May, After the Storm
There is something of the kicked dog about the woman.
She has sat alongside The Family in the front pew, hunched over, but now she pulls herself up, squeezes back her shoulders, marches forwards. Some in the congregation hold their breath for her. She does not inspire confidence in those heels.
The impression is of a pigeon as she totters up to speak. Her legs are like Twiglets, her feet tiny, her chest ample. She wears a large black hat on unfeasibly blue-black hair.
She manages the small step up to the lectern, turns to the sea of unfamiliar faces, and unfolds two sheets of paper. She swallows, and then starts her eulogy.
It was explained to her that it is not a eulogy as such. She can say some words about her daughter and ask for the search to continue. That is all. But she has been missing two weeks already. 257
She reads slowly and surely in a strange accent. It is a brave thing to do, speaking to honour a daughter when there is no body to bury, and so many unanswered questions whipping up confusion and anger and suspicion. There is a great deal of sympathy from the islanders for this grieving soul – those in the pews silently urge her on while also praying that it will soon be over.
The mother fumbles her papers and one sheet flutters away from her hands. She takes a sidestep, lunging after it, and stumbles, grabbing the lectern to stop herself plunging forwards. There’s a collective gasp as her hat comes loose and skims over the front pews like a mournful frisbee.
Two girls sobbing at the back of the church are shocked into silence. The police family liaison officer steps forwards to help.
Alison whispers to Old Betty sitting next to her, ‘Enough Dutch courage to sink a bloody fleet.’ Miss Elisabeth feels the comment and the swearing in church to be in bad taste.
Little Daisy, Emma’s second youngest, sitting squashed alongside her mother on the hard wooden seat, wonders what it is like to die, to be no more. She will not be able to sleep tonight, for fear of not waking up again. She will wet the bed for several months. Emma will blame herself for bringing her today.
Kit is amazed the woman at the front has stayed upright so long. He is a total mess. He cannot get the image of his father’s coffin out of his mind. He didn’t manage a reading at his father’s funeral. But this is not a funeral. There can be no funeral.
At some point, the organ signals it’s over, thank the Lord and all the saints above, and the congregation scampers outside to freedom. They can finally breathe. The sun is bright and the fresh breeze playfully blows fluffy lamb-like clouds across the sky. On the path outside the church The Family speak in hushed tones to their flock. ‘Yes. Terrible business.’ 258
Bobby affixes himself to the mother’s side, steering her around to talk to islanders and a few guests who have come to gawk – no! – who have come to pay their respects; colleagues and friends who want to offer self-conscious condolences and share a few neutered memories. They do not speak ill of the missing-unofficially-presumed-dead, so these are abridged, sanitised tales.
They are careful not to mention the others – the two women who were attacked right here on this lovely island at the time she went missing. They do not want to add images of violence to the mother’s burden.
Close up, people observe the mother’s hollow eyes. She seems not to hear their words, seems more absence than presence. There are no tears, so some feel she is hard, unfeeling. Others declare her brave.
But her grief is so huge it is eating her away from the inside, like a cancer.
She is dazed. She did not notice the double rainbow the previous afternoon, the frolicking dolphin in the distance as she sat rigid as a figurehead on the boat over from St Mary’s, the chirpy sparrow which alighted on her hand as she sat at a table outside the Old Ship.
Now people tell her things about her daughter and tell her nothing.
It is a tight-knit community here – she hears the phrase several times. It is meant to assure her that her daughter was cared for; people watch out for each other here, she is missed. But all this means to her is that the community might unravel a little, but then it will swiftly re-stitch itself around the absence, like a shroud.
The gulls call out their own praises and laments – boisterous, the souls of the departed. It is a more fitting farewell. They shit on the heads of the guilty and the righteous alike.