by Vikki Patis
My eyes fly open as a car door slams. Fiona steps out, clad in a stylish black dress, a fascinator perched on her head, the short black veil covering her eyes. The widow, followed by the sons. We are all bound by one person, our relationship to him marking our path, giving us our status. As always, I am at the back of the queue.
12
The Celebrant
Showtime.
The cars are outside, the actors all in their places. Through the glass door, he catches a glimpse of Fiona as she gets out of the car, a tissue clutched in her left hand, bright against her dark clothing. She plays the role well, James thinks, not unkindly, as he watches her tuck her other hand in the crook of her eldest son’s elbow.
The younger son emerges next from the car, his tie crooked, his hair looking slightly damp, followed by a small child with blonde curls, and a woman with matching hair falling almost to her waist. She takes the hand of the child, and James recognises her as Lexi. He’s never seen her with curly hair before, but judging by her son, it looks as if it is natural. It suits her, giving her a slightly wild look, like a lioness. When she turns her face towards the crematorium, James thinks he sees something in her eyes, something bubbling beneath the surface.
Another car draws up, its passengers getting out, and James feels his heart skip a beat. Peter looks older, he realises, his hair thinner, his eyes weighed down with heavy bags. In the many years they’ve known one another, James has never seen his old friend looking so tired, so worn out. Or worn down. Not even when he was with his first wife, when he was lost for a while.
His second wife comes up behind him, a short woman with a blonde bob, their two children following in their wake. The girl must be sixteen by now, if not older, and the boy has just started secondary school. It is his second family, his eldest son long grown up and living in India, and James wonders if the stresses of family life are taking their toll. The stress of keeping secrets, of desperately trying to keep everything together.
The clock ticks silently above the door, and James begins to move through the room, his heart beating too loud in the quiet. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t feel he can bring himself to talk about Richard in the way he talked about all of the people for whom he has led funerals. But then the doors open, and it is time for him to slip on his mask. Showtime. He greets the family at the door, pressing Fiona’s hand between both of his in the way he has always done, showing his respect for both the deceased and those they have left behind. He is a professional, he reminds himself. This is his job.
Peter, stone-faced, steps up to the coffin and places his left shoulder beneath it. Felix stands opposite and Tobias behind, and a colleague of Richard’s takes the final slot. James stands at the front, awaiting his cue. A beat, two, and then they are moving, five pairs of legs almost marching in time to the song that has started playing from the speakers. Robbie Williams is loving angels instead, but James doubts Richard has gone anywhere but the fiery pits of hell. If he believed in hell, that is.
As James takes his place at the front of the room, he suddenly realises how close he is to the coffin, and the dead man inside it. He suppresses a shudder, turning his mind instead to the benches which are beginning to fill with people, men and women who have come to pay their respects to Richard Asquith.
I wonder how many of them would be here if they knew what he was really like, James thinks, then mentally reprimands himself. Today is about Fiona, and the family who, for better, for worse, Richard has left behind. The family that has followed the coffin into the room, Lexi supporting Fiona, her young son clasping her other hand, his face hidden behind the body of his grandfather. As the family take their seats at the front, he gives Fiona a small nod before his eyes roam around the room again, grazing the top of the heads of the people filling the benches. His gaze finds the burnt copper head of Richard’s eldest daughter, sat two rows behind the rest of the family, and he feels a current of anxiety flicker through him. He is surprised to see her here, after everything.
Fiona is still clutching a tissue in one hand, her shoulder pressed against Felix’s, who stares resolutely at the front, his gaze unfocused. Lexi sits on his other side, her son blinking his huge eyes as he takes in his surroundings, and Toby sits beside him, his jaw set, his face an unreadable mask. Silence has descended on the room; everyone has taken their seats and they are waiting for the show to begin. James shuffles his papers, clearing his throat and raising his eyes to the clock hanging above the door, the spot he uses to centre himself. It is time.
‘Welcome,’ he says, his voice echoing through the room. ‘Welcome, everyone. It is lovely to see so many of you here today, and I’m sure the family are delighted that so many people have come to honour and celebrate the life of Richard Asquith.’ The door creaks open, and James looks up to find Eleanor slipping onto the bench at the very back, her shoulders hunched, her eyes firmly trained on the coffin at the front. Or is it the back of Fiona’s head she is staring at?
He pulls his attention away. ‘As many of you will be aware, I have known the Asquith family for many years, and I have the honour of leading this service today. I recently spent time with Fiona, Richard’s wife, and their two sons, Felix and Tobias, and they told me so many wonderful stories about the man they knew and loved. The man we all knew and loved, in our own way.’
James pauses, lifting the plastic cup of water to his lips, taking small sips, and notices the tremble in his hand as he sets it back down. This is his generic speech, slightly adapted to suit every funeral service, but the lies are burning like acid as they spill from his mouth.
‘You should have received an order of service on your way in, which outlines the structure that this service will take. The family has requested that any donations be given to YAY! Cornwall, an organisation which supports LGBTQ+ young people in the local area.’ James can feel the energy in the room shift, and he knows immediately what Fiona has done. He stifles a grin. ‘And we have some people joining us on the live stream from across the world; America, Thailand, and all over Europe.’ He nods towards the camera positioned on the wall above, and almost every head swivels to follow his gaze, mouths open in surprise, brows knitted. James feels a bubble of laughter rise in his chest and forces it down, focusing his eyes on the words in front of him.
‘I asked Fiona to describe her husband to me, and the first word she used was funny. Richard had a great sense of humour and he never failed to make her laugh, even if she was cross with him. Felix described his father as a role model, a strong man who supported his family, and who would do anything for those he loved.’ James can feel Skye’s eyes on him as he speaks. ‘Family was very important to Richard, almost as important as his business.’ A few titters from the benches, some raised eyebrows. ‘Richard started a property development business when he was in his twenties, which his brother, Peter, later joined, followed by Richard’s sons. Asquith & Son is a successful business, but it is also a family business, and Richard was immensely proud that he had built something that his children could enjoy for years to come. He was also proud of his charitable work, funding and building sleep pods for the homeless, and ensuring his portfolio included affordable housing for local people. His two sons have now taken over the company, and Felix told me how pleased he is that he can carry on his father’s work.’
James pauses as he flips the page. ‘Richard was born in 1964 in Redruth to parents Alan and Dawn. He had an older brother, Peter, and they lived in a two-up, two-down terrace until the boys left for university. Their father worked on the railways, and their mother worked part-time in a local bakery. Peter describes his childhood as happy. His brother was his best friend, and he has many memories of kicking balls up and down the cobbled alley behind their house. They had a dog called Blackie, a stray their father found on the railway one day and brought home, and although they didn’t have much, their house was always full of laughter.’ James has, of course, failed to mention that Peter refused to give any information for the eulo
gy, and that this part is based on James’s own memory. ‘Richard studied business at the University of Edinburgh, where he met his first wife, Fearne. They stayed in her native Scotland and were married, before returning to Cornwall and having their two daughters, Skye and Saffy.’ He tries not to look at Skye, but her penetrating gaze is too hard to ignore, and he cannot fail to see the pain written across her face at the mention of her lost sister. He moves on quickly.
‘Richard married Fiona in the mid-nineties, and they have two boys together.’ He nods at the front bench, at the two men sitting there. Felix’s eyes are fixed firmly on the coffin, but Tobias now is looking up at the windows set along the top of the wall, his head tilted slightly, as if searching for something. Fiona dabs at her eyes with a tissue and sniffs quietly.
‘Richard built their beautiful home just outside Newquay, where they spent many happy years together. He was, of course, a keen golfer, enjoying weekends away with friends, and he loved to travel, often working away in different countries around the world. The family enjoyed foreign holidays, and they ensured that the children received the best education. Richard built a life which was full of love and fun, and he was proud of all he had achieved. His son, Tobias, is now in his final year at university, and Felix has been working at the family company since he left higher education. He and Lexi are engaged to be married and they have a young son together, making Richard a grandfather in his early fifties; something he liked to joke about in the pub.’ Smiles and nods from the crowd, and James sees Lexi place a hand on her son’s head, her expression unreadable.
‘Now Lexi is going to read a poem,’ James says, meeting her gaze and giving her a small nod. He takes a step back, sipping his water as the congregation fidget, waiting for Lexi to take her place at the front of the room. He has done well, he tells himself, kept his voice steady and didn’t trip on his words. He has almost fooled himself.
13
The Daughter-in-Law
I feel light-headed as I stand, reaching for the piece of paper in my bag and taking a deep breath. I see Toby’s jaw tighten and I want to tell him to relax, not to let today get to him. We all know what funerals are like, a rose-tinted view into the life of the deceased. It will not show the real Richard Asquith, the real man we knew. The man we endured.
I walk slowly towards the front, trying to keep my step steady. The room is full, though that comes as no surprise. Richard was a popular man; he did business with hundreds of people every year, wined and dined clients across the world, and he had a way of making you feel special, as if you were the most important person to him. Everyone falls for it, their shoulders relaxing in the face of his charm. Even I did, once.
The first time I met the celebrant was when he came to the house to discuss the funeral service. He has kind eyes, the colour of a bright summer sky, and a soft but commanding voice. Felix told me that they have known him for years, that he is a friend of Fiona’s from when they were young. Gay, Tobias said. Camp, Felix said. Fiona clearly has a soft spot for him though, from the way she lightly touched his arm as she spoke, and the way she knew how he took his coffee – milk, one sugar – without asking. They have a long history, but I cannot remember ever seeing James and Richard anywhere near one another, and as I approach him now, I suddenly realise why.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Fiona,’ Richard had hissed one day in the kitchen not long after I moved in. I hovered in the hallway, not wanting to interrupt, but unable to stop myself from listening. ‘He’s married.’
Fiona’s reply was almost too low for me to hear. ‘That never stopped you.’
‘He’s married to a woman. I think that’s an important distinction.’
A bark of laughter. ‘Do you?’
‘What does that mean?’ A pause. ‘Well, Fiona? What does that mean?’
‘What I would like to know,’ Fiona said, ‘is why you’re so obsessed with him.’
‘With who? Peter’s my brother, for fuck’s sake!’
‘Not Peter. James. Ever since his partner died, you’ve had it in for him.’
Richard was silent, but I could hear his breathing, almost hear his heart beating in his chest. ‘Partner,’ he scoffed. ‘They were only together for five minutes.’
‘They were together for years!’ Fiona’s voice was shrill. I could picture her face as she turned to her husband, her eyes wide and burning with rage. ‘But they never stood a chance. You never gave them a chance.’
‘What are you doing?’ Felix’s voice from behind startled me, and the voices in the kitchen fell silent, the words still shimmering in the air. But what did it all mean?
From my place at the podium, I catch a glimpse of red and look up to see a woman staring at me. Skye. I recognise her instantly from the Instagram pictures Toby showed me. She is beautiful, her eyes a bright green, sparkling beneath dark eyebrows. Something is written on her face, some emotion I cannot quite make out, and I drop my gaze, my cheeks burning. What must she see in me?
I glance at Leo, see his feet dangling from the bench, his shoulder pressed against Toby’s arm. He really is too young for a funeral, but I can trust him to be good, and besides, I wasn’t going to miss this. Not for anything.
But then I feel my throat constrict, and I wonder if I have made a mistake. I felt so confident that day with James, telling him that I would read a poem for my would-be father-in-law. I felt invincible, safe in the knowledge that the truth would be burned along with Richard, but now anxiety claws at me, and I feel my hands shaking as I stand at the front of the room. Dozens of pairs of eyes are on me now, spotlights homing in on me, and I clear my throat, my eyes on the paper before me. I have chosen a sonnet, not only because it is beautiful, but also because it is easy to hide behind. The paper trembles in my hands as I open my mouth to speak.
‘Thank you. I will be reading a sonnet by William Shakespeare, to pay tribute to the life of my father-in-law.
‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.’
My voice cracks on the last word, the breath catching in my throat. But let your love even with my life decay. But it is not love for Richard which has brought me here today. It is the love of my son, and my deepest desire to keep him safe.
14
The Daughter
Fleur took my hand as we turned to watch the coffin make its way down the aisle. Her fingers were warm in mine, and I tried to take comfort from her, but there is none to be found today. How do you comfort a woman at the funeral of her estranged father? How can she know what I need from her today? I don’t even know.
My eyes found a face in the small group following the coffin, a face which stands out amongst the Asquith breeding, and I wondered who she was. She held the hand of a little boy, and when her eyes met mine, I felt something fizz through me. And then she was gone, past our pew and sliding onto the bench at the front beside Fiona, shifting along when Felix joined them.
I felt something else when I looked at my half-brother. The brother who should not have been, who split my family apart. He was born when I was five years old, my sister four, though we did not know about him until Saffy disappeared and my father was forced to leave. The second son had been born by then too, Toby. My father’s secret family. They lived barely ten minutes away from us, in a house which w
as on his way home from the office so he could pop in before coming back for dinner with us. I’ve often wondered what experiences they had that we didn’t; did he miss out on my school play to attend one of theirs? Did we forgo new trainers so they could have some? Was he talking to Fiona about his other children when Saffy disappeared? Now I will never know the answers to those questions. He is dead, lying in the wooden box before me, and I will never know the truth. I will never know why we weren’t good enough for him. Why I was never enough.
The celebrant began to speak, his strong Cornish accent washing over me as my thoughts clouded my mind. I felt the urge to laugh when he announced the name of the charity. He was a bigot, my father; a Conservative-funding, Leave-voting casual racist. He had no time for anyone who didn’t fit into his little world view, could not understand that being gay is not a lifestyle choice. His favourite insult was poof, and I heard him use it on Toby a few times when he was little. Imagine calling your five-year-old son a poof because he likes to play with dolls and braid hair. Toby was an expert at French braiding by the time he was eight or so; I remembered again the feeling of his fingers in my hair, gently tugging the strands into place, and felt a wave of sadness wash over me. His new sons may have gained the father I lost, gained the advantages that came with him, but they were also burdened with him, forced to live under his constant criticism. Who is the true winner? I wondered. Did I really lose that much?