they couldn’t afford one. He’d tell her soon.
His father climbed into the front seat. Every shift and push was a decision.
—Here we go again, he said.—Poor oul’ Martin.
—You’re the last of that gang, said his mother, in the back.
—I am, said his father.—Literally.
She was faster, nippier, like a child with arthritis. He groaned; she didn’t. The thought stung Bill: he’d be the first to go.
—The M50, said Bill.
—Grand, said his father.
They loved the new straight roads. They loved the fact that they didn’t have to go through places any more.
—If we could bypass the whole bloody country we’d be sorted.
—Ah now. It’s a lovely country.
—Only when you’re standing on it, love.
Bill laughed. His father didn’t. He groaned as he turned to look out the side window.
—Where are we now, Billy-boy?
—Past Bray, said Bill.
—Past Bray. That’s great.
—Bray isn’t the worst.
—That’s no compliment. The worst is unbelievable.
Bill heard him turning again, adjusting himself, groaning.—Were you ever in Bundoran?
—No, said Bill.
—Don’t ever go, said his father.
—I’ll give it a miss.
—Do.
—I had nice Sundays in Bray, said his mother.
—It’s the rest of the week I’d be worried about.
—The promenade’s nice.
—Well, that’s true.
—And the sea.
—The sea would be there anyway, said Bill’s father.
—I knew you’d say that, said his mother.
They got to the church in plenty of time, the guts of an hour early.
—We could go have a look at Courtown.
—Then you’d lose your parking space.
They sat in the car, chatted, watched the rain spit and threaten, unt
il more cars arrived and people got out and put on coats and jackets.
—Might as well go in.
His father was straight over to a group of people, shaking hands, laughing.
—The life and soul, said his mother. She wasn’t being sarcastic.
He went with her into the church, stayed beside her on each step. The coffin was up at the front.
—God, it’s dark.
—No light today at all.
They sat where they always sat, whatever church they were in, about a third of the way down, on the left side, halfway in.
—I love the smell of the polish, she whispered.
He could barely hear her. He had to lean down to get each word, to hear the full string of them. Her voice cracked on some words, whistled on others.
—The priests come and go but the women with the polish are always with us, she said.—Isn’t that it?
—You’re right.
—They’re a disgrace.
—The women?
—The priests.
The hiss was louder than a shout would have been.
He was embarrassed, a child. He stopped himself from thinking: she shouldn’t have opinions.
—You’re right.
—Amn’t I?
—Yeah.
—All those little children.
She wasn’t whispering now. There weren’t many in the church.
—It sickens me.
He tried to say something. He smiled at a woman three rows up who’d turned. She smiled back. A good-looking woman. Well kept. A bit heavy.
Well kept? Where had that come from? He was a child one minute, an older, much stupider man the next.
His mother was talking again.
—Your poor father.
—What?
Bill turned, to see what had happened to his father, if he’d fallen, or been drenched. But he wasn’t there, at the back of the church.
—What’s wrong? he asked.
—The things they did to him.
—Who?
—Are you stupid? she said.
She’d never spoken like that before, not to Bill.
—The priests!
—What about them?
She wasn’t looking at him. He – now – didn’t want to look at her. He thought he was going to be sick. He looked behind him again, to see if his father was there. His father would come and rescue them. But he wasn’t there. Bill needed to get up, out. He’d go out and find his father.