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.
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