Things I Should Have Said and Done

by Colette McCormick

  ‘How could she do that to me?’ I asked as I struggled to escape George’s grasp.

  ‘She didn’t do it to you,’ George said, forcing me to look at him.

  ‘Just because I wanted to see Megan.’ I managed to free myself. I felt him try to grab me again but I had moved too far away. I stood over my parents. ‘I don’t care if you didn’t like Megan, she’s my friend.’ My tempo picked up as I continued. ‘Did I stop you from seeing Beryl even though her moustache terrified me? Did I ever say I wouldn’t go with you when you wanted to see whatever that woman was called who stunk of lavender and lived on Custard Creams? Did I, Mum? Did I?’ I knew I was ranting. ‘No, Mum, I didn’t. I went with you every time you asked and I was polite to them when they came to your house.’ I glanced briefly at George, who seemed perplexed. I turned back to my mother. ‘They were your friends and I accepted them. Why couldn’t you accept Megan?’

  I stared at her and felt spent.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Brian.’ Mum looked at Dad. ‘If I’d known what was going to happen I would’ve said yes.’ She started to sob again. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, love,’ Dad soothed.

  ‘It is,’ she whimpered through sobs.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Dad rested the side of his face on the top of her head.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I asked. If I’m being honest, I was annoyed that Dad wasn’t angrier.

  ‘Course it’s not her fault.’ The words were George’s and came from over my shoulder. ‘It’s not,’ he said quietly. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’ He spoke slowly and I felt myself calming down, which annoyed me but seemed beyond my control. ‘Whatever your mother did last Thursday would not have altered what happened. She would never have been there.’ I looked at my mother, who had retrieved a tissue from her bag and was wiping her eyes. ‘Think about it. She would never have been driving along Silver Street; she would have had no need to. She and Naomi would have been at her house by the time the accident happened.’ I reluctantly conceded that he was right. He took hold of my shoulders again but this time he rubbed them gently. ‘You would have been on Silver Street. You would have been going home.’ I let him pull me forward and I rested my head on his chest. ‘It was always going to be you.’

  George and I were alone with my body. I stood at my feet looking at myself.

  ‘This is weird,’ I said with massive understatement.

  George had been sitting on a chair by the wall but I felt him by my shoulder. ‘Yeah.’

  I looked at him before I took the seat next to the one George had been sitting on.

  ‘I’ve never been in one of these before,’ I said, looking around. The décor had a calming effect and there was a stillness you could almost touch. ‘Were you in one?’ I asked.

  ‘One of these? No. Well, yes.’ I must have looked confused. ‘Obviously I was at the undertakers. I mean, I was buried in a coffin and everything, but I wasn’t in one of these.’ He gestured to where I lay. ‘Not like this. I spent the night before my funeral laid out in the parlour at my mum’s. The lid was off all night and she kept coming to look at me. I think she was hoping that she’d look in and I wouldn’t be there. Like the whole thing had been a bad dream or something.’

  I knew how she felt.

  His eyes were distant and he was smiling. He tapped my arm and rubbed his nose. ‘The bloke came round to put the lid on,’ he said, ‘and just after he’d finished my Uncle Charlie rested his mug of tea and an ashtray on top of it.’ He laughed out loud.’ My mum came in and flicked him across the back of his head with a wet tea towel and told him if he’d left a mark on it she’d unscrew the lid and throw him in the coffin with me.’

  We laughed together.

  Marc and Naomi came later. I had wondered about Marc’s decision to let her see me in my coffin but Naomi had been adamant. Maybe she needed to see me.

  As they walked towards the centre of the room, I noticed that Naomi was holding a daffodil in her hands.

  They stopped a few feet from the coffin.

  Naomi climbed up onto the stool the undertakers had left by my head. She struggled to hold onto the daffodil and stand up but she managed it. Even on the stool, Naomi’s waist was still below the level of the box and she had to raise her arm to get it over the coffin’s edge. She laid the daffodil where my hands were joined.

  ‘I brought you a flower, Mummy,’ she said quietly.

  I stood in the corner of the room with George, tears falling effortlessly down my cheeks.

  Marc stood at the other side of the coffin. He was looking at the side of my face that had been hidden when he identified me. I hadn’t seen my face properly and George told me that it was probably a good thing.

  Marc gently stroked my hair and I was amazed that I could feel it. How could that be? There was no mistaking his touch as Marc brushed the side of my face with his fingertips. As I watched him lower his head to mine I tingled with anticipation of what was coming next. I had never felt as alive as I did when he kissed me. It felt like I had been struck by lightning and I half expected to sit up and spit out the piece of apple that had kept me asleep for a hundred years. My lips still tingled after he had stood up. I noticed that he was touching his own and wondered if he could feel it too.

  He took in a deep breath which he let out in stages.

  ‘I miss Mummy.’ Naomi’s words seemed louder than they were.

  ‘So do I,’ Marc agreed.

  He took the four steps over to his daughter and lifted her into his arms. She latched onto him and they cried together. I cried on my own. George held me but he did not cry.

  Eventually, Marc and Naomi left. They had only been gone for a few minutes when a man came in carrying what I quickly realised was the lid to my coffin. I staggered backwards.

  ‘Come on,’ George said. ‘You don’t need to see this.’

  I couldn’t help but take one last look backwards before the door closed behind me. The man was screwing down the lid.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Sylvia said. ‘It’s most unusual.’

  ‘Yeah,’ George agreed, puffing extra hard on his cigarette. ‘And I’ve told her but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Phil appeared from behind Sylvia and once again I was face to face with the man who had killed me.

  ‘Why would you?’ George’s tone of voice was more aggressive than I thought necessary and the look I threw him told him so. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said to me. ‘But I don’t understand.’

  I wasn’t sure if I understood either. All I knew was that I wanted, needed, to talk to Phil.

  I took a deep breath and turned to Phil. ‘They’re cremating me tomorrow,’ I told him. His head dropped to his chest. ‘I just watched my mother say goodbye to me.’ I tried and failed to swallow a sob. ‘She thinks it’s her fault.’ I wiped my runny nose with the back of my hand. There was more vehemence in my voice with every word I spoke. ‘My father had to practically carry her.’ I took a step towards him and Sylvia made to intervene but George stopped her. ‘My daughter brought me a daffodil,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be burnt with that daffodil in my hands. My husband kissed me for the last time.’ Tears were now streaming down my face and I shouted, ‘I watched a man screw the lid down on my coffin.’ That was when the tears took control. I held my hands to my mouth and sobbed.

  Through those tears I could just about see Phil, who still stood with his head down. Slowly, he raised it and looked at me. We stared at each other for a few seconds. He mumbled something.

  ‘What?’ I asked, pushing the tears away with the heel of my hand.

  Phil coughed and twisted his neck as if he was getting rid of a crick. ‘Sharon had an abortion today.’ He pronounced every word clearly.

  I looked at George and the way he bobbed his head told me he already knew. I wondered why he hadn’t told me. I turned back to Phil, who had the thumb and forefinger of his right han
d pressed into his eyes.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean why?’ he said, glaring at me. It was the first time I had ever heard aggression in Phil’s voice. He was crying and little drops of saliva formed around his mouth. He took a minute or two to calm himself. ‘I guess she didn’t want my kid,’ he said simply.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘So am I.’ He sighed deeply and looked at the ceiling. ‘Now I’m responsible for three deaths instead of two.’

  ‘You didn’t kill your baby,’ I said, forgetting my anger.

  ‘Might as well have.’ The eyes that looked at me were filled with anger. ‘Do you know?’ He started to walk and I walked with him though Phil was talking more to himself than me, and I wondered if he realised that I was following him. ‘She didn’t hesitate at all, not for a second. It was as if she couldn’t wait to get my kid out of her. Like it was going to poison her or something. Am I really that evil?’ He looked at me for an answer. I shook my head. ‘How can you say that?’ He started to rant again. ‘How can you say I’m not evil? I killed you. Didn’t you just tell me, you watched a man screw the lid on your coffin?’ I nodded. ‘I’m responsible for that.’ He took one step away before slowly turning around. He looked weary. ‘But why did she have to kill my kid?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about his dad, does he?’ I asked George when we were alone.

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought so. Sylvia won’t tell him until the last minute.’

  ‘He’s going to blame himself for that death, isn’t he?’

  ‘He should.’

  George quickened his step and walked ahead of me.

  ‘What will have happened to Phil’s baby?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I felt a lump forming in my throat and moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. ‘What happened to Phil’s baby when Sharon … lost it?’

  George looked at me with sadness. He started to say something but seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. He looked away for a second and cleared his throat. ‘She went to the nursery.’

  ‘It was a girl?’

  ‘Is a girl,’ he corrected.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  George and I sat on the wall outside the house I had shared with Marc and Naomi. The sun was shining and our mood was light, which was strange considering the circumstances.

  I was looking at my feet where they dangled two feet off the ground when I heard a familiar voice ask, ‘You all right, love?’

  ‘Yeah, fine, thanks,’ I said like I had hundreds of times before. Of course we’d both been alive then and lived next door to each other.

  ‘Thought I’d pop along and check on you. Funerals are never easy, especially when they’re your own.’ Both she and George burst into fits of laughter and I even managed a smile. Mary had been my next-door neighbour for a year and I had missed her since her passing.

  She gestured with her hand and George shuffled along to make room for her. She jumped up onto the wall as easily as a child would have done. She must have seen the look of amazement in my eyes. ‘No arthritis on this side,’ she explained. ‘I may look like the old woman I was when I died but I’ll tell you, I don’t feel like it.’ I nodded as if I understood. ‘So how’s George looking after you?’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said, looking towards him. ‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’ I asked.

  ‘A few,’ he conceded.

  ‘Anyway, Ellen,’ Mary continued as she rested her hand on my forearm. ‘Today’ll be a funny day for you, won’t it, George?’ He agreed. ‘Just try not to think about it too much,’ she advised.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Do you remember mine?’ she asked. ‘You were carrying Naomi and you had a devil of a job finding something black to wear.’ She tightened her grip on my arm. ‘You were really kind to Bert that day and I was very grateful.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I looked around for her now-deceased husband.

  ‘He’s sorry, but he said he couldn’t come.’ Mary patted my arm again. Apparently you take your habits with you into the afterlife. ‘But he sends his love. He said he’d catch up with you soon.’

  Our attention was grabbed by the black car that had turned into the street.

  ‘The curtains’ll be twitching now,’ Mary said and as I turned I saw that she was right.

  A second car turned the corner. Outwardly they were identical except that the second had seats in it.

  The first car carried my coffin.

  ‘They’re shiny, aren’t they?’ I said before I realised how ridiculous it sounded.

  Thankfully, I don’t think anyone heard.

  The cars moved slowly and came to a halt right in front of us. A sombre man dressed in black got out. He walked right past us and we watched him all the way. There was no need for him to knock because my father waited for him in the open doorway. We watched as my dad exchanged a glance with the undertaker and then lowered his head and looked inside the house. He moved aside to let my mother pass. She was dressed from head to toe in black and I noticed with some interest that the black hat she wore had a feather in it.

  ‘Bet she bought that special,’ Mary said with a giggle before adding, ‘Oops, sorry, I was forgetting myself.’

  I waved away her apology and smiled. My mother had often been the butt of our jokes in that previous life. It felt like old times.

  My eyes were on my husband as he followed my mother out.

  ‘Oh, he is handsome,’ Mary said and I agreed with her. He was wearing a charcoal suit, a white shirt, and the only black tie he owned.

  ‘He bought that tie for yours,’ I whispered to Mary.

  Just behind Marc, practically hidden, was Naomi.

  The night before, George and I had watched Marc open the door to my mother.

  It was late and Naomi had been in bed a long time.

  We had watched Marc pour himself a whisky and sit in his favourite chair only for him to stare into space and leave the drink untouched. After his visit to the Chapel of Rest I had been worried about Marc and wanted to check that he was OK. The way he was behaving did nothing to make me feel better.

  The knock on the door had startled him. I had followed him to the door, wondering who would be calling so late. I was as surprised as he was to see my mother.

  My mother had bought Naomi a dress that was black apart from the tiniest ribbon of white at the collar and the cuffs.

  ‘I know you won’t have had time to get her anything,’ my mum had said.

  Marc had looked at the dress and to my mother. ‘Thanks but I hope you kept the receipt.’

  ‘Why?’ My mother had clutched the dress close to her chest.

  ‘Naomi has a dress.’

  ‘A suitable dress?’

  His voice had remained firm. ‘Naomi has chosen what she wants to wear.’

  Mum didn’t press the point. She just put the dress back in the bag and swallowed hard.

  ‘I was just trying to …’ She sniffed and held her lips tightly together.

  ‘I know,’ Marc said, gesturing towards a seat but Mum shook her head and remained standing.

  ‘No, I’ll not stop,’ she said and moved towards the door.

  Marc opened the door and leaned against it. ‘I know you were only trying to help,’ he said, ‘and I am grateful, honestly I am. But Naomi chose what she wants to wear. She’s going to have a hard enough time getting through tomorrow as it is and if wearing whatever it is she’s chosen helps her through it then I’m all for it.’

  Mum nodded her head. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’ve all got to get through it the best way we can.’

  Marc watched Mum walk to the car where Dad was waiting. Dad waved goodbye as they drove away and Marc closed the door.

  He rested his head against it for a long time.

  Now, as Naomi came into view I smiled and I approved of her choice. She was wearing her favourite yellow dress and matched it up with a white lace cardigan.

&nbs
p; We had bought the cardigan on our last shopping trip together. Was the really just the weekend before last?

  My father made up the rear of the group as they made their way up the garden path. My mother was already in the car and didn’t notice that Naomi had stopped walking. She was holding Marc’s hand so he stopped walking too. I found myself looking into my daughter’s hazel eyes. She smiled at me and I smiled back. She took a couple of steps towards the car and turned to look at me again before nodding and following her daddy into the car. She climbed onto his knee and watched me, first through the side window and then the back one as the car pulled away to follow the hearse.

  I jumped down from the wall and stood wide-eyed, looking after the cars with my hand over my mouth. When they disappeared around the corner I turned to Mary.

  ‘Did you see that? She saw me.’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  I grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it. ‘She did, didn’t she?’

  ‘She did, love, and her clinging onto Marc like that was her way of telling you she’s going to look after him for you.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  George agreed.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be holding onto George’s arm as we followed the mourners into the church. My husband, daughter, and parents had been joined by a flock of relatives, most of whom I hadn’t seen since my wedding day, a handful of friends from my school days, and a host of mums from Naomi’s school. My colleagues from the library huddled together at the back. Megan and what I presumed was her new husband were in front of them.

  My grandfather stood at the front of the church, his eyes fixed firmly on my coffin. He was shaking as he sobbed.

  As the congregation took their seats, George manoeuvred me to the back of the church. The three pews nearest the back were filled with people I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ I whispered. ‘Is that Mrs Charlton? It is, isn’t it? And that’s Mrs Mowbray sat beside her.’ I waved at the two women who had been responsible for everything I had learned in my first two years at school. They waved back.