by Adele Parks
'That's only in murders, Gran,' says Eddie. He's heard his gran's story twenty or so times already and he thinks it's about time he ought to inject a little sense into her ramblings. Mum looks at Eddie and feels an overwhelming love for the son of her son burn in the pit of her gut, so she lets him say the stuff everyone else is thinking and she doesn't take offence.
'Did you clear up the yogurt, Mum?' I ask, as I have every time she's repeated the story to friends and neighbours and wellwishers who have popped by.
'Yes, dear. Some had spilt on to your father's jumper so I gave that a little rub with a J-cloth. He wouldn't have liked people to see him that way.'
Besides the signing of the death certificate, which was in this case straightforward, there are innumerable decisions to be made around the funeral. Most of which have been discussed over the last five days, but nothing is finalized.
'We were waiting for you, dear. I knew you'd have strong views on how it should all be done,' says Mum, showing a confidence in me that I don't deserve.
I find I am called upon to have an opinion on flowers, readings, hymns and prayers. The fog of shock slowly dissipates and I accept that Dad is dead. He must be, because while he is all we talk about, he hasn't popped out of his study and asked me if I'm still keeping up with the story line on The Archers, as I keep expecting him to do. Mum is being phenomenally strong in front of friends and neighbours and keeps busy making endless cups of tea and finalizing the plans for the funeral on Monday. I fumble along next to her, a pale imitation. I offer tea but then forget to put the kettle on. I put biscuits on a plate but fail to pass them round.
Mum keeps turning to me and saying things like, 'Burial not cremation for your dad.' I nod and presume it was once discussed between them. We thought it best that we only have one wreath from us all. Your dad wouldn't have liked the money wasted on lots of flowers, would he? He liked to see flowers in a garden – growing.' Nod. We can ask people to make donations to a charity instead. That's what people do nowadays, isn't it?' And I nod again. Although I have no idea what Dad would have thought about his wreath or even what charity we are going to donate money to.
'Your dad would have wanted "The Lord is My Shepherd", wouldn't he?' I nod but I'm not sure. Maybe he would have liked to hear some Duke Ellington. For some reason I can't offer this view, even though Mum had been sure I'd have strong opinions on the arrangements. I sense that I'm letting her down. 'Most people know that one,' adds Mum. I suppose so.
'Your dad would have wanted a decent spread. Lots of prawns and generous cuts of meat. Maybe salmon, not just egg sandwiches.' I agree that much is true, I'm sure of it. I nod with a little more enthusiasm, glad to be on steady ground.
'When will you be going to see him?' she asks.
The ground trembles once more. What? While so far the arrangements for the funeral have not challenged me, this question stops me in my tracks. I hadn't thought of going to see Dad in the house of rest. The funeral director, with his large, clean and soft hands came to our home to finalize all the arrangements. I hadn't entertained the thought of visiting a funeral parlour until I was the one on the slab. Mum has visited Dad twice; she sees these few days before the funeral as her last few with him. I think she'd like to stay suspended in this state of uncertainty for as long as possible. If there was a way of embalming his body and visiting him on a daily basis until the end of her days, she would do it. It crosses my mind that she'd have made a good wife for a jailbird. I, however, am counting the hours until Dad is in the ground. I'm cold and numb and need to feel something other than nothing. Since the first day I arrived here I haven't cried. I wanted to be dignified and grown-up, so for twenty-four hours I fought the tears and now they won't come at all. I'm weirdly looking forward to the funeral. I need to cry. I want to get it over with.
'I find it very comforting. Talking to him as he lies there. It's not that different from when he was alive, just a little quieter,' says Mum. She smiles at her own attempt at a joke.
'What do you talk to him about?' I ask.
'You, Max, Thomas, the grandkids.'
'Well, I'm sure you've given him all the news, Mum. I'm not sure I need to go,' I reply weakly.
'I tell him what I know, Elizabeth,' says Mum, and then she stares at me for an uncomfortably long time. 'That's the most I can do.'
64
2 June
Everyone you'd expect is there except him, and yet my father has never been more present.
The funeral takes place on an average British summer's day, that is to say it's overcast and a bit chilly but at least it's not raining.
I was overwhelmed with relief and gratitude when Roberto called to say he would be flying in for the funeral. Our conversation was brief and perfunctory but I was not expecting it to be anything more. In light of Chuck's recent behaviour Roberto's commitment to doing the right thing seems magnificent. Chuck clearly intends to give me quite a lot of space. I've heard nothing from him. I realize that since I've destroyed my mobile the only way he could get hold of me is to get my mother's telephone number. He'd have to ask Roberto or Paolina for it. Quite an ask, I admit. Too much of an ask, clearly. I thrash between fury, sadness and despair. I'm bewildered as to why Chuck has decided to treat me with such cold and final indifference.
'Thank you, Roberto, it will mean a lot to my mum and it would have meant a lot to my dad.'
It also means a lot to me. If Roberto had failed to materialize at the funeral, questions would have been asked and I'm not ready to give any answers yet. I know that we are over but I'm not prepared to break the news to Mum at the moment. She's going to be angry and disappointed and sad too, no doubt. She has enough to deal with right now.
'Your father was always a gentleman,' said Roberto. 'I want to buy my respects.'
'Pay,' I corrected him. Many people have said the same thing; my father was esteemed and cherished.
'I won't be able to stay though. I'll fly back the same day I arrive,' Roberto added. And for that I'm even more grateful to him. I could not have stood the pretence of us sharing a bed.
Roberto times his arrival so that he doesn't have to linger in our kitchen all morning. He appears from nowhere, at just the correct moment, and seamlessly slips into the funeral car with Mum and me so we can travel to the church together. Max and Thomas are travelling in another car each, with their wives and kids. I smile thankfully at Roberto. He looks handsome and composed in his black Armani suit, and his fine-looking male presence is required in our car; alone, Mum and I look fragile. Roberto holds Mum's arm as she walks up the aisle towards the enormous mahogany box which stores Dad. This is thoughtful of him; she needs him more than I do. During the service he squeezes my hand, once, briefly but meaningfully, and I squeeze his back. I wonder what he feels standing in the church where we married. I feel nothing in relation to us; all my thoughts are on Dad.
The funeral is all one can hope a funeral to be. The service is relevant and not too long. My parents are churchgoers, so the Vicar can speak with confidence about the achievements and character of Ernest Gardiner. The mood is dignified but not at all despairing. Thomas reads from the Bible, as it's been agreed that my father would not have approved of anything modern, like a poem. Although I wondered if he would have liked to hear some Wordsworth or even Blake; uncertain, I never voiced my thought. I wish I'd known him better. I should have known him better. The church is packed, and as my eyes sweep over the rows of earnest and sombre faces, I recognize a few. The headmaster from my old school, some buddies of Dad's who have been dotted around our home since time began, Charlie Rotheroe, the guy who runs the garden centre where Dad used to potter, Mr Walker from the newsagent's. My parents, having lived in the same area forever, have many friends and a surprisingly active social life.
Afterwards, at the hotel where we are having the refreshments, I'm introduced to dozens of people from the golf, cinema and bridge club. Someone from the neighbourhood watch group says what a marvellous and committe
d chairman he was. Someone else from the local Rainbow Club thanks me because my father had driven disabled kids to and from the library every week for twenty years. I'd forgotten he did that. He never made much of a deal out of his voluntary work. I shake hands with countless smiling wellwishers who insist that I must keep in touch, who are assured I'm proud of him, who remind me that he had a good life. I try and fail to commit names to faces. I drink three glasses of sherry which grate in my throat and I am unsuccessful in getting a bite to my lips despite the wonderful 'spread' my Mum has ordered. I stay dry-eyed. Most do. Everyone agrees that he did have a good innings, and I haven't the energy to challenge anyone that I wanted him to have even more than that.
After about the millionth clammy handshake at the reception I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to escape the crowds. I slip out of the patio doors into the green and calming outdoors. The hotel garden is in full bloom. Pink and peach roses coyly dance in front of me. Their petals are wet and I'm unsure if it's rained or if there is a sprinkler system. I bury my nose into one of the flowerheads and take a deep breath in. I can smell my father. Or at least I am reminded of him; he was a fanatical and skilled gardener and the smell of roses on a summer wind will always belong to him. As will the smell of Imperial Leather soap, shoe polish and Vick's chest rub.
'Hello.'
'Ciao, Roberto.' I turn to face him.
'How are you?'
'Let's just say that if I smoked this is when I'd need a cigarette break.'
He nods but looks uncertain. I doubt he understands why I'm weary of the wellwishers.
'Your father had many friends.'
'Yes. I don't know any of them well.'
'Still, a popular man. You must be proud.'
'I'm sad,' I say simply and sullenly. I haven't the vigour to appear reassured by platitudes.
Roberto shifts from foot to foot, awkward and clueless.
'I have to catch the plane home in three hours.'
'Yes.'
'Paolina sent her love. Everyone sent their condolences.'
'Thank you.' I can't envisage Raffaella sending good wishes but I'm concentrating on being polite and detached and so don't bother to say so.
I want to ask him about Chuck. But what's the etiquette? How can I ask my husband if he's had any word from my lover? Ex-lover. I know it's pointless and imbecilic of me but I long for Chuck's big, calm presence. I think that it is the only thing that has even the slightest chance of making me feel in the least bit better. Not the presence of the sender of heartless texts Chuck, the other Chuck. The supportive and sexy Chuck. Where has he gone? How is it possible that he vanished in an instant? I sigh. I have to harden my heart. The point is he has vanished. It's just one more thing that I don't quite understand. One more thing that seems unfair.
'I have to go back. You understand. The bar, my mamma.' If Roberto means Ana-Maria he has the decency not to say so.
'I have to stay,' I say simply.
'I realize. You need to help your mother.'
'I need to help myself too.'
Roberto looks chastised. He takes a deep breath and then bravely grasps the nettle. 'The baby-trying killed us.'
'No. No,' I mutter, although I know he might be right.
'It did. You know it,' he says firmly. Roberto walks towards me and takes hold of one of my hands. I ought to pull away from him. His deceitful touch ought to burn and offend but it doesn't; it feels familiar and comfortable. I leave my freckled hand in his large brown paw. He kisses my fingers. The kisses are not amorous; his is the most sorrowful gesture I've ever experienced, and considering I'm at my father's funeral that is saying something.
'Timetables and herbs. Sticks in the bathroom that you pee on.' Roberto shakes his head. 'It is not how I want my love.'
I feel a fat tear betray me by sliding down my cheek. I don't move to rub it away because I don't want to draw attention to it. I will the tear to evaporate and not shame me. The last thing I want now is Roberto feeling sorry for me. I feel sorry enough.
'Plus after some time, I realized that I did not want it as much as you. I did not want a bambino above everything else. And that got me thinking about us. Many times you muttered in your sleep and I feel sorry for your loneliness. The guilt was extraordinary. I came to wonder if we could ever be happy. I hoped we could be. That's why I wanted a clear start in Italy, but it quickly became apparent to me there that if I did not give you a bambino you would never see me as a whole man. I would never be enough for you.'
'And you are enough for Ana-Maria?' My comment is petty and jealous, but I feel irate and deceived that Roberto is blaming our marriage breakdown on our poor unborn babies. Surely the fact that he and his ex have been shagging one another senseless for God knows how long is a contributing factor.
'Ana-Maria would love me with or without babies. You can't say the same.'
'I—' The word 'can' is strangled in my throat. No, I can't say the same. Poor Roberto. Poor me.
I let my hand slip from his grip. It's easier than I imagined.
'I'll call you. There is much to discuss.'
Roberto means there are practicalities to settle – the sale of the flat, a divorce, telling our families. He does not mean we have a reconciliation to discuss. Neither of us has the energy or the inclination to try for that. Our marriage slithers from my grasp. I feel like I'm standing on wet sand and the tide is coming in. With each crashing wave I lose my footing and I'm stumbling. I'm not sure if I can remain upright but I have to because if I fall, I'll drown.
65
20 June
Alison lands on my mum's doorstep although I didn't invite her. She's angry with me, which I mind less than I would normally, because I'm angry with myself too and I think she has a point.
'Why the hell didn't you call?'
She pulls me into a tight hug but I can still feel her fury throb through her jacket. It puts me in mind of the hug Mum gave me when as a seven-year-old I disappeared to a friend's house for three hours without telling her. When she found me she was torn between relief and rage. She grasped me into such a tight hug she left marks on my chubby, childish upper arms. When Alison releases me I want to check for light bruises.
'Why didn't you call me and tell me your dad had died?'
'I broke my mobile.'
'So why didn't you use a landline?' she asks in an accusing tone.
I shrug and avoid answering by asking, 'Who did call you?'
'Roberto.'
Recently Roberto has been eclipsed by thoughts of my dad and Chuck; his name said aloud in Mum's hallway seems alien. I stare at Alison to try and compute that I'm still someone's wife, albeit someone's estranged, soon-to-be-ex, wife. I've moved on from Roberto but since I've moved on to two men that have also gone from my life, it doesn't feel much like progress.
'He's worried about you.'
'Who is?' I ask, as a moment of hope flickers somewhere it shouldn't.
'Roberto.' Alison can't keep the exasperation from her voice. Of course, how would Alison know if Chuck was worried about me? A ridiculous notion. I shouldn't have entertained it for even a nanosecond. 'Then I called your mum and she's worried about you too –' Alison takes a sweeping head-to-toe glance of me – 'and judging from your current sartorial elegance they have every right to be worried.'
I am wearing my pyjamas although it's nearly noon and I'm wearing a dark brown robe that belongs to my mum. It's damned ugly at the best of times, and as I've customized it with innumerable splodges and stains (mostly from sloppy food like Weetabix) it's safe to say this isn't the best of times. I haven't brushed my teeth this morning and I haven't brushed my hair since I washed it last, which was – oh, I don't know when. A week ago? Ten days ago.
After the funeral everyone went home, glad to rush back to their lives full of washing loads and electricity bills, because there's nothing like a funeral to help you appreciate the tiresome normality of the life you live. It was assumed by everyone, from my brothers to
Charlie Rotheroe, the guy who runs the garden centre, that I'd keep Mum company in these her darkest hours. As the only daughter, with no career and no children, I am perfectly placed to devote myself to comforting her. Even I can see the logic behind the supposition.
I've failed miserably.
I am unable to muster the necessary 'life goes on' attitude that I know is required. Because does it? Will mine? I can see that Max's and Thomas's lives may go on; they have children and spouses to run through their homes and their veins like the lifeblood they are. But I haven't got that sort of comfort and nor does Mum. I look at Mum and can't believe anything other than that the best years of her life are over. She's had the era that was full of noise and vibrancy, love and joy. Her youth once teemed with timetables and rotas and small imperative demands that she had to meet. She's guided her children through school and music practice, she's listened to their faltering voices piecing together vowel sounds until they were skilled enough to read complex medical journals and the FT (at least, until Max and Thomas could do that – she might be waiting a little longer if she's hoping for the same thing from me). Slight, pretty and hopeful, she's glided up the aisle to take her handsome beau and then five decades later she's eased up the same aisle, drenched in sadness, to bid farewell to his huge, familiar mass.
What words can I offer my mum as comfort? The best is past, and I know it to be so with a cold and concrete conviction because we are the same. I can't see a future for me either. After years of planning, predicting, hoping and longing, I now realize that I am more like my mother than my brothers. Our similarities depress and shame me but I cannot be false enough with either her or myself to pretend that the future is anything other than austere.