Getting Over It (3 page)

I hate to sound like someone who works for a woman’s magazine, but you’d think they’d try for a more stylish, less opaque wee bag. I am idly wondering about this when my father emits a loud rasp. Shit! Say it, say it, now, now, say it! But I am dumb. I clutch my father’s hand and think, stiffly, I love you, in my head.
Dad, I love you. Dad, did I tell you, Dad, I hope you know, Dad, I know we weren’t, we didn’t…
Just say it. Can’t. The words are glue. Think, “We’re through,” but a million times stickier.

The hours pass and I still don’t say it. Instead, I squeeze my father’s hand and bring my forehead to rest on it. This hand, this hand that’s waved for taxis, summoned the bill, signed checks with a flourish, caressed my mother’s face, and walloped me on the backside, this warm, solid, big paw of a hand will soon be cold and dead, flesh rotting, peeling away deep under the cold hard ground. Jesus Christ. My mother bustles in with a copy of the
Daily Mail
and marches off to bother Hilary. So instead of saying “I love you, Daddy,” and crying daughterly tears all over my father’s frail dying body, I read him extracts from the
Daily Mail
financial section.

Nana Flo returns and regards me suspiciously. “He can’t hear you!” she barks, before stalking off again. I get up, walk into the corridor, kick the wall and nearly break a toe. I lean against the wall and breath deeply. Then I hobble back into the ward—ignoring the wide stares of the ill and wretched—and continue my private lecture. And from nowhere the quiet murmur of the ward becomes chaos, with screams of “He’s arresting!” and “Put out an arrest call!” and swarms of people in blue and white run toward me shouting, pulling, clanking the bed, pushing trolleys, yanking curtains, and in the blur, as I am dragged away, I see the orange reading on the black heart monitor screen is a wild scribble and my father has slumped on his pillow. So I am with my father when he dies, but each of us is alone.

Twenty minutes later, the medical registrar, flanked by the adolescent, is explaining to my sobbing, shaking mother and my silent, still grandmother. There is brief confusion when he says my father suffered a cardiac arrest and has now “gone to another place” but the hurried addition of “I mean, he’s dead” clears it. My father is dead. He dies at 7:48
P.M.
He dies during the golden hour—when the setting sun cloaks the world in a warm yellow blanket of enchanted light. No more golden hours for Maurice. It is a beautiful day and my father is dead.

Chapter 3

C
INDERELLA’S GLASS SLIPPERS
were made of fur. But when the French interpreted the original text, they translated fur-lined as
verre.
My mother’s voice warms as she tells me this and I know she is reassessing Cinderella as a more homely, snuggly girl than the brash madam who click-clacked around the royal ballroom in hard shoes of glass. She loves stuff like this, which is why, as an infant school teacher, my mother kicks butt.

That, and she shouts louder than any person I know. The children adore her, far more than she likes them. Her motto is “You can’t get involved.” Not even when Ahmed’s mummy rings to ask if Ahmed, five, can stay the night at school because the white people on their estate have been smashing their windows and beating up Ahmed’s father and shoving dog shit through their letter box for three years and Ahmed needs to get some sleep. My mother does not take work home with her.

At home, my mother reverts to a fairy tale of her own. She is a northwest London princess, with a handsome prince called Maurice to look after her. You’d never guess she was an intelligent, educated woman. She flaps if she has to program the video. She is famed for not returning phone calls from Nana Flo or anyone else who is emotionally taxing. She follows the thick ostrich school of thought—that if you ignore your demanding friends and relatives they’ll go away—instead of getting angry and offended. She wants everything to be nice and if it isn’t, she stamps her feet until it is.

This is partly why my father’s death—my father’s death!—is a problem. She doesn’t want to get involved. She didn’t want to “view” his body (although to be fair, neither did I), she refused to see the hospital’s Bereavement Services Officer—“Don’t say that word!”—and she wanted nothing to do with the funeral arrangements. So it’s been left to me and Nana Flo who, amazingly, has become a whirr of efficiency.

Work has been great. I called Laetitia on Monday morning. She was sympathetic but pressured and suggested that I come into work “to take your mind off things.” I said, “Er, I think he’s on the brink, actually.” She also offered to send me some magazines “to tide you over.” I accepted, it would have been rude not to. Anyhow I’ve got a week off—free, compassionate leave. If I’m still off next week, I get half pay. Feeling mad and light-headed, I ring in to confirm what’s happened to my dad on Tuesday morning. I say the words but I’m not convinced. Immediately, the Editor’s secretary sends a huge bunch of orange flowers to my parents’ house. Luke’s agreed to babysit Fatboy and my mother’s a wreck, so I’m staying there. One thing I’ll say about
GirlTime,
they do a good bouquet. Lizzy calls me, says how sorry she is, and asks in a hushed voice if I’m okay. “I’m fine,” I say quickly, before I can think about it. She says, “Are you sure?” Really, I tell her, in a brittle pantomine voice, I’m fine, I’m busy, my mother’s freaking because she can’t believe the Passport Office is “cruel” enough to demand back my dad’s passport.

Lizzy wants details, and when I tell her about collecting my dad’s clothes and his watch in a plastic bag and my mother not wanting to leave the hospital, she starts sobbing. Unfairly, I am annoyed by this. How dare she cry! She then tries to regale me with jolly tales from the office. Today, she says, the managing director showed the former hostage Terry Waite—she actually says that, “the former hostage”—around the office and everyone ignored him because there was a beauty sale on. This is when the beauty department sells off all the cosmetics they’ve accumulated for 50p apiece and gives the proceeds to charity. Everyone bites and punches in their determination to nab the designer stuff. I couldn’t give a shit, but I muster a small appreciative snort.

Then Lizzy says something no one else would dream of saying. “Helen,” she says solemnly, “I’m sure you were a wonderful daughter. I’m sure your father was very proud of you.” Jesus! That is horrible. What a horrible thing to say. “Lizzy, please don’t say things like that,” I whisper, and hurriedly put the phone down. I’m trembling. My head feels leaden and unstable, like a boulder about to topple off a cliff. I grit my teeth so hard my whole face is a rictus. I breathe in quick short sniffs until the comfort blanket of numbness resettles. Only then do I trust myself to speak. “This house is pitch dark and freezing cold,” I say crossly to Nana Flo. I add spitefully, “It’s like a bloody morgue.” I stamp around turning on radiators and switching on lights. I remain chilly but feel calmer.

My mother is sitting on their—
her
bedroom floor sniffing my father’s jumpers. I leave her a cup of decaffeinated tea as I fear the real thing would send her into a drug-crazed frenzy. I’ve also hidden the Nurofen . Meanwhile, Nana Flo and I have divided the death duties, of which there are roughly a million. Lawyers, notices, certificates, application forms, wills, probates, pensions, policies, insurance, tax. Jesus. If I think about how much I have to do, I will scream and go mad so I am trying not to think. All I’ll say is, I hate looking after people and I hate organizing, so today is not a great day. Ideally, I’d like to slump on my bed and stare into space, but my heart is still pounding so it’s impossible to relax. It’s doing wonders for my metabolism and I now know why bereaved people get so thin. Michelle will be rabid. Also, I never thought I’d say this, but thank heaven for Nana Flo. She managed to shake my mother out of her stupor for long enough to show us where Dad kept his paperwork. She’s phoned all our ghastly relatives and told them not to come round just yet and she insisted on registering Dad—which involves an exhausting trek to Camden Town Hall.

I make her take a cab. She starts to protest that the bus is fine, so I say “my treat.” I tell the driver to wait for her and bring her back and I’ll pay. Hey, it’s only money, my dad’s dead, let’s live a little. I don’t know if it’s the delirium, but I’m beginning to talk in clichés. When I phone the local funeral home listed in the Yellow Pages—home! are they kidding?—I say “I’m ringing on behalf of my father.” Like I’m booking him into a hotel!

I haven’t a fucking clue what I’m doing and am using a blue leaflet the bereavement woman gave me titled “What to do after a death in England and Wales” as a recipe book. It’s a lot more use than my useless friends. Lizzy rings again to tell me she’s been talking to the Health and Beauty Director, who says there’s an organization called the Natural Death Centre which does eco-friendly funerals and biodegradable coffins. Then she says the words “woven willow pod” and I say, “I’ll stop you right there.” About six hours later, Nana Flo returns triumphantly with the death certificate—huffing because it cost her £6.50. I drop the cash into her purse while she’s in the loo.

Despite the laughable horror of the situation, the funeral guy is very sweet. He looks, as I expect, like Uriah Heep (or what I imagine Uriah Heep to look like, having never got further than the first page of any Dickens novel apart from
Great Expectations,
which we were forced through at school). He is tall, bony, with watery blue eyes, and gray hair in a critical stage of comb-over. His handshake is creepily limp. I brace myself for a grasping parasite, but he turns out to be kind. He ushers me into a room, the focal point of which is a very unsubtle painting of a stag in a dark forest, a bright ray of sunshine pointing directly at the stag’s head. He offers me a coffee and talks me through the options. We flick through a coffin brochure. Any minute now Nicky Clarke will appear. Uriah says that if a client chooses a cremation, “We recommend what I call a plain, dignified coffin.” He adds tactfully, “It’s not top quality wood, but you know what happens in a cremation.” I nod and smile as if I discuss cremating my father most days. Uriah continues, “It looks beautiful and on the occasion, you would not be dissatisfied if you saw it.” Bless his heart.

He also shows me a wreath brochure full of big, blowsy angel, pillow, trumpet, and chair shapes. Weird—surely death is more of a lie-down than a sit-down. The cost of a grave is unbelievable and Uriah is suitably disparaging about London prices. “A plot of land that would eventually cater for three people”—excuse me?—“would cost £1,000.” He sees my shocked face—although I’m less shocked by the rip-off cost than the prospect of a threesome—and adds, “London land is very expensive. A plot in Highgate cemetery can cost £50,000! Whereas, not so long ago, I had cause to bury my mother, in Cornwall. The plot was five pounds!” At the punchline I raise my eyebrows and say that, despite the cost, I think my family wants a burial.

My father’s burial, grave, death, body—a new vocabulary of ugly, alien, disgusting words. It’s grotesque and I can’t believe I’m here. I sit frozen in my seat, feet neatly together, and all the while my head is spinning like I’m riding on the big dipper and my brain is screaming
This is ridiculous it can’t be real,
and I want to run and run until it’s not. Uriah, meanwhile, is keen to stress that he’d liaise with the hospital, the minister, provide the hearse, the cars, remove all the hassle from my girlish head, and until the funeral, “Dad would stay here with us.” I smile and nod although I can’t imagine anything Dad would like less. “You can,” adds Uriah, “pop in and see him whenever you want.” He suggests that I go home, discuss the finer details with my mother, and ring him tomorrow. He sees me off with another weak handshake and “It’s a horrible day, isn’t it?” He’s right. It’s raining hard and the sky is as funeral gray as Uriah’s gray suit. “Thank you,” I say, and run to the Toyota.

I walk in the door and, do I believe my eyes! (I love that phrase—the Wizard of Oz says it—I even prefer it to my other favorite, “Would you credit it!”) Who do I see sitting at the kitchen table charming the bloomers off Nana Flo—who is old enough to know better—and my mother—who has magically applied full dramatic widow’s makeup plus long black dress—but Jasper.

“Jasper?” I say in a shrill squeak. “
Helen
!” bleats my mother, sweeping out of her chair and crushing me in a long, sorrowful hug. “You’ve been gone so long! I was terrified! I thought you’d had an accident!” Oh please! Like she ever hugs me! “Mum, don’t be silly,” I say. “I was sorting out Da—the funeral. I’ll tell you about it later.” I wriggle out of her steely arms and kiss Jasper chastely on the cheek. Foolishly, stupidly, I am delighted he’s here. Nana Flo and my mother show no sign of wanting to give us any privacy, so I suggest to Jasper that we go upstairs. We plod up to Dad’s study, which is in fact my old bedroom. My parents turned it into a study the day I moved out.

Jasper has got something to say. His face is very serious. “Helen,” he begins. “I am so sorry for your loss. Poor you. At least he didn’t suffer. And he had a good innings. And, I promise, time does heal.” He stops. I am furious. Mealy-mouthed twit! What else? Try to keep busy? It’s good to talk? Have a bubble bath?

“That’s very comforting,” I say, not bothering to hide the sarcasm, “although, Jasper, I’d actually prefer it if he was still alive.” This throws him. In Jasper’s world of Victorian etiquette, women don’t snap back. He falters, and adds, “Quite. It must be very difficult for you. And it must be even worse for your mother, she’s known him for longer than you.” Jesus Christ! It must be worse for all of us, you stupid arse!

“Look, Jasper,” I say. I am so angry I can barely speak. I am shaking, and—if you want the grim details—my sphincter clenches in three sharp spasms. Probably because it’s so damn amazed I’m saying what I think. “Look, Jasper, my father has just died and I have a lot to do. And you, saying things… saying stuff like… like what you were saying, it just isn’t helping.” For the first time since this fiasco started, I am close to tears. “Now, Jasper. Do you have anything else to say to me?”

He looks at the floor. Then, to my surprise, his face turns slowly crimson. “Sunday,” he announces. “I lied. I saw Louisa last week. And we boffed. I—I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” He looks straight at me. I stare back. “I felt bad,” he explains, “and, seeing as your father passed away, I thought I owed you the truth.” What a fine, courageous, upstanding citizen you are.

“Well!” I say, “How kind. Some good came of my father’s death after all!” Jasper doesn’t get it. He looks pleased, and says, “Yeah.”

“Jasper,” I say, clenching my fists. “You are a wanker. Please leave. It’s over.” His head jerks in surprise. “But,” he stammers, “but babe, it was a mistake. An error of judgment.” I glare at him. “It certainly was,” I say. I say it and I don’t even know if I care anymore, maybe I’m just saying it because that’s what you say. Jasper pushes his hand through his hair and in a patronizing tone says, “Helen, you’re—” I interrupt. In a harsh voice I say, “Jasper, you’re dumped.” The paradise-blue eyes harden and he shrugs. Then he leaves. He shuts the door quietly behind him.

Jesus. What have I done? The dizziness is back. Angry tears start falling, fast, uncontrollably. Furious, I sniff aggressively and smear them away. I walk into the kitchen in a daze. I feel ill, headachey, exhausted. My mother looks up. “Helen! What a nice boy! I can’t believe you never introduced us. He bought me lilies.” Pause. She sees my blotchy face and adds gently, “Darling. Did you know that during the war they grew vegetables in the Tower of London moat?”