As Duncan drove us to the funeral, I peered over my shoulder at Sam in the back. He was slumped in his seat. He had his bobble hat on with his earphones on top, not plugged into anything. The hat had made a reappearance after I’d explained that Elvis would definitely not enjoy coming to a funeral.
His eyes were open a chink and were on a level with the bottom of the window. He peeked at the world as it flew by.
With his messy blonde hair and his slight frame he didn’t look so very different from the child I vividly remembered on our last journey down this lane – the child who had terrified me by stopping breathing. Now it was me who could hardly breathe.
‘I can’t understand what’s happened to my suit,’ Duncan said for the umpteenth time.
‘Mmm?’ I said, remembering brown paint splattering and dribbling all over the shiny lining as it disappeared under a pile of old floorboards.
‘It’s a good suit,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what can have happened to it.’
There was only a handful of folk at the funeral, and I think most of them were from animal rescue places.
The coffin was waiting by the lychgate, covered in foxgloves and rosebay willow herb, flowers that grew in the hedgerow down the lane near Wayside Cottage. Among the flowers there was a photo of a young glamorous Jeannie in velvet and pearls.
The sight grabbed my throat and I felt my chin wobble.
‘They’ve put weeds on the coffin,’ Duncan said.
‘They’re wild flowers,’ I said, ‘resilient and untameable. They look lovely.’
I led us to seats at the back despite there being rows of empty pews. It was an old technique: when you were out with Sam you always made sure you knew your escape route, you could never afford to be one of those complacent parents without an exit strategy.
The organ wheezed into life and Sam clamped his hands over his earphones and pressed them hard and squeezed his eyes shut. He bent forward and leaned his forehead on the pew in front. I guessed if the pew hadn’t been there he’d have toppled off the bench and curled into a ball on the stone floor. As it was he looked like he was praying.
My heart was in my mouth and I found myself praying, desperate words flooding my brain. ‘I know I’m only in church for a funeral. I know I never set foot here one year to the next. I never pray. I don’t even believe in God, but please, please make everything all right for Sam and get us through this next hour of our lives in one piece.’
My eyes were tight shut and my hands were gripped together and sweating. I didn’t believe in God and I didn’t know who I was praying to, but I meant every word.
The old Danger UXB memories; of being vulnerable to the entire world, of everyone watching and judging and finding us wanting – they were so close to the surface.
I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists. I had to hide my fear and concentrate on looking calm and in control and not infecting Sam with my nerves.
The doors were fastened back and the bearers carried the coffin into church followed by the vicar.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . .’
‘What language is that?’
Sam’s voice was loud; partly because he was wearing earphones but also because I realised he’d never been in a church before and certainly never to a funeral.
I held my finger to my lips.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Old-fashioned English,’ I whispered.
‘Jeannie was old fashioned but she never spoke like that.’
I held my finger to my lips again. I could feel the sweat starting to prickle under my armpits.
The vicar recited a psalm and I counted the moments as he intoned his way through the funeral service. Sam watched and even pushed his earphones off one ear so he could listen.
We shuffled to our feet for The Old Rugged Cross and I thanked my lucky stars there were hardly any mourners and no choir to make a racket. The singing was sparse, almost non-existent – and again I found myself saying thank you. Who to? I had no idea – possibly Jeannie – it didn’t matter.
When the coffin was carried out of the church I thought we could do a runner back to the car but no such luck.
‘They’ll put her in the ground now,’ said Sam. ‘Come on.’ He set off after the coffin into the graveyard. ‘Jeannie had a wish list,’ he said. ‘She wanted to travel through space and time.’ His eyes followed the coffin down the path. ‘But she never mentioned going in one of them.’
I bit back a smile and caught Duncan’s eye. He looked uncomfortable in his smart trousers and zip-up jacket.
When the committal was over I couldn’t wait to get in the car and back down the lane. I could hardly believe we’d survived. There had been no meltdown, no screaming, no turning purple, no disaster that would knock me for six for a week, no turmoil that would make Sam hide or hurt himself.
‘Come on,’ I said, setting off.
Sam looked at his watch.
‘It is 16.45 hours. The sun will set today at 21.21 hours which is four hours and 36 minutes from now. I want to climb a hill.’
‘A hill?’ I said.
‘Yes.
‘Big Hill?’
‘No. Big Hill is not big.’
What’s up?’ Duncan said, catching up with us.
‘He wants to climb a hill.’
‘I want to climb a hill and see the pink road and the blue road that lead to Lancaster and to the Rest of the World.’
‘Big Hill?’ Duncan said.
‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘We’ve been through that.’
‘If we walk 200 yards in a northerly direction and cut across a field on the public right of way and climb the stile and follow the path through the copse, we will reach a hill,’ Sam said. ‘That is the hill I want to climb.’ And he set off.
All those hours studying Larry’s ordnance survey map meant he knew the landscape by heart: every lane, every field, every detail. Duncan and I jogged a bit to catch up with him.
‘Climb a hill. Aye,’ said Duncan.
‘Yes,’ I said, looking at my shoes. Thank God they were flat. ‘Climb a hill.’
We fell in step with him – one on either side – and walked along in silence. As we rounded the corner the field gate came into view as Sam said it would and he climbed up and jumped over. Duncan did the same and held my hand as I jumped down too. Sam followed the hedge around the field and straight to the stile.
‘Here’s the stile!’ I said, as though there had been any doubt about it.
‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘That is what the map said.’
I felt a rush of exhilaration and a laugh bubbled up in my throat.
‘What are you laughing at?’
Duncan was watching me.
‘I don’t know. Everything.’
I gazed at the cows staring from the next field, looking suspicious and nosey and a bit put-out and the pair of ducks heading for the pond at the bottom of the field. I noticed the grey sheep’s wool dangling from the barbed wire fence and the cow parsley growing in the hedgerows with the leggy buttercups.
The map was good but it couldn’t show all this.
Sam marched along and I kept doing a little run to keep up. Walking through the wood the ground felt springy – there were so many pine needles and dead leaves underfoot.
‘Hey look!’ I jumped up and down. ‘It’s bouncy, see.’ I stumbled and Duncan grabbed my arm.
He laughed. ‘Steady on, Alice.’
I realised that Sam had never walked through a wood before as he stopped to stare up at the tree tops. Duncan and I did the same and we watched the sun glinting through the branches.
‘It is just one tree after another,’ said Sam. ‘Like on my maps.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘just one tree after another.’
Sam’s pace slowed as we left the woods behind and the land began to rise. I was out of breath and panting and Sam hesitated and looked over his shoulder at me. I tried to smile but I was knackered. I held out my hand. He looked at it but didn’t take it.
I put my head down and plodded on, each step burning my legs and my lungs. I felt a hand grasp mine.
‘Come on,’ Duncan said. ‘Don’t stop now, we’re nearly there.’
At the top of the hill we sat down in a row and gazed at the patchwork of fields and the Pennines beyond.
‘That’s the A6, Sam,’ said Duncan, pointing. ‘And past that it’s the M6.’
‘The pink road and the blue road,’ whispered Sam.
‘Yep, the pink road and the blue road,’ I said.
He pointed north. ‘And that way are the graves hewn from rock where St Patrick landed from Ireland.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded my head. ‘And we can go and see them any time. Tomorrow, if you like.’
He looked at me. ‘Is that a true story?’
‘Yes, Sam,’ I said, ‘it’s a true story.’
He watched the tiny cars for a long time as they crawled to and fro.
‘It is the rest of the world,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is.’
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