‘How are you doing?’ Meg asks me in a quiet voice as we find each other in the crowded churchyard once the service is over.
‘I’m okay, near enough,’ I tell her. ‘Tough, wasn’t it? Really hard. I tried not to think about Mum and Dad, but …’
‘I know,’ she says.
I take a deep breath and stare into the distance, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat.
For a moment I’m in the past again, staring out of the empty barbershop window, the smell of coffee rising from the mug in my hand; answering the phone call that’s about to crush me – turn my life upside down.
‘Mr Luke Craven?’ I’ll never forget the solemn sound of that heavily accented voice. I immediately knew something was very wrong, even before he identified himself and asked if I was sitting down. Before the mug tumbled from my hand and shattered on the floor, shedding its dark contents all over.
I imagined the worst, so I thought, but I didn’t come close.
Meg nudges me back into the here and now with the gentle touch of her hand on my back.
When I turn to look at her, her eyes are glistening. ‘It was hard not to get drawn into the emotion,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t stop myself crying a few times, even though I never met Iris. It was so intense, like the air in there was charged with grief. I’ve never been to a funeral for someone so young before. The sense of loss felt even more raw than usual – I suppose because it’s against the natural course of things.’
‘Yep,’ I reply, blowing cool air up on to my face. ‘It feels totally unjust, doesn’t it? Wrong.’
‘Exactly. There aren’t even any “at least she had a good innings” type platitudes to fall back on. People aren’t meant to die at thirty-two.’
‘I got the impression it was only close family and friends going to the crematorium next,’ I say to Meg. ‘Do you agree?’
‘Yes, I don’t think it would be appropriate for us to go to that.’
‘I felt bad enough sitting so near to the front. We ought to have arrived earlier, in hindsight, but it didn’t occur to me that we’d need to.’
‘Never mind. At least you got to pay your respects. Shall we head back to town in a few minutes, once the traffic has died down?’
I run a hand over my recently shaved chin. ‘Um, I was considering going to the reception afterwards.’
Meg raises an eyebrow. ‘Can’t resist the lure of a free meal?’
‘I feel like I ought to say something to Iris’s parents. It’s not that I really want to – it would be much easier to quietly slip off – but I don’t think I’ll forgive myself if I don’t go. They did mention that everyone was welcome to come along.’
This isn’t like me at all. It’s the first time in ages that I’ve wanted to connect with others, particularly strangers, rather than shutting myself off as normal. But offering my condolences in person to Iris’s nearest and dearest feels like the least I can do after what she did for me. Something about her and the way she died has really got under my skin. And it’s more than the guilt I feel. It’s like she’s roused a long dormant part of me that actually cares about doing the right thing – that wants to become a better version of myself.
I tell Meg she’s done enough and should go if she needs to. ‘I’ll be all right on my own. I can take a bus or tram back home.’ I try to sound convincing as I say this, although I’m praying she’ll stay with me for moral support. Plus she’s had contact with the family before, so there could be an opportunity for her to introduce me, which would be better than having to present myself.
To my relief, she replies: ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll stay.’
The do is being held at the working men’s club further up the street. A lot of the other folk not attending the cremation head straight there, but we decide to take a stroll in a nearby park first and then to grab a drink – liquid courage – in a local pub.
More than an hour has passed by the time we finally enter the club. It’s busy with people chatting around tables and queueing at the bar, but there’s an understandably muted nature to the proceedings, rather than the usual raised voices, music or laughter you’d expect with so many people gathered in a licensed premises.
‘I’ll get us both a drink, shall I?’
Meg nods. ‘Thanks. A tonic water for me, please, preferably with ice and lemon. There’s a small table over there by the window. I’ll grab it.’
As I’m waiting to order, a couple of staff emerge from the kitchen with plates of sandwiches, quiche, vol-au-vents and other buffet food, swiftly followed by a large tray of bubbling lasagne plus pie and peas.
‘Goodness me,’ I hear a woman’s voice behind me say. ‘No one’s going hungry today, are they?’
Although Iris’s mum and dad didn’t speak at the funeral service, it was obvious who they were from the way things unfolded. I know their names – Stan and Claire – from the news reports, as well as the fact Iris was an only child. It’s hard to imagine exactly what hell they must be going through, having never had children myself, but I do know what it’s like to be strangled by grief. No parent should have to attend their child’s funeral. It’s fundamentally wrong, like nature is out of whack. Stan and Claire’s grieving process is bound to be especially tough.
Would it be marginally easier if they had the comfort of another child to share the burden? Possibly. I can only surmise. Now the stark truth of the matter is they’ve lost a whole generation of their immediate family: gone in one fell swoop.
There’s been no mention of Iris having left behind a significant other, so I assume she was single when she died. That would make sense in terms of her plans to go to Africa: probably not the kind of trip you’d embark on if you had a partner, unless they were going along too.
That’s one less broken soul for me to feel guilty about – and yet also one less person to support her parents in their time of need.
What if Iris was destined to meet the love of her life in Africa? That’s not hard to imagine. Trips like these are exactly the kind of situation where people who wouldn’t otherwise have met spend lots of time in close quarters and fall for each other. A fellow young doctor, perhaps, from elsewhere in the world. It could have been the merging of two brilliant, selfless minds; they could have gone on to achieve wonderful things together.
‘What can I get you?’ the barman asks, interrupting my thought process, which I’m glad about, seeing as it was only making me feel worse. I don’t know what’s come over me since the accident. I barely recognise myself in some of the sentimental concerns occupying my mind. Hard-hearted and cynical have been my default settings for so long now, it feels alien to care this much, particularly about someone I barely knew. But if it wasn’t for her …
‘Could I get a pint of bitter and a tonic water?’
‘Ice and a slice with the tonic?’
‘Sure.’
‘Aren’t you going to top that up?’ I ask him when he places my pint in front of me with far too thick a head on it. ‘Otherwise I might as well have ordered a half.’
‘No problem,’ he replies, frowning.
When I take the drinks over to where Meg’s sitting, she looks up from her mobile, places it down on the table and smiles. ‘Thank you very much. Have you spotted Iris’s parents? They’re sitting around the other side of the bar.’
‘Yes, I noticed. I don’t think now’s the right time to say anything, though, as there’s a constant stream of people going over to them, offering their condolences. I think I’ll wait until things quieten down a bit.’
She nods.
‘Who was it from the family that you spoke to at the hospital and swapped numbers with?’
‘One of her cousins: Guy, he’s called. I think he’s the son of the aunt who spoke during the ceremony. Rita, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Where is he? Can you see him?’
Meg cranes her neck and has a good look around the club, only to then shake her head. ‘I spotted him earlier, but I’m not sure where he is now.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Medium height, short brown hair, designer stubble, black suit.’
‘That narrows it down. Let me know when you spot him, yeah?’
A little while later she kicks me under the table. ‘That’s him,’ she whispers, nodding in the direction of a twenty-something entering the room with a John Wayne swagger. He’s brandishing a pack of cigarettes in his right hand like a weapon. Unfortunately, he’s not looking in our direction, but when I see him head for the toilets, it seems like too good an opportunity to miss.
‘Back in a minute,’ I tell Meg. ‘I need the little boys’ room.’
‘Didn’t you go when we left the pub?’
I shrug. ‘Getting old.’
When I enter the loo, the strong scent of a cheap air freshener making my nose itch, Guy is standing at the urinal with his back to me. We’re alone, but now I’m here I realise this might not be the best place to make contact after all. In my experience, people don’t often like being approached by strangers in the toilet. What was I thinking?
Anyway, now that I’m here, I position myself at the next urinal but one and try to go, although nothing wants to come out; I look straight ahead, hoping he doesn’t notice. I can smell that he’s had a fag. It’s unpleasant, but nothing I’m not used to, since many of my smoking clientele tend to have one right before they come in for a haircut.
When we’re both washing our hands, I say as casually as I can: ‘Iris was your cousin, right? Condolences.’
As the words leave my mouth, for some reason I imagine him turning around and thumping me in the face. Luckily, that isn’t what happens. Instead, he nods and says: ‘Cheers, man. Appreciate that.’
I hope he might ask how I knew Iris in return, but silence ensues, so as I’m drying my hands on a paper towel, I go for it again. ‘I, um, didn’t know her for very long at all, but she seemed like an amazing person. I think she may have even saved my life.’
Guy looks me up and down quizzically. ‘Were you one of her patients or something? Hang on: you’re not some kind of weirdo stalker, are you? I know she had some problems with—’
I hold up my palms defensively. ‘No, no. Sorry. I should have been clear from the start. My name is Luke Craven. I was the other person involved in the accident that killed Iris. My cousin Meg spoke to you at the hospital. She’s here with me too, actually. I, um—’
He holds out his arm to offer a handshake, which I accept. ‘Sorry, man, my bad. It’s been a tough day so far and I’m not feeling totally with it, if I’m honest. Listen, it was good of you to come. Nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ I reply. ‘I’d quite like to, er, have a word with Iris’s parents. Pay my respects and all that. I don’t suppose you’d mind introducing me, would you?’
He hesitates for a split second, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘Um, sure. They’re pretty raw at the moment, as you can probably imagine, but yeah, okay. I’ll introduce you. Give me five minutes on my own with them first, yeah?’
‘Of course. Then what? Shall I come over, or—’
He smiles. ‘Yeah, exactly.’
I return to sit with Meg and explain what’s going on while taking a couple of large swigs from my pint to steady my nerves.
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ she asks when I empty the glass and tell her I’m about to go over.
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m probably best doing this alone.’
Meg nods, a hint of relief on her face. ‘If you’re sure.’
I straighten my tie and double check my flies are done up before rising to my feet. ‘Wish me luck.’
A moment later I manage to catch Guy’s eye as I approach the table where he’s now sitting alongside Stan, Claire and a couple of others I don’t recognise.
For some inexplicable reason, I find myself doing a weird kind of bow in the parents’ direction as he introduces me. ‘This is Luke,’ he says. ‘The bloke I was telling you about.’