There was Don, in uniform. Alone. Young, unbending, standing stiffly for the camera, unsmiling for fear of not being taken seriously. A man on a mission, with something to prove.
Then out of uniform, with his mates. All wearing the same ensemble of wide-lapelled jackets in shades of brown or oversized checks, huge-collared shirts and kipper ties, sporting the same overlong hair and Elvis sideburns, showing the same cocky smiles and glinting eyes. Thief takers and dandies, gods among men. Plenty of laughter at that.
Then him and Eileen. In a garden, at a barbecue, eating chicken legs, drinking beer. Looking happy. With everything ahead of them.
Eileen choked at that one. Recovered quickly.
Then the two of them with Phil as a small child. Hard to decide which of them looked happiest.
Then others, all variations on the same theme, all showing different aspects of the same man. Admirable aspects, strong, lovable. Over and over in a continuous loop.
A celebration of Don Brennan. His life in pictures.
And words. All around the room, sitting at tables, standing at the bar, stories were being told and retold, anecdotes shared. People laughing together, fighting off the darkness.
Marina looked round. Her heart heavy with grief but lightened by the fact that she had known the man, that he had been an important part of her life.
The service had been at the crematorium. Humanist. The speaker had come to see them days ago, asked about Don, his character, his likes and dislikes, any stories they wanted her to tell, any they wanted to avoid. Marina and Phil had done most of the talking, Eileen still too emotional.
The speaker had been excellent. Others had been asked to contribute. One of Don’s old colleagues had got up to say something. A big ex-copper, broken-nosed and red-faced, heavier than when he was in the job but still carrying himself with authority, had made his way to the podium, started to tell an anecdote about Don, stumbled over his words, burst into tears. Had to be led away.
Then it was Phil’s turn.
Marina had told him he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to. If he didn’t feel up to it. Or if he needed help getting to the lectern and back, she would assist. He refused all offers. He felt it was something he had to do alone and unaided.
It was over a week since Easter, since she had walked into his hospital room and held him and held him and held him. And never wanted to let him go.
He had been discharged from the hospital and was at home convalescing, on sick leave from work. His injuries hadn’t been as severe as had first been thought. He would be up and about, walking more or less unaided, in a few days. He had turned down the offer of a wheelchair and only reluctantly accepted a crutch. He was determined to get better. And he had been determined to speak at Don’s funeral.
He had squeezed Marina’s hand before getting up and she had looked into his eyes. Haunted and damaged, almost mirrors of her own. But eyes she loved. Eyes she never tired of looking into, where she found everything she hoped for being returned to her.
He had smiled, got slowly to his feet and, the crutch in his left hand, made his way to the lectern.
He spoke without notes. From his heart, his soul. He told everyone there that, in case they didn’t know, he had been adopted by Don and Eileen. He wasn’t their biological son. And they weren’t his biological parents. They were more than that. So much more.
He had gone on to talk of what Don had meant to him. How he owed his career, his attitude, everything he had to him. And how he would miss him. God, how he would miss him.
There was more. But Marina couldn’t remember it. She had been crying too much.
When he had finished, Phil had walked back to her side. Alone. Unaided.
And in that moment, she knew everything was going to be all right.