The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  The Reverend Tinkler fell silent for a moment and looked at the congregation meaningfully. He then returned the two index cards to his pocket and announced that Katy Bowman was going to sing her grandfather’s favourite song.

  Katy jumped to her feet and stepped out to face the congregation. Jean nodded to The Reverend Tinkler and the minister pressed a button – evidently the wrong one, as the bamboo coffin containing Lyle’s body started to move in the direction of the oven. The Reverend quickly reversed its progress and then pressed the button he’d originally intended. Music started to play and Katy to sing: Oh baby, baby…

  Katy not only sang the words but danced to the music, sashaying suggestively from side to side and occasionally foraying up the central aisle.

  ‘I didn’t know Mr Bowman was a Britney Spears fan,’ Barry Turton whispered to his mother.

  ‘Neither did I, Barry,’ Mrs Turton said disapprovingly. ‘I think it’s more likely that this is one of Katy’s favourite songs. That girl is such a show off!’

  The same thought was running through The Reverend Tinkler’s mind. He’d had no idea that this was the song Katy had chosen to perform. He’d been expecting something more along the lines of ‘Grandad’, a song made famous when he and Joan were still a couple and the subject of children not yet broached. He was consequently relieved when Katy sang Hit me baby one more time for the last time.

  Katy returned to her seat frowning. ‘There was no applause, Mummy. No one clapped.’

  Jean explained that it wasn’t the custom for people to applaud in churches or crematoria, but assured her daughter that she’d sung the song beautifully. Once they returned home, she told Katy, they’d add her performance at the crematorium to her CV and give it a glowing review.

  The congregation bowed its head and The Reverend Tinkler led the mourners through a series of uneventful prayers. He then invited them to spend a brief moment remembering Lyle in ways more particular to themselves, and the chapel duly fell silent. No sooner had this period of quiet reflection commenced, however, than it was rudely interrupted by a loud squelching noise.

  Katy was the first to turn and see the man. He was tall and suntanned, with long blonde hair swept back from his eyes and wearing Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. She nudged her father. ‘What’s that surfer man doing here?’

  Billy turned and smiled. ‘That’s your Uncle Greg, Katy. I told you he’d be here!’

  It was the first time the two brothers had seen each other in seven years.

  Beech

  The Beech Hotel was located five miles from the crematorium, close to the moors. Although the establishment had six bedrooms, the last overnight guest had paid his bill more than three years ago and the hotel now made its living from weekend carveries and catering private functions. A banner hung from the outside wall advising people to Book Early for Christmas. The month was July.

  Just after midday on this cold and rainy summer’s day, five cars crunched over the gravel of the Beech Hotel’s forecourt and came to a halt close to the entrance. Although the management had been asked to provide food for eighteen, in the event only eleven people climbed out of the cars: Billy, Jean and Katy Bowman, accompanied by Jean’s widowed mother, Betty Halliwell; Greg Bowman and Uncle Frank; Mrs Turton and Lyle’s oldest surviving friend, Syd Butterfield; Ian and Margaret Collard, neighbours of Mrs Turton, but no longer on speaking terms with her; and The Reverend Tinkler.

  While Billy went to speak with the manager, Greg made his way to the bar and ordered drinks for the mourners. He shivered. It was as cold inside the hotel as it was outside and, judging from the clunking noises coming from the radiators, it was clear that the heating had only just been turned on. He now regretted not wearing warmer clothes for the journey, but how was he to have known that the plane would suffer technical difficulties and make a forced landing in Iceland?

  And there, he surmised, was the probable location of his suitcase.

  Uncle Frank sidled up to him and tapped him on the forearm. ‘You look half-starved daft, lad,’ he said. ‘Buy yourself a brandy – that’ll warm you up. What are you getting me?’

  ‘Half a bitter – that’s what you usually drink, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, but today I’m drinking a pint,’ Uncle Frank replied. ‘I’ve just said goodbye to my brother.’

  Greg turned to the small man and smiled. ‘It’s good to see you again, Uncle Frank.’

  Uncle Frank noticed a glint when Greg turned to him and studied his nephew carefully. ‘What in God’s name is that thing in your ear – a ring?’

  ‘It’s a diamond stud,’ Greg replied. ‘Cyndi bought it for me.’

  ‘Hell’s bells, Greg. I never figured you for a big girl’s blouse!’

  Greg laughed. ‘Everyone’s wearing them these days, Uncle Frank. Even cowboys.’

  ‘Not real cowboys,’ Uncle Frank sneered. ‘All the real cowboys are dead.’

  ‘We can discuss that later,’ Greg said. ‘In the meantime, can you take this tray of drinks to Jean’s table: white wine for her and her mother, a pint for Billy, orange juices for Mrs Turton and Katy, and a dry sherry for The Reverend Tinkler.’

  Uncle Frank went off with the tray and the barman placed more drinks on the counter.

  ‘It was lager you asked for, wasn’t it?’ Greg called to Syd Butterfield.

  Syd came over to join him. ‘Please, Greg. Ask him to put a splash of lime in it, will you?’

  Syd was in his late seventies, as much hair growing from his ears and nostrils as there was from the top of his head. He was a tall man – taller than Greg – but had a thin frame and a stoop that made him appear smaller. He’d met Lyle at a refuse dump nearly twenty years earlier, and it was there that they’d struck up a friendship.

  Lyle had been struggling to lift an old television set from the boot of his car when Syd – who had just off-loaded eight bags of leylandii clippings – had offered his help. In the ensuing conversation it had become apparent that the two men had much in common: neither could understand why council employees – whose employment, after all, was dependent on the taxes they paid – were allowed to sit around smoking cigarettes and drinking mugs of tea when patrons of the dump were visibly in need of their help; and both, it turned out, had a keen interest in the music of Gilbert & Sullivan. Syd had even joined the local G&S Society and still appeared in amateur productions.

  ‘I read your first book,’ Syd said to Greg. ‘It was an impressive piece of research. Who’d have thought the US government would drop bombs on its own people – even though they were miners? I bet Arthur Scargill didn’t know that or he’d have milked it for all it was worth. Your dad and me weren’t happy when the miners in this country went on strike, but we never for a moment thought that the government should drop bombs on them!’

  He paused for a moment, sipping the pint that had been placed in front of him, and then pronounced it perfect.

  ‘Your dad liked the book too, but he thought you weren’t using the gerund properly. I’ve never understood the rule myself so I can’t comment, but it certainly didn’t spoil the writing for me. Very fluid. Of course, your dad believed that the only writer who ever did grasp the gerund was Charles Dickens, but I can’t say I’ve read any of his books – not since I left school, anyway. They’re too depressing for my liking, and when you’ve lost your wife to cancer they’re not the kind of books you want to read.’

  Greg was nodding in agreement when Billy interrupted the two men. ‘Sorry to cut in, Syd, but can I have a quick word with Greg?’

  ‘No problem, Billy,’ Syd said. ‘I’ll go and sit with the Collards. No one seems to be talking to them.’

  Billy waited while Syd left with his pint and then lowered his voice. ‘When it comes to the meal, Greg, can you take charge of one table and I’ll take charge of the other? Obviously, I’d have liked the two of us to
sit together on a day like today, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be possible…’ He looked around the room to make sure no one could overhear him and then continued.

  ‘Mrs Turton and the Collards haven’t spoken to each other for five years, and Mrs Turton says she’s not prepared to sit with them. And Jean’s mother can’t stand to be in the same room as Uncle Frank never mind sit at the same table. I think the safest thing is for me to have Jean, her mother, Katy, Mrs Turton and The Reverend Tinkler on my table, and for you to have Uncle Frank, Syd and the Collards on yours. That way it doesn’t look like we’re ignoring anyone. Is this okay with you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Greg said. ‘Do I need to start rounding people up?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Billy replied. ‘We’ve got another ten minutes before they start serving the tomato soup.’

  The mourners, apart from Uncle Frank and The Reverend Tinkler, had already split into the aforementioned groups of their own accord, and Greg went to sit with Syd and the Collards.

  ‘Margaret and I are very sorry about your dad, Greg,’ Ian Collard told him. ‘He was a real gentleman, one of the old school. We always said that, didn’t we, Margaret? Always said it was a pity more people weren’t like Mr Bowman. And your mother, she was a lovely lady too – such a beautiful smile.’

  Greg thanked them and took a sip of brandy.

  ‘You’ve learnt some fancy ways in America, haven’t you?’ Margaret said, indicating the brandy.

  ‘I’m not sure about that, Margaret. I’m just trying to get warm.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking you, Greg: why are you dressed like that?’ Ian asked.

  ‘My suitcase went missing,’ Greg answered. ‘The plane I was on developed a fault and had to be diverted to Iceland. They put everyone on a flight to Shannon and then on another one to Heathrow, and in the confusion some of the luggage went missing. That’s why I was late for the funeral. What did I miss, by the way? I haven’t had a chance to catch up with Billy.’

  ‘Well, Katy sang a lovely song…’ Margaret started to say.

  ‘I don’t think your dad would have liked it, Greg,’ Syd said, shaking his head. ‘It was one of those pop songs, and your dad hated pop songs. The girl would have done better singing something from The Pirates of Penzance or The Mikado. That would have been more to your dad’s liking.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Syd,’ Ian said. ‘If Mr Bowman was anything, he was a man of the old school. His radio was always tuned to either Radio 3 or Radio 4.’

  ‘And why the hell did they put him in a bamboo coffin?’ Syd asked. ‘I’m not sure your dad would have liked that. It’s not as if he was an environmentalist or anything.’

  ‘I have to agree with you there, Syd,’ Ian said. ‘Mr Bowman was a traditionalist.’

  ‘The Reverend Tinkler spoke well, though,’ Margaret Collard said. ‘I thought he really brought your father to life.’

  ‘He did,’ Syd agreed, ‘but what was all that stuff about cats and parrots? I never once heard Lyle mention either. Do you know anything about this, Greg?’

  ‘I know my mother didn’t like cats, but I can’t remember my father passing comment one way or another. As for parrots, I think that’s a question we’ll have to ask my uncle.’

  Uncle Frank was standing in the corner of the lounge talking animatedly with The Reverend Tinkler. The conversation had started innocently enough, but had then taken an unexpected turn.

  ‘So, Frank,’ the minister had started by saying, ‘I gather you’re the confirmed bachelor of the family.’

  ‘It’s not by choice, if that’s what you’re thinking, Reverend. By the way, what’s your first name? Can I call you by that?’

  ‘Of course you can, Frank – it’s Bill.’

  ‘Okay, Bill, going back to what we were saying. I’m a bachelor, yes; but I’m not a bachelor by choice. My hat’s always been in the ring, it’s just that no woman’s ever bothered to bend down and pick it up. I don’t think women find me all that attractive if you want to know the truth. Jean’s mother refers to me as a goblin – did you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, but I’m sure she means it as a term of endearment.’

  ‘When was the last time you ever heard goblin used as a term of endearment?’ Uncle Frank snorted. ‘What love letter has ever started with the words my dear goblin?’

  The Reverend Tinkler pretended to give the question some thought.

  ‘I’ll make it simple for you, Bill: if you were a woman, would you ask me out?’

  ‘That’s a difficult one, Frank,’ The Reverend Tinkler said. ‘A bit too hypothetical.’

  ‘Okay then, what if you were a shirt-lifter: one of those blokes who find other men attractive. Would you ask me out then?’

  The Reverend Tinkler placed a finger between his dog collar and neck and breathed deeply. Why, he wondered, had he ever started this conversation? All he’d been trying to do was be polite and engage in some light-hearted banter, and now he was being forced into an explanation of the church’s position on homosexuality which, to his way of thinking, appeared to change every second month of the year. It was at times like this that he wished he’d entered the priesthood. If nothing else, the Catholic Church had certainty.

  Fortunately, he was spared from having to give an exposition on the church’s current thinking by Greg, who arrived to tell them it was time to take their seats for lunch.

  ‘I’ll sit with you, Bill,’ Uncle Frank said.

  ‘The Reverend Tinkler’s sitting with Billy and Jean,’ Greg explained. ‘You’re with me.’

  ‘But I want to ask Bill about Noah’s Ark,’ Uncle Frank protested.

  ‘You can ask him later,’ Greg said. ‘There are a number of us here who want to ask you about parrots!’

  He then guided his uncle to the table where the Collards and Syd Butterfield were already sitting.

  It was a seating arrangement of in-crowds and out-crowds, and it was no surprise to Greg that he’d been placed on the latter table. He wondered for a moment if Billy had purposely exaggerated the disagreements in the room and that the real problem still rested with them – that this was the true reason they were sitting at different tables. There was, after all, no cause to believe that the silence of the last seven years had changed anything.

  ‘What were you talking to Uncle Frank about?’ Jean asked The Reverend Tinkler.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ The Reverend replied nonchalantly. ‘He’s quite a character, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s one way of describing him,’ Betty Halliwell chuntered.

  ‘Barry sends his apologies for not being here, Billy, but he had to pick Diane up from the hairdresser’s,’ Mrs Turton said. ‘He wondered about bringing her, but in the end decided against it. They’re both on diets, you see, and I’m afraid Diane doesn’t have much willpower.’

  Barry and his wife had been fat for as long as Billy could remember, and he was intrigued to know why they were now dieting.

  ‘Diane needs a new hip,’ Mrs Turton explained, ‘and the doctors say she has to lose weight before they operate. Barry’s just doing the diet to give her moral support.’ She turned to The Reverend Tinkler and clarified her statement. ‘Barry’s naturally big boned,’ she said.

  ‘That’s one way of describing him,’ Betty Halliwell thought.

  Mrs Turton then turned to Katy. ‘That was a beautiful song you sang at the service, dear. How long were you practising it?’

  ‘About three months,’ Katy said. ‘I was good, wasn’t I?’

  Betty Halliwell put an arm around her granddaughter and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You were wonderful, darling. One day you’re going to be a star.’

  ‘I know,’ Katy said. ‘And Mummy says I have to look beyond television.’

  ‘First things first,’ Billy advised. ‘First you have to do well at school and the
n go to university. If things don’t work out, you’ll need a good education to fall back on.’

  Katy looked at her father open-mouthed. ‘I’m not going to fail, Daddy! Failure’s not an option – is it, Mummy?’

  (Failure was always an option, Billy thought. Mindless repetition of a mantra learned at performance school couldn’t change that. The sooner his daughter came to terms with the idea, the better.)

  ‘No it’s not!’ Jean said. ‘Just because Daddy sells books for a living doesn’t mean that you can’t do something with your life.’

  Billy ignored the comment: he’d heard it all before.

  The Reverend Tinkler dipped a toe into the silence. ‘It was an interesting idea to place Lyle in a bamboo coffin,’ he said. ‘What made you think of that?’

  ‘That was my idea,’ Jean said. ‘I did it for the planet, Reverend, and I’m hoping that other people will follow my example. It’s no secret that the earth’s resources are finite, and it’s the duty of my generation to conserve them for future generations. I don’t want Katy growing up in a world without trees, and while mahogany – and probably oak now – are endangered species, bamboo is plentiful.’

  ‘It’s also cheap,’ Billy added, ‘and the difference between what we’d have paid for a traditional casket and what we paid for the bamboo casket is going towards a photocopier for Katy’s performance school. The principal’s agreed to put a plaque in memory of my father on the wall next to it.’

  ‘That’s very laudable,’ The Reverend Tinkler said admiringly. ‘It’s a pity more people don’t take recycling as seriously as you do.’

  ‘That bamboo wasn’t recycled, Reverend Tinkler. It was brand new!’ Jean said firmly. ‘Besides, Billy and I don’t recycle. We believe that’s the job of local government. We pay enough council tax as it is and we don’t see it as our responsibility to wash out cans and sort rubbish into containers.’

  ‘I don’t recycle either,’ Mrs Turton confessed. ‘I’ve heard they lump all the refuse together anyway – sorted and unsorted – and Barry says there are enough mountains of paper and plastic in the world already. To my way of thinking, it’s more important that we stamp out littering. If we can do that, then Barry says the crime rate will fall automatically. He’s always said that the basis of any ordered society is clean streets.’