The family waited silently in the foyer. The double doors to the car park opened and Uncle Mike, Charlie and the other pallbearers, each wearing a purple rose in their lapel and a purple handkerchief in their breast pocket, appeared with the coffin. I waved at Charlie. He was deeply tanned, having spent the past few months on a research trip in Africa, and cut a suave figure in his dark suit with his chocolate-brown eyes. He smiled then; catching sight of the children (Alice and Jess as purple princesses, Archie as Barney and a blueberry-esque Millie), he threw Uncle Mike a grin. Uncle Mike reddened. He’d really been very against the costumes. He’d even said he was ‘putting his foot down’, but I don’t think Sinead was worried one jot where he placed his foot. She was ‘absolutely not going purple clothes shopping with the children two fucking days before Christmas again’. Quite right.
We fell into place behind the coffin. A burly young guy with ginger hair (phwoar) and sturdy knees poking out of a kilt emerged from somewhere and began a mournful drone on a set of bagpipes. His calf muscles were like a couple of Vienna loaves under his hairy skin. He looked like a young version of the raffish Scottish groundskeeper in The Simpsons.
We followed the hot guy with his tartan bag of recorders into the main room. I looked at the mourners absorbed with the vision of the coffin and watched as they clocked the collection of purple Nickelodeon outcasts wandering behind like they’d walked off the stage of a school concert and got horribly lost.
‘Everyone’s looking at us, Mummy,’ Jess whispered loudly.
An old couple smiled. I held Archie’s dinosaur paw. His purple tail whacked the knees of the people in the aisle seats and he had to keep shoving his dinosaur head up so he could see where he was placing his oversized feet. Mum followed behind. She appeared reserved in her purple cashmere belted dress. An understated (for her) collection of gold bangles jangled on her wrist as she took her slow steps. I neared the middle of the room and caught sight of Helen, Sophie and Douglas sitting together. Sophie giggled into her fists, her eyes on Archie. Douglas was making unsuccessful attempts to get her to quieten down. He pushed his glasses up his nose and threw me an apologetic look. When I’d phoned Helen last night to give her the funeral details I’d told her about Ned emptying my bank account and, like any good friend, she’d offered to get her chavvy cousins from Peckham to ‘rough him up a little’. She gave me a nod of support, then, ever observant, her steely-grey eyes shot to my faintly swollen belly. I pulled my pashmina together and quickly looked away so as not to meet her querying glare, and saw someone totally unexpected.
Ned.
His red-rimmed eyes followed the coffin up the aisle. He blew his nose into a hanky. Ned had been close to my grandmother, their having had a mutual fondness for orphaned animals and the perfect cheese toastie, and despite my anger I was touched by his obvious sorrow. But the shock at seeing him threw me and I faltered in my step.
‘Darling, you OK?’ Mum followed my gaze. ‘Little fucker,’ she muttered, then made a slitting motion across her neck and pointed a manicured finger at Ned.
His face drained of colour.
‘Mum,’ I whispered. ‘Stop it.’
Mortified, Douglas, standing two rows in front of Ned, mistook the deathly gesture for himself and pointed a shaking finger at his chest, eyebrows raised.
‘Not you.’ I mouthed with tight lips. I made subtle head movements to indicate Ned behind him but Douglas’s eyes were wide and glued on Mum.
Sophie, having noticed the throat-slitting actions, swivelled in her seat and saw Ned behind her, trembling, searching for a way out of the packed room. She turned back to Douglas and began to shudder with restrained laughter.
‘Shit,’ I said under my breath as we continued our glacial move forward.
The hot bagpiper reached the front as the rest of us took our seats. I shot Ned one last look and tried to convey to him, with entirely undecipherable eye movements, to wait for me at the end of the service but his anxious gaze remained on Mum.
For the next forty minutes I forgot about the filler of my womb, the emptier of my bank account behind me and instead focused on remembering a lady I’d known only as old and furry-cheeked with a bathroom full of cosmetic products the modern world didn’t use any more – like talc and Yardley fragrance. Mum wept; Uncle Mike was glassy-eyed throughout. We sang, we cried, Millie filled her nappy and then Mum took to the microphone one last time and recited a poem of mine.
When you die
You just go
Not to above
Not to below
I was twelve when I’d written it. I’d been following Grandma round her garden munching on the various beans, parsley and cherry tomatoes she picked and it had dawned on me that she would die one day. No more popping peas from their shells while I talked endlessly about my friends, my teachers and my friends’ teachers. I’d wandered inside and written the poem, giving it to her over afternoon date loaf. She’d loved it so much she’d cross-stitched it onto cream linen and it hung on her bedroom wall.
Why do people like to pretend
That your time as ‘someone’ doesn’t end
It does
It stops
You’re not around
But traces of you can always be found
You’re in the smell of a certain flower
You’re in the scratch of a particular sock
You’re in the taste of a lemon so sour
You’re in the placement of a garden rock
An apricot, warm from the sun
Extra raisins in a sticky bun
A scarf, a joke, a grey cat’s tail
EastEnders, chicken tenders, a pink fingernail
Grandma’s coffin began its descent into the bowels of the funeral parlour. I sobbed. For my cheerful grandmother. For my mother, whose heart was breaking. For my baby, who was coming into such an uncertain life. For Ned, and the damage in the wake of our relationship. And for my sister, who I missed terribly.
But you’ll stay right here, Grandma, always here
In my heart, in my mind, in my life, my dear
The coffin disappeared. As the congregation began to rise and file into the foyer I craned my neck and saw the tips of Ned’s messy hair bobbing in the middle of the room.
‘Take this.’ I handed Archie’s paw to his mother and pushed my way, as politely as one can in a room full of wobbly, teary geriatrics, to the foyer, hearing snippets of warbled conversation.
‘Ah, she’ll be having a wee sherry in the sky.’
‘Never worn purple to a funeral before.’
‘Fascinating, that wee dinosaur.’
‘Did you see Ivy’s daughter slit her neck in the middle of the procession?’
I squeezed through the double doors into the foyer and stopped to scan the mass of purple folk. Sophie’s hand shot through the crowd.
‘Hey!’ Her pixie face appeared. She’d changed her diamond nose stud to a tiny purple amethyst. ‘Quick, he’s over here.’ She disappeared into the throng, dragging my sleeve with her.
I shuffled apologetically past people I knew and people I didn’t.
‘Found her!’ Sophie said, pushing me forward.
I emerged from the crowd and saw Ned up against a wall, detained by Helen. All five foot one of her was braced threateningly a foot from his anxious face. Sophie shoved me towards Ned and scuttled back next to Douglas, who was hovering nearby.
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘H-hi . . .’
‘I think you might have a bit more to say than that, don’t you, you maggot-kissing shite?’ Helen moved her nose closer to Ned.
He shrank into the wall. Sophie chewed on her fingernail.
‘Guys, I’m OK. Do you think you could . . .’ I motioned for them to leave us alone ‘. . . you know, give us a sec?’
Douglas nodded and started to move. Sophie followed. Helen stayed put.
‘Helen?’ I tapped her on the shoulder.
‘I’ll be watching you,’ she gro
wled, ‘from right over there.’ She pointed to a spot not too far away.
Ned gulped. She backed off and I stepped nearer. We looked at each other for a moment. The last time we were face to face I’d been telling him he was going to be a father.
‘Ah . . . it was a nice service,’ he offered.
‘Hmm.’
‘I like the purple.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Doesn’t go with my colouring, though.’ He pointed to his ginger hair.
‘You fucker,’ I said, my eyes watering.
‘Please don’t cry,’ he said, looking round him.
‘Why not? Don’t you want people to know what you’ve done?’
Disgrace shot across his face.
‘How am I going to pay for stuff? I don’t have a job.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’m having a baby. Your baby.’ I dug my nails into my palms.
‘I know. I know. I-I’m sorry. I’ll pay it back, I promise. I—’
‘Did you spend it all?’
Ned nodded.
‘On what?’
‘An ice cream van. Gerry and I—’
‘Gerry and you are total idiots!’ I cried.
Helen took a step towards us. Douglas held her back. Sophie chewed her nails.
‘I’ll pay it all back.’
‘How? Do you have a job?’
Ned looked at his feet. ‘No. But Gerry and I have a business plan and—’
‘Just . . .’ I blinked away hot, angry tears. ‘Just shut up.’
I looked over at the crowd of people. Some were leaving, heading to my mother’s house for the wake.
‘Why don’t you have a job?’
‘What?’ I said, distracted.
‘Your job. What happened?’ Ned looked genuinely concerned.
‘I said some things to Quentin. And gave Philomena the finger.’
‘Awesome.’ Ned grinned. ‘They totally had it coming.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, the corners of my mouth turning up, encouraged by Ned’s approval. ‘And then I quit.’
My face fell again when I realised it was actually my own fault I had no job. I’d quit. At really a most inappropriate time. If only I’d bottled up all my frustration and just got myself stress-related alopecia instead.
Ned grabbed my hand. ‘Em, I . . . I miss you.’
‘And I just want you to give me my money back.’
Hurt spread across Ned’s face.
‘Em, please? Can’t we—’ He suddenly dropped my hand like a detained subject drops his gun. ‘Oh, no.’
I followed his panicked gaze and saw Mum striding towards us through the crowd, eyes ablaze. I turned back but Ned was gone. I caught a glimpse of the back of his head hurrying through the car park.
‘Yes, you run, Freckle Boy!’ Mum shouted across the foyer. ‘I’ll find you! And when I do . . .’ She threw her fist into her palm with a loud slap.
‘Mum!’
Ned turned back to us, safe on the other side of the car park. He gave me one last penitent look and was off. I turned back to Mum and my friends.
‘So?’ Helen said.
‘So,’ I sighed.
‘No. I mean – so?’ She glared pointedly at my stomach.
‘Oh, yeah.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I’ll kill him!’ Helen spat.
‘I will too.’ Sophie shoved a canapé in her mouth and grabbed two more from the passing waiter.
‘What the hell was he doing at the funeral?’ Helen slammed her empty champagne glass on the coffee table.
‘He got on really well with Grandma. I guess he just wanted to pay his respects.’
Helen raised a dubious eyebrow.
‘She used to read him the classics, you know; Treasure Island, Black Beauty, Huckleberry Finn, while he digitised her knitting patterns on the iPad.’ I shrugged. ‘Ned’s really good with the oldies. Particularly grandmothers.’
‘Gross,’ Sophie said, getting the wrong idea.
I looked away from the concerned faces and glanced round my mother’s bustling living room. Mourners gobbled canapés and quaffed champagne cocktails. Mum knew how to throw a party, even if it was a granny-packed wake.
‘Em?’ Sophie shifted in her seat. ‘I just wondered, um, how come you’re keeping the baby?’
Douglas nearly choked on his blini. Helen’s unyielding gaze settled on me. I knew there would be a grilling. Friends wouldn’t be friends if they didn’t tell you your skinny jeans made your arse and legs look like an upside-down bulb of garlic, your boyfriend was a maggot-kissing shite or keeping a mistake baby was, well, a mistake. Three sets of eyes regarded me intently.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ I sighed. ‘Have you ever looked at something and just knew it had to be?’
‘Yes,’ Helen said. ‘That perfect sand-coloured Hugo Boss trench. The one that makes my waist look like a ballet dancer’s and emphasises my boobs in that “I-could-be-naked-under-here-and-you’d-never-know” porno-but-classy kind of way. I knew that had to be.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘OK.’
‘But Em.’ Helen leant forward. ‘It’s a fucking coat. I don’t have to get my boob out in public for my coat. I don’t have to get up fifteen times in the middle of the night for my coat. My coat will never be sick on me, and when I want to wear my coat I do not have to get it out of my vagina.’
Douglas’s eyes shot to a couple of elderly gentlemen seated to his right.
‘Yeah, and if she gets bored of it, she can always put it on eBay,’ Sophie added. ‘You can’t do that with a baby.’
‘Exactly,’ Helen said.
‘Nit shampoo!’ Sophie said, her eyebrows shooting up. ‘Kids get nits.’ She nodded, serious. ‘And the shampoo is sooo expensive. If you want the good stuff, that is. And you really should get the good stuff. It smells, but you . . .’ She trailed off at Helen’s slow shake of the head.
‘Fucking nit shampoo?’ Helen said. ‘There’s going to be vaginal stitching and you’re talking about—’
‘Helen,’ Douglas said, trying to shield the little old men with a shift of his back.
I slumped in my chair. My friends were concerned, that was all. We were roughly the same age and still felt incredibly young. A feeling of isolation crept over me. With no partner to share this with I was really counting on the support of my friends. For about the millionth time I wished for my sister’s presence. I felt bolstered just being near her. How very dare she be helping the poor when I needed a dash of bolstering? We sat in silence. Sophie twisted her glass round and round on the table. Douglas studied me with a look of concern that brought an uncomfortable tightness to my throat.
‘Emma, you’ve got to—’ Helen said.
Douglas put his hand up. ‘If I may?’ He turned to me, his pale hands closing gently round mine. ‘What did you see when you looked and knew it “had to be”?’
‘A fuzzy grey bean shape.’
‘Yes. But what did you see?’ he said, gesturing into the ether.
Helen made a face at Sophie.
‘I saw – I saw myself holding the baby at the hospital?’ I ventured.
Douglas nodded.
What had I seen?
‘I saw little fingers curling round mine. I saw tiny nappies and tiny socks.’
Sophie bit her fingernail and leant in.
‘I saw . . .’ Warmth blossomed in my chest. ‘I saw wispy hair and midnight bottles and tears and exhaustion. I saw pushchairs and parks and older mothers looking at me, judging me.’
Helen bobbed her head with a rueful smile.
‘I saw my mother buying tiny Burberry jumpsuits and animal-print bibs. I saw bathtime and bedtime. I saw Disney films and school plays, first smiles, first tantrums, buckets and spades on the beach, terrible artwork I’d have to hang on the fridge, chubby-armed cuddles, gobby kisses, first steps and first words.’ I looked at Douglas, grateful. ‘And that’s when I realised I could handle all of it because . . . because it was mine already.’
> Douglas smiled and shot Helen a triumphant look.
‘That is so . . . so . . .’ Sophie said, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
‘Oh, pull yourself together, you daft pixie tart.’ Helen elbowed Sophie and dabbed at the corner of her eyes.
‘Emma, my girl!’ Charlie’s deep voice boomed clear across the room.
He wormed his way over and grabbed me in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground. Helen and Sophie checked themselves quickly. Charlie was in his late fifties but none of his appeal had left him. Or so I was told frequently by my blushing girlfriends. To me he was just Charlie, my mother’s partner who’d been around since I was eight years old. The man who taught my sister and me how to do dive bombs one year in Greece, how to do skids on our bikes and how to kick a guy in the goolies and make off with his wallet.
‘Sweetheart! You look lovely. Blooming, as they say.’ He released me and placed me gently on the ground. ‘Your mother has told me all your news, and my goodness, there’s a lot of it. You take one little trip to Algeria looking for sustainable cork . . .’ He grinned.
‘Yeah, well, I’m living the dream,’ I said, detangling myself and adjusting my hemline. ‘Although most of the time it feels like a nightmare. One of those ones where you find you’re naked in the school playground and everyone’s laughing at you, or you’re driving a jeep off a cliff and your foot can’t find the brake pedal.’
‘Are you naked when you’re driving?’ Sophie asked.
‘No, Soph. I’m wearing clothes. The scary part is flying off the cliff.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She smiled at Charlie. ‘Hi, I’m Sophie. I work, well worked, with Emma before she went and abused everybody and walked out, but we’re friends, we still see each other, we—’
‘Sophie, breathe.’ Helen rolled her eyes. ‘Idiot.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sophie huffed.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Sophie, previous-colleague-but-now-just-good-friend-of-Emma’s.’ Charlie winked at Sophie and kissed her on the cheek.
Sophie sat back down next to a bemused Douglas, putting a hand up to her blushing cheek.
How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Page 7