by Carla Blake
I can grieve, Katherine tells her. I can do that.
Yes you can, Alex replies, but for how long love? It’s been weeks. Are you still going to be sitting there crying in three months? Or a year? Life goes on. You need to go with it. Eat something. Get your strength back. Get back to work. Honor Hannah that way. Make her proud of you. Let her see you can still do it.
I don’t want to do it. Katherine cries. I don’t want to go back to work or put on a bloody brave face! I just want Hannah back!
But you can’t have her! Alex says, a hand on each of Katherine’s shoulders. Gently, she shakes her, forcing Katherine to look into her brown eyes, full of spirit and determination. She is so desperate to make her see.
Hannah is dead! She reminds her again. She’s gone! You, though, you’re still alive and one day you will climb out of this hole and think back on your life with Hannah and do nothing but smile at all the dumb ass things you used to do together. But right now, you have to fight. I know you want to sit there and wallow, fuck I would too, but you can’t! Do you hear me Katherine? You need to get off your ass and get back to work. The magazine won’t run itself forever, and that bitch Claire Swallows is already sniffing around. She wants your job Katherine, she wants your magazine and if she gets it, both you and I can kiss goodbye to everything we’ve worked so fucking hard for. So get up Katherine. Please!
Katherine had got up. Showered, dressed. Eaten toast that had tasted like Weetabix without the milk, drunk coffee too old to taste of anything and gone back to work.
But she had done nothing. Her office felt wrong. Familiar but distorted, as if someone had pushed all the walls back by a good four feet and then given them a slight twist. And someone - Alex? - had removed the photo of her and Hannah that had sat on her desk and she’d spent the next ten minutes frantically searching for it in tears before finding it in her desk drawer.
Outside the sun had shone, but even standing at the huge, plate glass windows, with her hand held directly in the sunlight, she couldn’t feel it. Her life was empty. A giant vacuum, devoid of even the smallest pleasure.
She wished she could die.
Sitting in her white, leather chair, she’d even contemplated ways she could do it.
Throwing herself from the window was out. Simply because the windows didn’t open. It was all air conditioning these days. Fresh air considered far too great a risk to the delicate fabrics that swept though her office in waves of gossamer fantasy.
Pills were another option, but she figured she was far more likely to throw up than overdose and besides, she wanted to die quickly, not suffer a long, slow lingering death whilst her internal organs argued over which one was going to pack up first.
She didn’t fancy hanging either, again, too slow and drowning in the murky waters of the Thames was too revolting even if she was trying to kill herself.
Maybe she could go like Hannah then. Slammed into by a 4x4 driven at speed by a grinning bitch in a fucking tracksuit!
The thought of Susan Barrow was the only thing that had the capacity to cut through her grief. The miserable, fucking bitch!
She’d been drinking. Laughing it up with her foul mates in one of the bars along the South Bank. Celebrating, she’d told the judge, her 30th birthday. They’d all had too much to drink, it weren’t just her, and it were her fuckin’ birthday weren’t it? ( the woman couldn’t even speak properly), so she was entitled to a drink or two. She wasn’t to know the dozy cow was gonna step out into the road. She should have used the fuckin’ crossin’.
On it had gone. Hannah was dead, crushed to bits by bull bars and a drunken bitch behind the wheel, yet still Barrow had had the audacity to plead her case. To argue that Hannah, her precious Hannah had been the one at fault and not herself.
The crossing had been right there, Barrow had cited, not three, bloody miles away! If the stupid cow had used that, she’d still be here. It wasn’t her fault she was dead!
And the judge had agreed, the stupid bastard. Bringing his gavel down, he’d announced Susan Barrow be found guilty of dangerous driving under the influence of alcohol, and not murder and thus sentenced her to just four years in prison.
Susan had smiled at Katherine as she’d been taken away. Blown her a kiss. Winked.
Katherine had wanted to kill her. She still did.
The funeral was bad.
And had taken place in April. The beginning of a Spring just starting to cut through the barrenness of winter to push up bulbs and encourage the weeds! A Spring, that Hannah, just hours before on that fateful day, had been cutting the grass at the small ground floor apartment they shared in Kent. It was a job Hannah loved. A job she always insisted she do, whilst Katherine weeded - like heck, Katherine thought- but she couldn’t get out of it. And today was the first cut of the year. Blades raised high on the mower so as not to rip the grass from the roots, a steaming cup of tea waiting for her on the damp, mould spotted table on the patio. The sun straining to cut through the thin cloud.
Everything as it should be.
Except now Hannah is dead.
The grass at the crematorium cut as neat as if Hannah had done it herself. The gravel path surrounding the squat building, with its designated areas for flowers and its stomach churning finality, dotted with friends and family and work colleagues from the restaurant, “Flavor” where Hannah had worked as Sou chef.
She’ll be missed, she hears them say, she was such a great talent. Had such a fine touch with pastry. How can she be dead? It will be impossible to replace her.
It will, Katherine thinks, her hand clutching a damp tissue torn to shreds by her restless fingers. She’s not sure about the restaurant, but she knows she hasn’t got a clue how she’s going to manage without her, and there’s Hannah’s favourite Aunt Helen, the one who always used to buy her fresh cream cakes for tea when Hannah was little and let her drink cola until she was as high as a kite. Helen looks strained today, dressed in the required black dress, black coat, hat with veil. She’s wearing the whole nine yards as she leans into her husband Trevor, Hannah’s favourite Uncle, ( Hannah never would let on why he was favourite, although Katherine always assumed it had something to do with the motorbike he kept in his garage), in his dark suit, matching shoes and grey expression, hanging onto his wife to keep her upright, his red, tear stained eyes searching for a comforting face and finding Katherine’s. His mouth trying for a smile, but managing nothing but a bloodless line across the bottom half of his face. He waves, a raising of his fingers at the side of his wife’s back. A gesture Katherine finds it impossible to return.
Instead, she turns and walks away towards the rose garden, her cold hands buried deep inside the pockets of her coat. There is another tissue in the right hand one, equally as ruined as the one still held in her fist and with her finger she stuffs it in the corner, out of the way. She has others in her handbag, a whole packet of them, but she doubts if any of them will go home the way they arrived.
The roses planted in the garden are not in bloom yet, though there are a few buds struggling to break through at the top of green stalks. The ground looks very dark. She reads a few of the plaques standing in the soil ‘ Loving wife’, ‘Cherished husband.’ ‘ Dearly missed.’
So few words for a lifetime of living.
A voice says her name, quietly and respectfully and she turns to see Graham Downing, the head chef at “ Flavor”. He is standing a few feet away and like everyone else, is wearing a dark suit, except he has a single red carnation tucked into his buttonhole, a startlingly bright contrast to the myriad of gloom.
As he approaches, Katherine notices that he has started to go grey, despite only being in his thirties and today his shoulders are stooped, taking inches off his usual confident frame. He asks her how she’s doing then tells her the hearse is minutes away. He wonders if she would she like to stand with him? Would i
t help if he held her arm?
Katherine nods her consent and he leads her back to the dreadful building. Her eyes flicker upwards and she reads the plaque on the wall of the chapel. Opened by the Mayor in September 1979, it declares. She wonders why they felt the need to commemorate that?
Another, smaller notice further down reminds her to please turn off her mobile during the service.
The mourners have gathered in a knot. Their faces are creased with sorrow and the inevitability of what is to come. The vicar appears at the doorway, white robe crisp against the early blue of a Spring sky. He nods at those before him and shakes the hand of a few. In his hand he carries a black covered Bible and the air of someone who has done this many times before but still feels for those waiting on the gravel path for the hearse to arrive.
There is a crunch of tires and an automatic stiffening of shoulders. Heads turn to watch the slow progress of the long, dark car loaded with the deceased and their family.
Katherine turns too but can hardly bear to look at the coffin. It is surrounded by a dozen wreaths. A dozen broken hearts. She holds onto Graham’s hand and blinks back tears, determined not to cry and wondering why she feels the need to hold it in.
Hannah’s family climb out of the second car. Her mother, father, little brother Stuart are all in tears, too grief stricken to look anywhere else but at the coffin holding their daughter and sister. The undertakers converge to lift it out, gently and carefully.
It looks too small, too narrow to be holding a fully grown adult.
Stuart takes the front corner and Hannah’s father takes the other side. Derek, Hannah’s boss at the restaurant takes his place behind him.
Then Hannah’s mothers is at her side. Would Katherine like to carry her daughter, she asks? It would mean a lot to her and Hannah’s father if she would and Hannah would have liked it.
Katherine lets go of Graham’s hand and reaches for the side of the coffin. The balance shifts as she takes her place and for a moment she thinks the men are being kind and saving her from the weight of her beloved girlfriend, but then she realizes they wouldn’t be so insensitive and she briefly closes her eyes, wondering why Hannah feels as light as a feather now she is gone. Two undertakers take a firm grip on the last two corners and they are ready to go in.
Music is playing as they enter the chapel. It is one of Hannah’s favourite tunes, and Katherine tries to block the sound from her ears and from her heart as she concentrates on carrying her beloved to the front of the alter.
The service begins but she doesn’t take much of it in. She knows several of Hannah’s friends and colleagues get up to speak but their words drift through her head like trails of smoke, and afterwards, she cannot recall a single word.
Her eyes, however, never leave the coffin and by the end of the service, she knows every inch of the pretty, red-ish coloured wood now holding her beloved Hannah. Hannah’s parents chose it. She picked the clothes Hannah would wear to be locked inside it. Her favourite jeans. The yellow top. Socks. Trainers. Underwear. There is a picture of her and Hannah tucked into the pocket of her jeans and a single, dried rose petal she kept from the first bunch Hannah ever gave her. There are other pictures and mementoes as well, tucked beneath her hands by friends and relatives; small reminders of how much she was loved, cherished. Missed.
Graham sits beside her, as good as his word, and regularly squeezes her hand. She wishes he wouldn’t, she doesn’t want him to feel the soggy tissue squashed between her fingers, but she doesn’t pull away. She is crying now, swollen tears streaming unchecked down her face and she realizes it is the music that is doing it. They are playing ‘ Fix you’ by Coldplay, Hannah’s favourite band and she can hardly bear to listen.
Graham hugs her shoulder. He is crying now as well. Big, fat man tears that drip off the end of his chin to stain the jacket of his suit.
Digging in her handbag, Katherine hands him a clean, dry tissue and he takes it with a small nod. He blows his nose as quietly as he is able them smiles sheepishly in her direction. It’s not manly for a chap to cry is it?
She tells him not to be so silly.
They are filing out now. Hannah’s parents and brother leading the way. They walk side by side, looking small and beaten. Stuart’s forehead is creased with sorrow as though he is trying to work out how his big sister can be lying there dead while he is still alive. They pass the coffin, now safe behind a decorative, iron gate and wave a last goodbye. The sob that escapes Hannah’s mother would break even the coldest heart.
Katherine gets to her own feet and Graham goes to take her hand, but this time she pulls away with a small smile. I’ll be okay, she mouths and he lets her go.
She walks to the front of the chapel and closes her hand around the iron gates. The metal is cold to the touch and twisted into a decorative spiral. The coffin holding her beloved girlfriend is too far away for her to reach out and touch.
Her mind fills with the smirking, triumphant image of Susan Barrow and her hand tightens its grip. The fury overwhelms her and she wishes she could lash out and hurt her. Hurt her in the same way she was hurt by her. Instead, all she can do is gaze at the coffin one, last time and force her hand to relinquish its hold.
Hannah, she whispers. I love you.
Outside, the mourners sniff and cry and dab at red eyes as they wander amongst the flowers, reading the cards and hugging each other. Hannah’s favourite Aunt Helen and Uncle Trevor look white with grief, whilst Hannah’s parents stand close together, trying to be brave for those who come up to them and say how sorry they are. There are long moments of quiet talk and shuffling feet whilst grief, like an invisible wrath, moves amongst the mourners, pressing hard on their shoulders to remind them how short life is and how it might be them next time. Katherine wants to scream with the awfulness of it all
But then someone says something funny and someone else laughs and it is as if a great hand has come down and scooped away some of the misery, and for a moment it’s okay to breath again and look up at this brilliant crisp, blue sky and remember that there are reasons to carry on beyond this place of mourning.
Except for Katherine. She cannot stand it. How can they laugh? She screams to herself. How can they? Hannah is dead. Her Hannah is dead. How the fuck can they laugh?
She walks away, past Graham and Derek. Past a group of girls she vaguely recognizes as having gone to school with Hannah and who now stand around with smeared mascara. Past neighbours and friends and the odd bloke from down the street who always stopped Hannah to ask if she wanted an apple from his garden despite the fact he didn’t even have a tree, let alone an apple.
She passes the hearse and the undertakers, who nod their heads respectfully and watch her as she wanders back into the rose garden and over towards a bench standing beneath a giant Yew.
She sits carefully, mindful of creasing her coat, then berates herself for caring about a thing like that on a day like this.
It is quieter here and she raises her head to the sky, peering through budding branches at little patches of pale blue sky. A bird suddenly breaks into song and the sound is enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes.
Crossing her ankles, she stares at her feet and sits hunched inside her coat. Her hands, once more, are buried deep inside her pockets. She knows she is expected at the wake, but she doesn’t want to go. The thought of being inside Hannah’s parents house, where Hannah grew up, is almost too awful to contemplate.
Hannah, she whispers again and holds her breath in the hope of some return, but there is nothing. Only the faint sound of voices drifting over from the chapel, the bird, lonely in his tree top Eyre and her heart, beating for no good reason anymore.
What am I going to do without you?
Graham eventually comes to find her. He is still tall and stiff in his formal suit, and his red carnation seems wilted in its buttonhole as th
ough the process of grieving has leeched it of its colour. He stands before with his hands buried in his trouser pockets and self consciously clears his throat. “We thought you might like to come back to the house.” He says simply, staring at the tree she is sitting beneath. “Would you like me to drive you?”
“I don’t want to go.”
She feels rather than sees his eyebrow raise. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“Then would you like me to sit with you for a while? I don’t mind. Derek can represent the restaurant. They won’t miss me.”
She looks at him then, the ends of her eyelashes holding pearls of moisture. “I’d rather be alone.” She says, her mouth curling into a smile she can only manage because she’s done it so many times before. “You go if you want to. I’ll be alright here.”
Graham drags a hand out of his pocket and puts it on her shoulder. She can feel his fingers firm through her coat. He squeezes and she thinks of all the loaves of bread that hand has kneaded. All the vegetables it has sliced and diced and cut into shapes a vegetable was never intended to be.
Another smile and Graham removes his hand, buries it again and nods his head. “Ok.” He says, “if you’re sure. But will you call me though, if you need anything. Not sure how much help I’ll be, but you know..”
He lets the sentence trail off and then turns to leave. He doesn’t look back to see if she has changed her mind and for that Katherine is grateful.
After a little while, the sound of cars starting up over confirms that Hannah’s mourners are finally drifting away. She thinks of the wreaths, left lying behind and wonders how long it will be before the undertakers remove them and toss them onto the compost she spotted on her way in. She wonders where Hannah is now and whether they have cremated her yet? Do they wait until the last mourner has gone? What do they do?