With the funeral out of the way, I was ready to go back to work. That is after all, what one does. It is the British way. I have lost my father, but there is not particular name for that, or concept of it when you are an adult. Your parents are expected to die, and as long as they are a decent age, we are not really expected to make a big deal about it. I didn't really want to talk to anyone at work about it either. That's not the point of being at work.
Plenty of people had hardly noticed my absence. My supervisor Kate went past my desk and wrapped her arms round my shoulder.
"Sorry about your Dad Claire." she said into my shoulder. I didn't mind the hug and even though she held on too long, at least I didn't have to look at her. "How was the funeral?"
"It was ..." I had no idea what the polite form of answer to that question was. "Fine." I settled on.
"And how's your mum?" Kate asked politely. She didn't know my mum, but she was a caring sort of person, who always asked the right questions and was always polite and thoughtful. All the things I was really bad at. I turned to face her.
"I don't really know yet..." I started, I wasn't prepared to say anything more. It made me seem heartless and horrible. I wanted to talk to someone but who would possibly be sympathetic? I couldn't talk to my mum, she had her own grief and how could I possibly talk to her without expressing my anger at her. I didn't hate her, I wasn't about to end up in some counselling, I just didn't know how to talk to her without making her feel worse.
"Are you alright lovey?" Kate reached for me again but I put my hand up to hair quickly to avoid her touch, I had been quiet a moment too long and I thought I might cry.
"I'm ok to be back." I said. After all what else would I do?
It didn't take me long to completely forget that anything had been wrong or that I had been off work. I made coffee and chatted to everyone else in the office and took phone calls and thought of ... nothing at all except work. At lunchtime I realised I had forgotten to make a sandwich. "That's alright," I told myself, "You're allowed to make mistakes right now." But why? Had I been ill? No, but there was something at the base of my throat, and a hollowness, an emptiness in my stomach, because, yes, because of Dad. And that was how it caught me, once or twice more throughout the day. There was something wrong, but I couldn't change it and there was no point being anxious about it. I hadn't forgotten something, I hadn't missed a deadline, I just had to get through this one. On my own.
There was a message on my phone from my sister. "Hope UR OK. Mum fine. Hope work is gd. <3 xx" "If you really want me to be ok, then don't message me to remind me that I'm not and don't use all those irritating abbreviations." I thought ungratefully. Mardy cow, I told myself. I felt so guilty I ended up ringing her.
"Hi" she whispered quietly.
"Hi, thanks for the message," I said.
"Oh you're welcome lovely. I'm just doing teas at church. Mum's here, thought it'd be good for her to get out."
"Oh, ok." I replied surprised. "It's Monday."
"Yes," she said, "Mums and tots."
"Oh, ok." I said again stupidly. Mum was neither a mum nor a tot in that context, nor for that matter was Ali. "I'll phone you later." I hadn't meant to say that.
"Later." She made a kiss noise down the phone. Maybe it was good for Mum to be somewhere else. But at church? At Ali's church? Ali had obviously had Dad down there before...well, before and now Mum as well? Where was my invitation? I didn't want one. But where was it? Aren't C of E churches over run with middle aged unmarried - spinsters - like me?
My irritation with Ali continued as I had phoned her instead of going out to buy lunch and had to settle with whatever was left in the snack bar. Not her fault, I told herself, mine. Anyway, where had my obsession with blaming everyone come from? This was new, but temporary, I told myself. I would stop. Soon.
Saturday, 17 February 2018
Sunday, 11 February 2018
Belief Chapter 6
I'd been to other funerals. A couple of my grandparents when I was younger; a former school friend who had succumbed to cancer; someone from work, also my age. The two younger people had had vibrant funerals, celebrations of life, more like a wedding. We had worn blue and purple and sang songs together, and thrown flowers like confetti. This time I felt as if I were on show. I had wanted to go out and buy a dress, but it seemed too frivolous, so on the morning of the funeral, half an hour after I had promised to get to my mum's, I was staring at my wardrobe and there were a dozen items of clothing strewn across my bed and the floor. It was like choosing an outfit for a date, and I didn't do that often, not any more. No look seemed satisfactory. I wanted to look presentable, but trying to look attractive was stupid. It turns out that quite a lot of my clothes were black, but when you put them together they were all different shades and textures, and in my whole wardrobe I didn't own a black suit except a quite expensive one that I wore all the time for work and so felt a little bit shabby and disrespectful and I also needed to be able to wear again without thinking every time - "I wore that for Dad's funeral."
One top was a bit flouncy and had no sleeves, a plain shirt looked a bit too work like. My skirt was too short and could only be worn with heels, wearing boots made me look like I did when I was 17 and a practising goth. I ended up in a black work dress, that I dressed down with a cardigan and then smartened up with a long black wool coat that I mostly wouldn't have to take off. At the mirror by the front door I had a crisis of confidence and rubbed off half my eye make up, thinking I would probably smear it down my face anyway, and set off to drive to Mum and Dad's. To Mum's.
At the house Ali was already in the kitchen crashing oven trays of sausage rolls around. It was the first time I had seen James and the boys since Dad died and it was nice to be surrounded by their boisterousness and noise in this quiet house. James held me un-self-consciously and asked if everything had hit me yet. He was good with saying the right things. Charlie and Mark hugged me too, Mark was taller than me now, and his hug felt like he was starting to protect me. They were wearing suits, looking like I had never seen them before. Almost man-shaped but slightly bowed by the weight of masculinity, hunching their shoulders slightly.
When the cars arrived, Ali kissed the boys and clambered into the black limousine with Mum, me and Aunty Carol, Dad's sister. She held my hand and arm tight, as Mum held onto Ali. It reminded me, not for the first time, that I was the grown-up at the moment. I was expected to be looking after Mum. I kept thinking of the coffin and Dad inside. I couldn't see how such a small coffin could possibly contain that much life. But it wasn't containing his life of course. I glanced over at my sister. She was keeping it together, my Mum was weeping quietly, Aunty was crying into my shoulder. For a moment I wished I could have a little of her faith. A belief that Dad wasn't in that coffin, that somewhere there was a space for his eternal soul to still exist; that we would meet later, after my death. What was my mother thinking? Was she wanting a chance to see Dad again? Was she worried about what he would say to her if she did? Would Dad forgive her for what she did? That thought was too much to bear. I shook it out of my head. Easier to live with the idea that there was nothing, that was the end and there was nothing left to worry about.
It seemed strange that Dad was there - no - his body was there throughout the whole service. There were hymns that hardly anyone sang. My voice cracked when I tried to sing. Aunty Carol clung to my arm.
"Thanks, pet. Thanks Claire love. You've got me." she kept saying. I felt guilty that I wasn't doing anything.
At the crematorium Mum had her way and played Bob Dylan, but it was old Bob Dylan; "Blowin' in the Wind" which made me smirk despite my best efforts when I thought of the ashes from the crematorium chimney. I would have told her to choose something different, but even the inappropriateness was slightly appropriate, Mum never understood the lyrics. Dad never really cared about the meanings, but he liked good music.
On the steps at the back of the crematorium I saw James's parents come and hug my mother. They were so much more natural and easy with shows of emotion than my parents ever were. I saw Ali's boys almost run towards them and relax into their arms. Their relationship was so much less forced than it was with my parents. They loved all their grandparents and their grandparents loved them, but my Mum and Dad had gone on holiday with Ali and James, they had babysat for the boys and visited all the school assemblies and prize givings. James's parents had taken them camping, taught them to ride bikes and not just because they were five years younger. I wondered if my mum minded, or if she even noticed. How would she cope with Charlie and Mark now Dad wasn't there as the buffer? A lot was going to change.
One top was a bit flouncy and had no sleeves, a plain shirt looked a bit too work like. My skirt was too short and could only be worn with heels, wearing boots made me look like I did when I was 17 and a practising goth. I ended up in a black work dress, that I dressed down with a cardigan and then smartened up with a long black wool coat that I mostly wouldn't have to take off. At the mirror by the front door I had a crisis of confidence and rubbed off half my eye make up, thinking I would probably smear it down my face anyway, and set off to drive to Mum and Dad's. To Mum's.
At the house Ali was already in the kitchen crashing oven trays of sausage rolls around. It was the first time I had seen James and the boys since Dad died and it was nice to be surrounded by their boisterousness and noise in this quiet house. James held me un-self-consciously and asked if everything had hit me yet. He was good with saying the right things. Charlie and Mark hugged me too, Mark was taller than me now, and his hug felt like he was starting to protect me. They were wearing suits, looking like I had never seen them before. Almost man-shaped but slightly bowed by the weight of masculinity, hunching their shoulders slightly.
When the cars arrived, Ali kissed the boys and clambered into the black limousine with Mum, me and Aunty Carol, Dad's sister. She held my hand and arm tight, as Mum held onto Ali. It reminded me, not for the first time, that I was the grown-up at the moment. I was expected to be looking after Mum. I kept thinking of the coffin and Dad inside. I couldn't see how such a small coffin could possibly contain that much life. But it wasn't containing his life of course. I glanced over at my sister. She was keeping it together, my Mum was weeping quietly, Aunty was crying into my shoulder. For a moment I wished I could have a little of her faith. A belief that Dad wasn't in that coffin, that somewhere there was a space for his eternal soul to still exist; that we would meet later, after my death. What was my mother thinking? Was she wanting a chance to see Dad again? Was she worried about what he would say to her if she did? Would Dad forgive her for what she did? That thought was too much to bear. I shook it out of my head. Easier to live with the idea that there was nothing, that was the end and there was nothing left to worry about.
It seemed strange that Dad was there - no - his body was there throughout the whole service. There were hymns that hardly anyone sang. My voice cracked when I tried to sing. Aunty Carol clung to my arm.
"Thanks, pet. Thanks Claire love. You've got me." she kept saying. I felt guilty that I wasn't doing anything.
At the crematorium Mum had her way and played Bob Dylan, but it was old Bob Dylan; "Blowin' in the Wind" which made me smirk despite my best efforts when I thought of the ashes from the crematorium chimney. I would have told her to choose something different, but even the inappropriateness was slightly appropriate, Mum never understood the lyrics. Dad never really cared about the meanings, but he liked good music.
On the steps at the back of the crematorium I saw James's parents come and hug my mother. They were so much more natural and easy with shows of emotion than my parents ever were. I saw Ali's boys almost run towards them and relax into their arms. Their relationship was so much less forced than it was with my parents. They loved all their grandparents and their grandparents loved them, but my Mum and Dad had gone on holiday with Ali and James, they had babysat for the boys and visited all the school assemblies and prize givings. James's parents had taken them camping, taught them to ride bikes and not just because they were five years younger. I wondered if my mum minded, or if she even noticed. How would she cope with Charlie and Mark now Dad wasn't there as the buffer? A lot was going to change.
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