by Vikki Patis
I have to believe that what Richard and I had was real. Real, passionate, lasting love. Love that would have seen us through the rest of our days, that would have kept us warm on cold nights. I have to believe that. I do believe that. Because otherwise, it was all for nothing.
The room is empty now. Fiona and the celebrant have moved through the doorway; I watch them through the glass as I make my way up the aisle and stand before the curtains. Where do the bodies go after the curtains are closed? Are they cremated one at a time, straight after the service, or do they do a group at a time? No, that can’t be right. How would you know you have your loved one’s ashes? It could be anyone in there, after all.
I shudder, trying to push such macabre thoughts from my mind. Stop being silly, Ellie, Richard says in my mind, and I feel my eyes burn with tears. Oh, Richard. How has this happened? How could you leave me like this?
I riffle in my pockets and pull out a handkerchief, one he gave me a year or so ago. I remember calling him old-fashioned – who carries around a handkerchief anymore? – but I loved it really. He could be old-fashioned sometimes, but in the best of ways. Chivalrous, always holding doors open and pulling out my chair for me. Generous with lavish gifts and fine meals. He liked to order for me sometimes, whisking the menu out of my hands and choosing what he thought I’d like the most. He was usually right, so I didn’t mind. He was that kind of man, I suppose, the kind who likes to lead. And I would have followed him anywhere.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice says as I’m blowing my nose. I look up to see Fiona standing in the doorway, her face a mask of stone. My stomach lurches. ‘Can I help you?’
The celebrant comes up behind her, his eyes widening as we recognise one another. James, Peter’s friend from university. What a small world; how closely connected we all are. ‘I’m afraid we need to leave the room for the next service, Fiona,’ he says, placing a hand on her arm. She shakes him off.
‘Remove her first,’ she hisses, and I can almost feel the venom pouring from her mouth. She knows, I realise with a jolt. ‘Oh, yes,’ she says, raising one eyebrow, ‘I know who you are, Ellie. And you don’t belong here.’
‘I’m just saying goodbye,’ I say, my voice a whimper, and I hate myself for my weakness. I hate her for making me feel this way.
‘You have no right!’ she shrieks, her words bouncing off the walls. James steps forward, putting himself between us. ‘He was my husband! Mine!’
‘Let’s not cause a scene,’ James says, and Fiona stamps her foot in outrage. She actually stamps her foot, her small heel clicking against the hard floor.
‘Me? It’s her who is causing a scene, showing up where she isn’t wanted!’
‘I’m going,’ I say, risking one last glance at the closed curtains before buttoning up my coat and moving towards the door. James gives me a small, almost grateful smile as I pass, and I nod, trying to keep the tears at bay. Fiona glares at me as I near her, and when our eyes meet, I open my mouth to say something, anything, an apology even, but before I can speak, her hand flies up and connects with my cheek.
‘You’re nothing but a whore,’ she hisses into my ear, her nails catching my skin. ‘A dirty, disgusting whore.’
My head jerks back, my skin stinging from the impact, tiny lines of fire burning down my cheek. I meet her gaze and I see nothing but hatred. Tears fill my eyes and I stumble back, away from her, my heart thudding. Then there are hands on my elbows, helping me out of the door and into the atrium.
‘Are you okay, Eleanor?’ James asks as I reach up to touch my stinging cheek. ‘Maybe it’s best if you–’
‘I know,’ I snap, ignoring the concern on his face. ‘I’m leaving.’ Lifting my handbag onto my shoulder, I straighten my back and look him in the eye. ‘I’m leaving.’ And I go, out into the bright December morning, walking past the groups of mourners, trying not to hear their whispers.
17
The Daughter-in-Law
We’re filing out of the crematorium when Leo tugs at my dress. ‘Mummy!’ he whispers. ‘I need a wee!’ His whisper is probably just as loud as his normal speaking voice, and I see several people turn to look at us. One older woman smiles, giving me a look that says kids, who’d have them? and I return it, grateful for the recognition, before turning to my son.
‘All right, let’s go find a toilet.’ Taking his hand, I spot a sign and make a beeline for a small building set to the side of the crematorium. I hover in the open doorway, back turned, while Leo sits on the toilet. Felix would be horrified to see his son sitting down to pee, but there are no steps here for Leo to use, and I’m not making the mistake of lifting him up again. I didn’t bring a spare pair of shoes with me.
Finished, I help Leo wash his hands before using the toilet myself. Leo takes up my position in the doorway, his tiny fists on his hips, his legs apart as if he’s standing guard. I can’t help but smile; Leo is such a gentle child, but he is fiercely protective of me, even at such a young age. A memory flashes through my mind without warning, and I feel my heart lurch as I watch it replay, unable to stop it. Felix’s hand around my throat, a burst of movement as Leo threw himself at his father’s leg, his baby teeth cutting through material and drawing blood.
I stand, trying to flush the memory from my mind as I wash my hands. What have I done, bringing a child into this family? How could I have been so stupid?
‘Mummy,’ Leo says, breaking into my thoughts. I turn, pasting a smile onto my face. ‘When can we eat?’
I laugh despite myself, crouching to pick him up and hefting him onto my hip. ‘You’re like a dustbin.’
Leo scrunches up his face. ‘That’s not very nice,’ he says seriously, and I laugh again, feeling myself overcome with love for this sweet, intelligent child of mine. This child who deserves so much better.
We arrive back at the front entrance to see one of the funeral cars leaving. Felix is nowhere in sight, and I realise with a jolt that he has gone, has climbed into the car with his mother and left us behind. I’m more annoyed to discover that I’m not at all surprised.
I see someone approaching out of the corner of my eye, and I rearrange my face to greet them before realising who it is. My smile freezes on my face as Skye steps up beside me, holding out a hand.
‘You must be Lexi,’ she says, her Scottish accent surprising me for a second. ‘I’m Skye. The… daughter.’ She appears to choke on the word, her eyes narrowing as if it is foreign to her.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I say, my mouth moving without thought, and a shadow crosses her face. It clears when another woman arrives, with beautiful dark hair and, as Toby would say, brows on fleek.
‘This is Fleur,’ Skye says, giving the woman a smile before turning back to me. ‘My partner.’
I hear a noise from behind me – a scoff? A clearing of the throat? – and notice Skye’s eyes darken, but Fleur beams at me, oblivious.
‘So good to meet you,’ she says, her French accent turning the s to a z. Her eyes brighten as she looks at Leo, who has snuggled against my shoulder, his thumb firmly in his mouth. ‘And who is this?’
‘This is Leo,’ I say, turning slightly so he can see the women. ‘Leo, this is your…’ I stumble over the words, suddenly unsure. ‘Aunt?’ Skye’s eyes crinkle as she smiles knowingly, and I relax a fraction. She gets it; she’s just as unsure as I am.
‘How old is he?’ she asks as Leo ignores them both. He’s missed his late morning nap, and he always gets grumpy like this when he’s tired. I consider apologising but stop myself. He’s a child; I don’t need to apologise for him acting like one.
‘Three.’
‘Three and six months,’ Leo mumbles, and I smile. He’s scrupulous about his age.
‘That’s right, sweetie, not long until you’re four.’
‘So cute,’ Fleur remarks. ‘Such a precious age.’
‘Do you have children?’ I ask. I catch the look that passes between them and wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing.
‘With what sp
erm?’ Skye jokes, and I almost choke on my laughter, hastily disguising it as a cough when I feel eyes turn towards us. Her eyes are twinkling the same way Toby’s do, with that kind of innocent naughtiness my son also seems to have inherited, and I think, ah, there he is. There’s Richard. He is everywhere, inescapable.
Toby pops up beside me, out of breath as if he’s been running. ‘Where’s Mum?’ he asks before he realises that we aren’t alone. I prod him with my elbow and he looks up, his eyes widening. ‘Oh shit,’ he says, and I roll my eyes.
‘Hello, littlest brother,’ Skye says, her face apparently relaxed, but I see Fleur’s gaze flit between the two of them, her body language guarded. ‘Long time no see.’
Toby continues to gawp, suddenly the teenager I met all those years ago again. I feel a surge of protection, my motherly instinct expanding to encompass my brother-in-law, this boy I love as my own flesh and blood.
‘How are you getting to the wake?’ I ask Skye, breaking the silence.
She nods towards the car park. ‘We drove. Hire car.’
‘Are you coming?’ Toby breaks in, his cheeks flushed. ‘I mean, I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if…’
‘If we’re welcome?’ Skye turns her gaze to me, as if seeking my permission.
‘Of course,’ I reply, flustered. ‘Of course you are.’
‘Has Mum already left?’ Toby asks.
‘Oui,’ Skye says, shaking her head and giving a small smile. ‘Yes. With your brother.’ I notice the absence of my fiancé’s name, and wonder how this woman who has been gone for so long could have already formed an opinion of him. Or perhaps he has always been the same.
‘Do you need a lift?’ Fleur asks. Skye shoots her a look, which she ignores.
‘Could we?’ Toby says, his face lighting up, and I realise suddenly how desperate he is to get to know his sister, this woman who he last saw over a decade ago. How desperate he is to find his tribe, the people he is most like. I suppose that’s why he welcomed me so easily; he saw the fractures inside me, the cracks I thought I’d hidden so well. He is incredibly sensitive, just like Leo.
Skye blows out a breath before answering, her face suddenly softening, and I see the knowledge in her too. She knows what Toby wants, what he needs, but she isn’t sure she can give it to him. ‘Why not?’ she says, then looks at me. ‘Oh, but we don’t have a car seat.’
‘Leo can sit on my lap,’ I say. He has fallen asleep in my arms, his body growing heavy, and I welcome the opportunity to put him down. ‘That’s if you don’t mind?’
Fleur beams at my sleeping son. ‘Of course not. The more the merrier.’
18
The Celebrant
James watches the mourners from the sideline, feeling himself pulling back. He is looking forward to going home and opening the jigsaw puzzle he bought last week as a retirement gift to himself. He will sit at the dining table, where his mother can see him from her bed in the living room. She has been sleeping downstairs for over a month now, no longer able to manage the stairs. He often sits up late with her, both of them listening to an audiobook on his phone until she drifts off. Sometimes he wakes hours later, back stiff from the chair, his eyes drawn immediately to his mother’s chest, watching it rise and fall, waiting for her to take her last breath.
A voice breaks into his thoughts, a face suddenly appearing before him. ‘It was a lovely service, vicar,’ the woman says, placing one wrinkled hand on his arm. He smiles, nods, knowing any attempts at correction would be futile. He has learned not to bother telling people that he isn’t a vicar or a priest, and now he has done it, he has led his final funeral, and he can hang up his proverbial dog collar with a clear conscience.
He sees Fiona exit the vestibule, Felix on her heels, her eyes hidden by her fascinator. She has gone down in his estimation in the past few minutes, since he witnessed her attack on Eleanor. He’d always believed Fiona to be a woman of class, of composure, but it would appear that the sight of her husband’s most recent lover was enough to push her over the edge. He only hopes she can move on and leave Eleanor to her grief.
James is not without sympathy for Fiona. He understands how it must feel to know your spouse is cheating on you, but it’s as if he has conjured two Richards in his mind – one, the husband to Fiona, the other, the partner of Eleanor – and both were very different men. But one Richard was quite enough for everyone.
Fiona spots him and makes her way over, a tissue clutched in one hand. ‘You will come to the wake, James?’ she says, lifting her red-rimmed eyes to his, and he curses himself for his unkind thoughts. Not everyone feels the way he does about Richard; some people here will genuinely be in mourning, and despite everything, he knows what Fiona is going through. He has become accustomed to funerals now, and though he does not see Tom at every one, he still occasionally feels his presence.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replies carefully, reaching out and taking her hand. ‘I’m needed at home.’ It isn’t the whole truth, and he sees that she knows it, but she nods anyway. She is a compassionate woman, a lifelong friend for whom he should feel privileged to have performed this service. Giving his hand a last squeeze, Fiona adjusts her fascinator and turns on her heel, striding towards the row of funeral cars, and James can’t help but wonder if this is the last time he will see her. He feels as if he is closing the door on this part of his life, and though he doesn’t know what the future holds, he finds he is looking forward to it all the same.
A flash of copper catches his eye and he turns to find Skye approaching, her pale skin almost translucent in the winter light. She tilts her head as if appraising him, and he arranges his features in its usual sympathetic mask.
‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she says, one eyebrow raised, ‘though I was not involved in the preparations.’
He feels his heart sink. It is the client’s choice who the celebrant speaks to, and who is involved in the organisation of a funeral. They are the one paying the bill, after all. He feels as if he could say this to Skye, that she would understand, and besides, what has he got to lose? But another woman steps up beside her as he opens his mouth and silences him with a warm smile that catches him off guard. She steps forward, brushing her cheek against his.
‘Merci,’ she says, flicking her eyes at Skye before settling on him. ‘My first English funeral.’
‘And how was it?’ he asks, somewhat bemused by the French woman.
She tilts her head in the same way Skye did a moment before, considering his question. ‘Different,’ she says finally. ‘We usually have a, uhh…’ She flounders, looking to Skye for help.
‘Open coffin,’ Skye supplies, and the woman nods. James feels his throat constrict. He has never been comfortable with open coffins, and is thankful that it has happened only rarely during his career. Perhaps it was a story his colleague told him early on, about two mourners resorting to fisticuffs over the open coffin of an elderly relative, which resulted in one of them climbing inside the coffin and lying on top of the deceased, which marked the start of his fear.
‘Well,’ he says, fumbling for an appropriate response. He is saved by Lexi walking past, Leo on her hip, and the women’s eyes follow her. They turn back to him and nod once before heading towards her.
James breathes out. He can see some of Fearne in Skye, though he hadn’t known her well. It’s that twinkle in her eyes, he decides, eyes that leave a mark on your skin, like they can see straight into your soul. He hopes she has found peace back in her homeland, and that Skye has with the French woman what he had had with Tom. Your gaydar is working, then, he hears Tom say, and suppresses a chuckle. He has never stopped speaking to him, not in all the years he’s been gone. Tom has stayed tethered to him, his spirit, if James believed in such a thing, refusing to move on.
He catches the eye of Peter’s wife as she strides past, her children filing silently behind her, and quickly drops his gaze. His cheeks burn as he remembers the last time he saw her, the way her face changed from he
r usual polite greeting to utter disgust, the letter shaking between her fingers. The letter Richard wrote, exposing his brother’s affair with his university friend, the man who has just led his funeral. Life is full of little ironies, he muses. Death, too.
His phone buzzes in his pocket; a text from Fiona. Please come. This is harder than I expected. He sighs, staring up at the blue-grey sky, listening to the low voices of the mourners filling the air around him. One last time, he thinks. One last time.
19
The Deceased
And just like that, Richard Asquith is left behind. He lies in his coffin awaiting the next – and final – chapter of his time on earth. If he were able, he might reflect on his life. He might think about the children he brought into this world, and the one he lost on a bright June day. He might think about the women he leaves behind; the first wife who can barely bring herself to speak his name; the second, who is enjoying her role as his widow more than she enjoyed being his wife; and the third, the one that never was, the one who would have seen him through his twilight years. Or so she hoped.
Eleanor was good to him, that much he knew. And he had appreciated her. He’d appreciated the way she would lay a cool hand on his cheek when he was stressed, her eyes twinkling as he relaxed in her arms. He’d appreciated how kind and loving she was, how easily she saw past his flaws. She was, he quickly realised, too good for him in so many ways, but this was not something he could have admitted to her. No, this was a private thought, often creeping up on him in the middle of the night, stealing into the bed between them, filling the air and his mind with his failings. With Eleanor, he was starting to develop a conscience. He was starting to see a different man in the mirror, one he hadn’t known existed, and it had scared him, the possibility that his new-found conscience could alter the course of his life.