It is strange inviting people to the funeral of a person they thought was already dead.
As I call around the neighborhood, everybody seems more surprised that Pap was still alive a week ago than shocked by the fact he is now no longer. A few people even think they have already attended his funeral. Mrs. Biggs, for one, vigorously insists she remembers reading his obituary. So it seems a bit hollow when she follows this up by saying, “He will be sorely missed.”
To be fair, it must be hard to keep track of whose funeral you’ve attended when funerals seem to happen on a weekly basis in the village. With the average age of Cadbury being approximately seventy-four, if there’s one thing that Cadbury does well it is funerals. Aside from the WI market held in the parish hall, a funeral is the perfect chance for locals to socialize and get free food. Many bring doggy bags so they can bring home food to keep them going until the next one.
In contrast, I’ve never been to a funeral before. Mum decided I wasn’t old enough to go to Uncle Edward’s; I wasn’t born when Dad’s parents died; and we didn’t even have a burial ceremony when my fish died. We simply flushed him down the toilet. Dad told me at the time that’s what you do with goldfish.
I panic on the morning of the funeral when I realize I don’t have a black suit to wear. Since getting back from Paris, everything has been hectic, and I’ve spent most of my time trying to write something to read at the service, or contact Lucy without success. In the end, Mum decides to pick up one of Pap’s black suits when she goes to collect Nan. It feels extremely weird going to a funeral wearing the clothes of the man you are burying. It feels even worse considering Pap was about a foot shorter than me.
“He’s not going to need it anymore,” Mum says, which I can’t argue with.
The black limousine picks us up at 1 p.m. It seems slight overkill, given the church is only a five-minute walk away and we can hear the church bells from our garden, but “tradition is tradition,” as Mum says when Dad argues we could save money and walk. As well as my first funeral, this is also my first time in a limo, but it’s not in the circumstances I was hoping for. Dad is shuffling around on the leather seats, trying to get a better signal on his portable radio as he tunes into the BBC Bristol football commentary. He doesn’t do earphones, as they “don’t stick in my ears,” so we’re all listening to it. He’s got a tenner on City to win, and they’re already trailing one–zero. He’s in a bad mood today, caused by the fact that the funeral has clashed with the game and that they bought Pap’s Christmas present last week and didn’t keep the receipt.
Mum, meanwhile, is staring out of the window, tapping her forehead repeatedly, trying to spot the pigeon flying past. She is presumably expecting Pap to attend his own funeral. I feel if he does, he might be slightly disappointed. It almost seems cruel giving him a church service, considering he hated both the Church and people.
Nan, in complete shock, is dressed up as if she’s going to Ascot on a jolly outing. Her hat is touching the roof of the car, and her smile is as wide as the limo. She is trying her best to hide her true emotions. She starts to cough and solves the problem by shoving a Werther’s Original toffee in her mouth, which I fear is going to choke her.
I fidget with the printed A4 copy of my speech. My sweaty fingers stain the corners and crease it. As we take a bend, in front of us I catch sight of the hearse with Pap’s coffin.
I look away, trying to pretend this isn’t really happening.
“Are you OK?” I whisper to Nan.
“Yes, Josh. Aren’t the flowers so beautiful? Mary has done a fantastic job. . . .” Her voice stutters and shakes, and she quickly wipes away a tear before anyone can notice it.
“I’ll just drop you off here, if that’s OK, and then will come and collect you afterward,” the chauffeur interrupts.
The journey really was only two and a half minutes long.
He pulls up outside the church, behind the parked hearse, letting us out before driving on to find somewhere else to park away from the double yellow lines, probably farther away than our house. The church is quaint and traditional, and small enough that the congregation can hold hands around its circumference on Mothering Sunday. It’s weird to think that two weeks ago I was exploring a cemetery with Lucy, and now here I am at a funeral.
As we undo the latch on the wooden gate and walk through the graveyard toward the church, I notice the fresh mound of earth piled in the corner. His headstone won’t be ready for a few weeks, but there is a plot for Pap alongside the graves of other family members I never knew.
I take a deep breath in, and out.
This is the moment everything hits home, seeing the hole in the ground. I reach across and take hold of Nan’s hand as we walk on, as much for my own benefit as for hers.
Despite barely knowing Pap, Madeline is positioned on the door, greeting everyone with service sheets. She’s not only the self-elected village mayor but also apparently the church warden. A few stragglers are still stumbling in on walking sticks, and there is some commotion caused, unsurprisingly, by Beryl and Desmond.
“We can’t get Beryl’s wheelchair into the church,” Madeline explains in hushed tones as we watch Desmond repeatedly ram the chair into the stone step, getting more annoyed each time that it doesn’t go over, jolting Beryl backward and forward.
“Is there no ramp?” Mum asks.
“No one can find it, and Beryl says she can’t get out of the chair.” Madeline raises her eyebrows, as we all know there is absolutely nothing wrong with Beryl.
“Gary, go and ask the pallbearers to help lift the wheelchair,” Mum tells Dad, who scurries off, still listening to the radio.
This is the last thing we need right now. The service is meant to be starting any moment, and I want everything to run smoothly for Mum, who has carefully organized it all, and most of all for Pap.
“How are you feeling, Beryl?” Nan makes the mistake of asking.
“Not good—I think I’ve got cancer now.”
Really?
Before she can self-diagnose any more, or I get annoyed with her for ruining the day, Dad comes back with all the pallbearers and the hearse driver, ready to help lift her.
They carry her over the step into the church, and then due to the old, uneven stone flooring they decide to continue carrying her down the aisle as if she’s in a sedan chair. I know it’s the first funeral I’ve ever been to, but I am guessing they’re not all like this.
As we follow behind, the organ recital starts up. Ninety-one-year-old Doris is playing “Abide with Me.” It’s both out of tune and out of time. As an accomplished organ player, Pap would be turning in his grave, if he had been buried already. I half-expect Mum to have decorated the church interior with pigeon ephemera, but the only adjustment is a large framed photo of Pap positioned at the front of the church so the congregation can remember whose funeral they are attending this week. It is one I took of him when we were all gathered in Cheddar Gorge to celebrate Nan and Pap’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.
I struggle to hold back the tears.
I walk down the aisle, my trousers riding high above my ankles. I ignore the fact that I can barely move my arms or breathe. Among the many people I don’t know, I do spot a few familiar faces. There is the ancient relative who gives me an out-of-date diary every Christmas, and another one who always gets my name wrong. Judging by their appearances, either of these two could be being buried this time next week. Geoff is awfully pale and looks almost as bad, presumably already anxious about the reception finger food. Karen mouths, “I’m sorry, Joshy,” to me from her seat on the far side of the pews. I’m beginning to think that’s all she can say these days. The vicar is standing behind the lectern, checking his reading material, but I swear he turns away as soon as he catches my eye. I thought now that I am friends with Jesus, he might have changed his attitude. Clearly not.
As Nan circulates the church, thanking everyone for coming, I take my seat at the front next to Mum. She ducks her head and quietly says a prayer.
Uncle Peter and the children are sitting in the row behind. They are all wearing sunglasses, inside.
“How are you doing?” Peter asks, shaking my hand.
“Could be better,” I say.
“Tell your dad he owes me my winnings. I put money on your pap on the sweepstakes at your engagement party thing, couldn’t believe it when he died. That’s fifty quid for me.”
In the corner of the church, Dad punches the air, presumably meaning City have equalized. He won’t be so happy when he realizes he is set to lose his winnings immediately.
Why isn’t everyone more upset?
Beryl is still complaining and moaning that her view isn’t adequate, so the pallbearers move her again until she has the best seat in the house and is now blocking my view. The three men from the funeral director’s quickly remember why they prefer working with dead people. After a lot of heavy lifting, huffing and puffing, they head back outside to bring the coffin in.
When Doris’s unique take on “Abide with Me” reaches some sort of abrupt conclusion, Mum signals for the music to play. Madeline, done with her greeting duty, is now in charge of the stereo system.
As Nan joins us in the pew, and the hubbub of hushed voices pauses, Nat King Cole’s “Smile” begins to blare out from the stereo system. The vicar gestures for everyone to stand, and I half-expect Beryl to now rise from her wheelchair.
I listen to the lyrics and look at the photo of Pap, picturing his face winking at me. I think, ridiculously, of the Toblerone bar I never got to give to him. I can no longer hold back the tears, and my whole body starts to shake.
This is it. This really is it.
I don’t want to say goodbye.
I keep anxiously turning around, waiting to see the coffin being carried in, but by the time we get to the end of the second verse I start to sense there may be something wrong. Everyone is looking around, but there is no movement. The song is only three minutes long. They’d better hurry up.
“Josh, can you go and check what’s going on?” Mum turns to me and whispers, her eyes flowing with tears too.
I walk back down the aisle, trying my best to stay composed. As I step outside, back into the brisk, cool air, it takes me a moment to work out what has happened.
The hearse is no longer parked outside.
The pallbearers are halfway down the road.
Running.
Chasing a tow truck.
A tow truck that has a hearse on the back.
The hearse that still has the coffin inside.
I’ve heard of brides doing a runner, but this must be the first time a dead man has run away from his own funeral. In the time it took for the funeral directors to assist Beryl, the overzealous clampers decided to tow the hearse parked on the yellow lines.
Amid the sorrow, I can’t help but follow the song’s suggestion. I smile through the tears. And then burst out laughing.
Even to the end, Pap is still trying to escape people, social events, and the Church.
I wave goodbye to the truck.
And to Pap.