9
I barely slept last night because today is likely to be one of the worst days of my life. The funeral is at eleven o’clock at the town church, and I’m dreading it with every inch of my soul.
I’ve had little contact with anyone since the accident. Just family, Flo, Dr Burrington and obviously Dean and Meg, but I am trying not to think about those scumbags. I can’t believe I was so stupid as to not see what was going on. What else could a weird relationship like that be about? The words ‘Just paying my rent, babe’ keep ringing in my head. It was all so skanky and grim, I feel riddled with them, and I am so happy that when I called Dr Burrington yesterday she told me my results were in early and that I’ve got away without any horrible STDs. At least that’s one thing.
I feel like I’m learning big lessons very young, and I know over time I will get over those two. They’ll pale into insignificance in my life, and I’ll never be so stupid again, or so gullible. But that doesn’t mean I am dealing with it very well at the moment. Along with the shock and sadness about Matt, I am just so embarrassed about how I let Dean and Meg make such a fool of me.
I look in my wardrobe for black clothes and see the outfit that Flo wore that first morning she went to church. It seems appropriate. If I had known that I would be wearing it for something like this, I might never have made fun of her that day.
I go downstairs and into the kitchen. Aunty Jo quickly grabs a newspaper and throws it under the kitchen table.
‘What was that?’ I ask.
‘What? Nothing.’
‘Yes, there was something. That newspaper, why did you just throw it under the table?’
‘I did? Oh that, yes, I was just swatting a fly.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I say, kneeling down to pick it up. ‘You were hiding someth— THE ARSEHOLE!’
Eighteen-year-old Guernsey barmaid, Renée Sargent, involved in fatal car crash.
Written by Dean Mathews.
‘Now, darling, stay calm,’ says Aunty Jo, putting her hands out towards me like she is trying to tame a lion. ‘People don’t take any notice of this stuff. It’s tomorrow’s chip paper.’
I keep reading. Certain lines jump out at me and punch me in the face.
‘I thought he was weird,’ says Renée Sargent of Matt Richardson.
After a blazing row with a friend, Sargent instigated a sick car game, putting herself and others in danger. The game went wrong when Sargent attempted to seduce Richardson, causing the young Christian to drive to his death.
I sit on the floor in the kitchen and sob.
‘I can never leave the house again,’ I blub.
Aunty Jo sits next to me. She takes the Guernsey Globe out of my hand and puts it under her bum so I can’t see it.
‘You have done everything right. Everything. Remember Mrs Richardson and how glad she was that you went to see her? Focus on that. Dean is bad news. He’s trying to get noticed as a writer and doesn’t care who he brings down along the way. You have a heart, he doesn’t. Now let’s get up. Flo will be here in a minute and we need to get going. You have to be strong, OK? For Matt.’
Every time I think I’ve hit my lowest point something happens to get me even lower. Maybe there is no lowest point. Maybe as humans we just go down and down and down until we die. I feel the same way I did before I jumped off the wall. Like I want to let fate decide if I will be OK or not, because I don’t have the energy to make things better by myself. I can’t be bothered to drag myself out of this heap I keep finding myself in. I’m exhausted with being me.
‘Morning,’ says Flo, walking into the kitchen in a black shirt and trousers. ‘Are you ready?’
I pass her the newspaper. She starts to say the obvious angry thing but stops herself and says, ‘Today we think about Matt, OK? We will deal with this tomorrow.’
The doorbell rings. Suddenly Mr Frankel is in my kitchen again. This is becoming normal.
‘Off you go,’ he says, ushering us all out of the door. ‘Nana and I will be fine until you get back.’
I’m too confused about everything to question how bizarre it is that Mr Frankel is babysitting Nana. Aunty Jo, Flo and I get into the car.
The rats crawl back into my stomach.
Renée squeezes my hand tightly as we walk into the church.
‘I’m scared,’ she says into my ear as I lead her to an empty pew. We sit down.
‘Don’t be. Think of this as the nicest place in the world. Everyone is here to pay their respects to Matt. No one here is angry and no one will judge you.’
She looks so small and delicate. Mousey and afraid. So not like Renée. The church is filling up quickly, but she doesn’t look up and watch people in her usual curious way. She keeps her head down, as if she’s been told off.
‘But I know what everyone is really thinking. They will all have seen Dean’s article. They all think I’m the slut who killed him.’
I swallow the urge to ask her not to use words like ‘slut’ in church, but I’m sure God will forgive her loose tongue considering the circumstances.
‘Renée, who cares if they do? We all know the truth, the people who love you.’
‘But I care what people think. I care a lot. They think that Mrs Richardson hates me. They don’t know that I went to see her, that we talked.’
‘Renée, remember, today is about Matt.’
We are about ten rows from the front, and Renée is between me and Aunty Jo. Matt’s coffin is not far away. Renée hasn’t looked at it once, but I can’t take my eyes off it. Poor Matt. I still don’t think it’s hit me that he’s dead. I know I have my own pain yet to come.
‘Just keep your head down if it makes you feel better,’ I tell Renée, noticing that some people are looking at her. I am worried that if she sees them she’ll just run out. I can’t imagine how self-conscious she feels, how responsible.
A few rows behind us I see Pete and Marcus with their parents. Both of them look destroyed. All of that cocky confidence is gone as they cry and stare at Matt’s coffin in disbelief. Then I notice Mrs Richardson walk in. Head to toe in black and wearing a black hat with a black net that covers her face. She is with another lady who is similar to her in age and a man who is crying. Maybe an uncle of Matt’s?
As they walk to the front of the church people pretend not to stare, but they all do. Some eyes flit between Mrs Richardson and Renée, hoping to sense some drama. Mrs Richardson walks past us slowly and Renée still doesn’t look up. She walks directly to her son’s coffin, puts her hand on it and prays. People begin to sob.
When she is done she turns and sees Renée. Rather than take her seat at the front, she slowly walks back up the aisle and stops at our pew. Everyone is prepared for an outburst. Aunty Jo and I look at each other, worried that maybe her attitude has changed.
Then Mrs Richardson leans forward and raises Renée’s chin with her finger.
‘Come and sit with me at the front. Please?’ she says gently. And to the amazement of everyone in the church, Renée, hand in hand with Matt’s mother, goes to sit at the front with the small amount of family present. I’m not sure I have ever witnessed anything so magical.
The service is lovely. Matt is described perfectly by the vicar as ‘sweet, kind and loving’. The vicar even asks everyone to pray for Renée, which will hopefully be the end of any judgement from anyone else. Gordon sings a song on his guitar and of course chooses one that has the words Christ, Jesus or God in every line. We try to avoid each other but make accidental eye contact as he finishes his song. I give him a little smile, and he gives me one back. We are different people, and it’s not to be, but that’s OK. This is no place to bear a grudge.
At the end of the service there is the feeling that everyone in the church has experienced something spiritual together. Even the atheists amongst us must have felt it. I don’t see one single person without tears running down their face.
The family leave first and as Mrs Richardson and Renée reach us, Renée holds out her hand and I take it. I walk out with her. As we step out into Town Square the daylight makes our sore, red eyes squint, and as things come into focus, we gasp. As far as we can see up the high street there are people. Hundreds and hundreds of them who couldn’t fit into the church but wanted to pay their respects. Mrs Richardson closes her eyes and inhales, as if taking in all of their love. It’s breathtaking.
‘He would have loved this,’ I say to Renée. ‘All he ever wanted was to be accepted and popular, and look at that. He got what he always wanted.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ says Renée, obviously feeling a little more confident than before the service.
Aunty Jo and I walk her slowly to the car.