“What — right now? Just like that? You really want me to go without — without a proper goodbye?”
“I’d like you to go right now. Quickly, please. I’m going to go and have a shower, and when I come out, please — just don’t be here. I’m not going to say goodbye. I can’t bear it.”
Jay took her face between his hands and gazed at her for a long moment, then kissed her gently on the lips. “If that’s what you want. I guess the very least I can do is to do this the way you want.”
“I don’t want any of this,” Alice said, fighting back more tears, “but I can’t think of any other way.”
And that was how they had done it — the clean break. Afterwards, Alice wondered whether they should have managed it differently; whether she should have seen Jay to the door, or at least waited until he’d gone before she had her shower. But the idea of watching his departure — of waving him off, seeing him drive away down the road — would have been even worse than returning from the bathroom to the empty bedroom and the rumpled sheets and the smell of him lingering on the pillow.
Trot had guessed what had happened and was being very supportive — in some ways, a little too supportive.
Ever since they had been to bed together, he had assumed a different relationship between them. He had taken to phoning more often, and not just to speak to Finn, and had even suggested a weekend away together.
“It was fun, wasn’t it, Alice? You enjoyed it? Why not a repeat performance?”
“That’s hardly a romantic way of putting it,” Alice had told him.
“No. But you know what I mean.”
“Trot, we’ve slept together twice. Just twice. I have no recollection of the first time, and my memory of the second is pretty hazy.”
“Then let me refresh it,” Trot said.
“No, Trot. Maybe one day, but not now. Not yet. I’m not —”
“Ready?”
“Yes. That last time was — fine. Perhaps even what I needed. And I really value your friendship. But I love Jay. I think perhaps I’ll always love him. Not seeing someone doesn’t stop you from loving them. I only wish it did. Things would be so much easier.”
Trot sighed. “Such a shame. You’ve got a beautiful body, Alice.”
“Thank you, kind sir. But that’s hardly a basis for relationship.”
“Maybe not. But it’s a start.”
But Alice wasn’t ready for a new start of any kind. She needed time to herself, to lick her emotional wounds and to grieve both for what had been and for what could never be. Trot could — and did — continue to be a good friend; someone who understood the situation and someone she could talk to. But that was all. Maybe one day — who could tell? — there might be a future for them together, but Alice would rather be on her own than settle for second best. Besides, Trot was still determined to have his gap year, with or without Finn, and Alice doubted whether she was sufficiently important to him to be allowed to get in the way of his plans.
Alice and Gabs had been doing a lot of rallying round since Maudie’s death, for Mavis really didn’t seem to have anyone else. There had been vague talk of distant relatives who might or might not come to the funeral, but otherwise Mavis seemed very isolated. Alice was grateful to be able to concentrate on someone else’s problems for a change, but she did wonder how anyone as basically nice as Mavis could find herself so alone, and she privately blamed Clifford. It seemed that Clifford had stolen not only Mavis’s body, but her whole life as well. At least Alice had never allowed Jay to do that (to be fair, he would never have wanted her to). And she had Finn as well as her many friends. In that, compared with Mavis, she could count herself lucky.
It had been agreed that Alice would drive Mavis to the funeral. Mavis had said that she didn’t fancy travelling in “one of those big black shiny things,” and Alice had sympathised. Once — only once — she had had to travel in one herself, on the occasion of her father’s funeral, and it had struck her as particularly cruel that at a time of such distress, one should have to parade one’s grief so publicly. People in the street had stopped and stared as the cortège made its stately progress through the town, and one old man had removed his cap and bowed his head in respect. She agreed with Mavis that the anonymity of an ordinary car was far better, and Alice’s car was nothing if not ordinary. Gabs had offered hers, but even she had understood that if Mavis wished to be inconspicuous, a bright pink mini was not the answer.
Mavis was much exercised over the matter of the food for “afterwards”.
“Mother always said there should be ‘funeral meats,’” she said. “What are funeral meats?”
“I’ve no idea,” Alice said.
“Do you think ham sandwiches would do?”
“I think ham sandwiches would be fine.” After all, it was a funeral, and ham was meat. “I’ll do them if you like. And egg and cress. They usually go down well.” Alice herself was of the view that cress was tickly and tasteless and served no useful purpose except, perhaps, when grown by children on blotting paper for fun, but most people seemed to like it.
“Oh, would you?”
“Of course. How any people are you expecting?”
“Well, that’s the trouble; I’ve no idea. Mother did have a lot of friends, but many of them have died, and those that are left are old and pretty frail. I’m not sure they’ll want to turn out in this cold.”
“Never mind,” Alice said. “Finn will hoover up any leftovers.”
“I’ll make a cake,” Mavis said. “Or do you think little cakes would be better?”
“Funeral fancies,” murmured Gabs, “or perhaps coffin and walnut?” But fortunately Mavis was out of earshot.
Gabs herself was bringing wine.
“Wouldn’t tea be more suitable?” Mavis had asked.
“Tea and wine. In this weather, we’re going to need it,” said Gabs. “Don’t worry. My treat.”
Alice could see that Mavis was puzzled at the idea of alcohol at a funeral being a treat, but on this occasion, she was with Gabs. She reckoned that by the time Maudie was safely interred, they would all need something stronger than tea.
Now, getting ready to go, Alice wondered whether she should have bought something black. Mavis was quite conventional, and she had forgotten to ask what would be appropriate. The nearest she had was a dark navy coat, so that would have to do. She had always wondered that the characters in television soap operas, many of whom were supposed to be strapped for cash, invariably turned out to funerals kitted out from head to foot in black — shoes, hat, the lot. She found an old pair of black boots at the back of her wardrobe and dusted them off.
Finn was wearing his suit. It had been bought for a wedding a year ago, and he appeared to have grown several inches since.
“Oh dear,” Alice said, looking him over and tweaking a cuff. “You’ve grown.”
“Yeah.” Finn grinned. “That’s what kids do. We grow. I told you you should have let me wear jeans.”
“Perhaps we should have borrowed one from Trot.”
“Trot hasn’t got a suit. He doesn’t believe in them.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Well, you’ll have to do, I’m afraid. But you can’t wear those trainers.”
“I’ve only got my school shoes. I can’t wear those!”
“Oh yes, you can.”
“But, Mum —”
“Finn, shut up and do as you’re told. I’m tired, and we’re going to be late. I haven’t got time to argue.”
Gabs avoided funerals. They always reminded her of her mother’s funeral — of her thirteen-year-old self sobbing at the graveside, fearing for her beloved mum in that cold, dark earth, and fearing even more a future without her. Her father had been so drunk he had had to be half carried from the churchyard, and she and Steph had clung to each other like the Babes in the Wood.
“What’ll we do?” she had whispered to her sister on the journey home. “What’ll become of us?”
“We’l
l survive,” Steph had told her. “That’s what we have to do. And we’ll look after each other.”
They had been doing just that more or less ever since. Their father had become drunker (how dare he drown sorrows that she knew to be no more than crocodile tears?), and the sisters had become closer. And they had indeed survived.
Gabs too was unsure what to wear to Maudie’s funeral. She had a black leather skirt, but it was extremely short. She had a long skirt, but it was an Indian patchwork affair, with sparkly bits and gold beads dangling from the belt.
“What do you think?” she asked Steph.
“Haven’t you anything else?”
“Nothing more suitable.”
“You call those suitable?” Steph walked round her as though she might look different from behind. “Borrow one of mine. It’s going to be a long time before I can fit into any of them again myself.”
“Wig?” asked Gabs.
“Absolutely no wig. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Maudie liked me whatever I wore, and she quite admired my wigs,” Gabs said. “I think she was one of the few people who didn’t judge me.”
“But you said she was mad!”
“Only a bit mad. But she was pretty canny.” Gabs picked out a pale grey cashmere skirt. “Can I have this one?”
“I suppose so. But don’t spill anything on it.”
Driving to the funeral, Gabs wondered whether life could get any worse. She had been fonder of Maudie than she liked to admit, and certainly more than she could tell Mavis; after all, Maudie had belonged to Mavis, and so it would be inappropriate for her to exhibit too much grief. But there had been something decent about Maudie — something genuine, loving, kind. Gabs hadn’t experienced much kindness in her adult life, and she had been attracted to Maudie’s warmth and Maudie’s embraces, which always smelled of lavender water and mothballs (did anyone really use mothballs anymore?). She was going to miss her.
Then there was Steph’s engagement. She still found it hard to believe that her sensible sister had actually consented to marry Clive, but there it was. The happy couple had celebrated with something sparkling (non-alcoholic, of course), and Steph now sported a (cheap) diamond ring and had already accumulated a stack of wedding magazines.
“What are you doing with these?” Gabs had flicked through the magazines. They all looked the same: Barbie-doll girls in white dresses — from slinky, via prim Jane Austen, through to meringue — plus advice on everything from make-up to marquees. “Are you really going to — to dress up for this?”
Steph sighed. “Oh, Gabs, you know I’ve always wanted a white wedding. I know it’s pathetic, but I want it to be the one thing I do properly.”
“Of course you do.” Gabs had relented. “Poor old Steph. And you haven’t even got a mother of the bride to wear a posh hat and be proud.”
“No, but I’ve got you. I thought — I thought you might be a bridesmaid?”
“Did you now?” Gabs tried to imagine herself in a long conventional frock carrying a posy of something bridal, and failed. On the other hand, what had she got to lose? “Oh, go on then. Why not? But no peach, no aqua, and no yellow. I look terrible in yellow. When’s this going to happen?”
“I thought in the spring. The baby will be a couple of months old, so I should have my figure back.”
“If not, I’ve got an amazing corset you can borrow. I’ll lace you into it. You won’t be able to breathe, but you’ll look stunning.”
Privately, Gabs blamed Father Pat for all this. How dare he coerce Steph into a lifetime of misery and boredom just in the interests of God and respectability? And yet it could be that Steph would be happy with Clive. She had always been undemanding, and Clive did seem genuinely fond of her. Stranger things had happened.
Of course, one of the problems was that Gabs was jealous — not of the marriage (perish the thought), but of Clive’s place in Steph’s life. Hitherto, it had always been Gabs and Steph against the world. Now she feared that if she didn’t toe the line, it could well become Steph and Clive against Gabs. If this was to be avoided, she would have to embrace her new brother-in-law in every sense, and while she might come to accept that Steph liked — even loved — him, he would never be her kind of person. When she had had time to get used to the idea of the baby, she had rather liked the idea of its presence in the flat; she could even see herself sharing it (and thus being absolved of any need to have one herself). But Steph’s marriage would make her superfluous. She might be required for babysitting purposes, but otherwise she would just be an aunt (such an ugly, old-maidish kind of word, she had always thought). As for the flat, things were going to be pretty cramped, and she couldn’t imagine them all getting on together for long. She could probably afford to buy Steph out and find somewhere else, but she didn’t really want to. Clive, needless to say, had no place of his own, and in her less charitable moments, it had occurred to Gabs that this might have played some part in his decision to marry Steph.
It was a bright cold day — not one of those wet, windswept funeral days you so often see in films — and Gabs cheered up a bit. She had filled the boot of the car with wine, plus a couple of bottles of champagne; whatever else she might feel about today, it would be nice to see the others and do a bit of catching up. But when she saw Mavis, she was shocked.
Mavis was pale, and she had lost weight. Her clothes seemed to hang off her, as though they too were grieving, and when she came over to greet Gabs, her eyes were brimming with tears.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said as Gabs embraced her.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” Gabs asked.
“No. No, of course I didn’t. It’s just that you’ve been — you’ve been so kind.”
Gabs muttered something about that being what friends were for, and took Mavis’s arm. “Is Clifford coming?”
“I don’t think so. He said it wouldn’t be — appropriate.”
“Oh, did he?”
“And he didn’t really know Mother.”
But he knew you, thought Gabs furiously. How could this pompous, selfish man, who over the years had taken so much from Mavis, not make this little effort when she most needed him?
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said now.
The interior of the church had the familiar smell of damp and incense hat always took Gabs back to her childhood Sundays, when she and Steph were marched off to Mass, washed and scrubbed and thoroughly uncomfortable, and instructed by their mother to “behave yourselves, don’t pick your noses, and make sure to hand over all your collection money” (Gabs had been known to secrete some of hers in her sock). There seemed to be quite a good turnout, although as Mavis had predicted, many of them required the assistance of Zimmer frames and sticks, and there was at least one wheelchair. Gabs wondered what it must be like, getting to a stage of life where funerals outnumbered other more cheerful rituals, and you knew that before long it would be your own turn. She looked at the row of cotton-wool heads in front of her and wondered what they were thinking. Was there some relief in knowing that yet another person had beaten them to it, that at least they were still alive? Or were they all wondering whether they would be next?
The priest was brisk and businesslike, and the requiem mass for Maude Winifred Wetherby was soon over. A short address was given about Maudie’s life, her regular church attendance, and her numerous good works in the parish. But none of these related to the Maudie Gabs had known, and she felt sad. Mavis had said that she might say a few words if she felt able to, but apparently she did not, and so the real Maudie went unacknowledged.
Afterwards, Gabs joined Alice and Finn as everyone gathered at the cemetery for the burial.
“Do you think they’ve ever dropped anyone?” Finn asked as the funeral directors made their way down a grassy slope to the graveside with Maudie balanced precariously on their shoulders.
“No. They’re used to it,” Alice told him.
“But what if they did?”
/> “Well, it would be a bit undignified, I suppose.”
“How do we know it’s really Maudie in there?” he persisted. “It could be anyone, couldn’t it? It could just be a pile of bricks.”
“Why would anyone want to bury a pile of bricks?”
“Or stolen goods,” said Finn, warming to his subject. “Then they could come back later and dig them up.”
“Finn, will you please stop asking silly questions.”
“But —”
“Shut up, Finn. I mean it.”
Finn turned to catch Gabs’ eye, and she winked at him. Such a shame he’s so young, she thought. In a couple of years, he’s going to be quite a looker.
The coffin was lowered into the grave, and Mavis was handed a small lump of earth. She looked helplessly at Gabs.
“You throw it in,” Gabs whispered. “On top of the coffin.”
“Why? Why would I want to do that?”
“I’ve no idea, but it’s what you do. Tradition, I suppose.”
“Can I have some?” Finn asked.
“For the last time, Finn, shut up,” Alice said, “or you can go and sit in the car.”
“I only asked.”
“Well, don’t.”
Mavis threw her lump of earth, which scattered over the lid of the coffin, obscuring the shiny brass plate that bore Maudie’s name.
“That’s it,” Mavis said after a respectful silence had been observed, and people began to talk in subdued voices. “She’s gone. Mother’s gone.”
Weeping, she turned away and began walking slowly back towards the road and the parked cars. Gabs wondered briefly whether she should go and join her, but realised that just for the moment, Mavis needed to be alone.
Right up until the last minute, Mavis had hoped that Clifford might come to the funeral, but she should have known better. He had told her that he wouldn’t be coming, and Clifford prided himself on being a man of his word, especially when that word involved an arrangement convenient to himself. Now, she felt hurt and disappointed and angry. Over the years, she had made fewer and fewer demands of him, and this was really such a small thing to ask. He need only have attended the service and then gone home. She wouldn’t have expected him to stay on afterwards — just perhaps to say a few words to her before he went.
Women Behaving Badly_An uplifting, feel-good holiday read Page 31