One Moment, One Morning (34 page)

*     *     *     

Minutes later, the service begins.

The vicar steps forward and welcomes them with a few words. He reads ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’, just as Karen has asked, and then utters some prayers. There is a rustling of papers as the congregation reaches for the words, then an almost unanimous ‘Amen’.

Karen is struggling. She is biting back tears; everything seems too much, yet she wants to take it in, treasure these minutes, not cry. She is also aware of Molly and Luke beside her, doesn’t want them to cause a disturbance, though so far they are being surprisingly good.

The vicar nods at her. This is her moment.

Karen gets to her feet, walks over to the lectern. She is conscious of her heels clicking on the flagstones and the children watching her, wide-eyed.

In her hands she holds two pieces of A4, folded together in quarters. She opens them and leans into the microphone.

‘I started out not wanting to say anything,’ she admits. Her voice booms high up to the rafters, disconcerting her. She steps back a little, not wanting to be too loud. ‘And then I thought I couldn’t do that; it might be something I would regret not doing for the rest of
my
life.’

She is aware of row upon row of familiar faces, watching her. In each the emotions are transparent: she can see concern and expectation, people willing her to get through what she is about to say. She can see exhaustion, confusion, scores of unanswered ‘why?’s. Above all, she can see sorrow for the man they, too, have lost. She has never seen such grief, head on. It chokes her; for a few seconds she cannot speak. But she must do this. She
must
. She gulps.

‘So then I thought I’d tell you what I loved about Simon. And I began to make this list.’ She looks down, and reads: ‘His thick, lustrous hair.’ She smiles, and looks for Alan. ‘I know, I put that first, it’s ridiculous, but it’s the first thing I thought of. For those of you who didn’t know, Simon was very proud of his hair.’

Alan rubs his balding pate; his wife leans her head against his shoulder and squeezes his hand.

‘The list goes on. His laugh. His sense of humour. His ability as a father . . . Then I realized it was too good to be true: it didn’t really explain everything that Simon was about. You don’t want to hear just a list of his best qualities, do you? They’re not only what made the man. He wasn’t perfect. Far from it.’

She hears some people chuckle.

‘So then I started writing down his faults, and as I wrote, I realized; they’re what I loved about Simon, probably more than his virtues. It’s his failings that made him who he was. The vulnerable, kind, generous, funny, sociable, lovely man who is’ – she coughs and corrects herself – ‘
was
– my husband.’

She picks up the second piece of paper.

‘So, here goes. I loved that he was always late for everything. Not really late, but a bit late, all the time. But he would really beat himself up about it, constantly scold himself, when actually he wasn’t that bad a timekeeper. I mean, yes, he was often ten minutes late, sometimes twenty. But it was rarely anything more than that; not like some people, who keep you waiting for hours, or who cancel at the last minute. Instead he was very reliable; you always knew he’d turn up – he just operated several minutes behind everyone else. So, being with him, I soon learnt to make allowances: to add a quarter of an hour or so to when I’d expect him. Lord knows, the silly man never worked out how to do that himself, and just say he was going a few minutes later, but – well,’ – she shrugs – ‘he never did.’

Again she glances up; she can see Phyllis sitting between Molly and Luke, smiling and nodding in agreement.

‘Another thing,’ she continues, in the flow. ‘He spoilt the children.’

She sees her mother beam broadly.

‘He was utterly useless when it came to Molly and Luke – putty in their hands. He wouldn’t set boundaries. He’d give them second helpings when I wanted to save food till the next day; he’d let them off finishing when I wanted them to learn to eat up, and when he took them shopping, they’d come home with all sorts of things that he’d been persuaded to buy. Our house is full to bursting because of it. That, I’ll admit, often drove me mad. I was left to be the big bad discipline wolf. I rarely bought them presents on a whim because Simon did it far too often. But then a while ago, I realized how lucky I was. No parent is perfect, and the thing about Simon was he let Molly and Luke get away with a lot because he loved them so much. And isn’t it better to have a father who loves you too much, than not enough? He absolutely adored them.’ She looks down at Molly and Luke, and again wonders how much they are taking in. They are looking up at her, eyes wide. She is surprised, she had expected them to be distracted; it is not as if they are used to church. Phyllis leans around to give them each a hug.

‘Which brings me on to another of Simon’s flaws. He worked too hard, at least for his own good. Let’s be truthful: that commute, the stress, the hours, weren’t great for his health. But he did love his work.’ Now she looks for his colleagues, and spies a cluster of them, near the back. ‘He was rarely happier than when he was planning out some new landscape design. All that detail, all that potential of the plants. Though that’s not what made the job for him: it was that he loved the people he worked with; he often said so. He even – the creep – liked Charles, his boss.’ She laughs and nods towards Charles, who looks a little embarrassed. ‘He was, it’s true, thinking of changing his work, so he could spend more time with us and didn’t have to carry on commuting – you may not have known that. But regardless, he was planning on carrying on the same line of business, setting up his own practice – he was absolutely, one hundred per cent dedicated. And it was his choice to work that hard; no one forced him to do it. He was simply very conscientious, and wanted to do his best and provide the best for us, his family.’

She glances again at the children. By now Molly is in a world of her own, swinging her legs to some abstract rhythm where her feet don’t reach the floor. But Luke is still watching her, quizzical, as if he is trying to take on what she is saying, and is half getting it. He’s clutching Blue Crocodile in the crook of his arm; it’s as if the toy is listening too.

‘Goodness.’ She checks her paper. ‘Here I am, only on his third fault, and I’ve got heaps to go. Let me move on apace. There was his weight too – an imperfection, for sure. In fact, his health generally was not something he looked after as well he might. Well . . . he certainly paid the price for that.’ She bites her lip, holding back tears once more. ‘But again, there were things about even that I loved: his appetite, for starters – the way he just loved, enjoyed, his food. And I rather liked his size, it gave me more to cuddle . . .’

She catches her breath to steady her voice. ‘What else is there? Hmm, yes, his mess. He was pretty untidy, Simon – I spent a lot of effort clearing up after him. It never ceased to astonish me, given the neat architectural drawings he could do.’ She smiles ruefully and moves on to his taste in literature. ‘Dreadful, sometimes. Best-sellers, they were Simon’s weakness. He devoured them on the train; one, two a week. That awful code book, for instance. You know the one – it was out a few years ago. I’m sorry if some of you liked it. Though you’re in good company, because Simon absolutely raved about it, and, to my embarrassment, recommended it willy-nilly. To Anna, for instance. She’s a writer, if you didn’t know.’ She grins at her friend, who is shaking her head in recollection.

‘It wasn’t
that
bad,’ mutters Anna.

‘You said it was rubbish!’ says Karen, and laughter reverberates round the church. ‘That’s it, I suppose. I’ve got some more written down here, but I’ll leave this list out so you can all have a look later, if you want, when you come back to the house. Thank you, Vicar.’ And she gets down from the steps and returns to her seat, careful to take the folded pieces of paper with her, tidy to the end.

Anna is the first to arrive back at Karen’s. She is keen to make sure Steve has fulfilled his culinary pledge, so when Karen asks her to go ahead and welcome guests while close members of the family go on to the cemetery, she is thankful to have an excuse. She has Molly and Luke with her too; Luke got tetchy after the service and wanted to go home, so Anna offered to escort him, then Molly wanted to come as well. They have been very good, and Karen decided the burial might be a bit much for them. Anna is secretly glad not to have to go through the ‘ashes to ashes’ stuff herself.

Steve opens the door and Anna knows immediately that he is on form. Once more he is clean and well presented, and there is a mouth-watering aroma of baking; once more she is relieved. But it’s a dance she is tiring of: one step forward, two steps back.

He reaches to embrace her, and she shies away.

‘Aw, come on,’ he pleads, and she lets go of the children and allows him to wrap his arms around her.

Yet after a few seconds she begins to feel suffocated: the rough wool of his jumper makes her hot and chafes her cheek; the clinch feels more like imprisonment than condolence, and she wriggles free.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I just can’t do that at the moment.’

He drops his arms, helpless. ‘OK,’ he says, but she can tell from the way he stomps down the hall that she has offended him. Yet even this antagonizes her: compared to Steve, Lou was so generous in her support, asking for nothing in return; she just gave. And when the funeral was over, she slipped away without fuss to the station.

I suppose it is easier for her, Anna reasons. She is not bound up in this; she is not my partner, she didn’t really know Simon.

Still.

She follows Steve into the kitchen, ushering Luke and Molly with her. ‘It smells great, darling,’ she says brightly. ‘Well done.’

Then she sees what he is doing. At first she can’t believe it, but, yes, he has a corkscrew, and glasses.

She is incredulous. ‘You’re not drinking, are you?’

‘Of course,’ he says, sounding as incredulous as she.

‘It’s a
funeral
,’ she mutters, trying to keep her voice low so Molly and Luke don’t hear.

‘People will want wine.’ Steve is confident.

‘Yeah, they might, but not the moment they walk through the door.’

Guests are coming down the hall and into the kitchen as she speaks.

‘Glass of vino?’ offers Steve, blasé.

‘Er, yes please, I suppose, why not?’ says the first arrival. It’s Charles; he is a little taken aback, but seems happy to be offered it.

Steve grins at Anna sarcastically.

Anna is gobsmacked by his audacity. ‘It’s not even one o’clock,’ she growls, watching through narrowed eyes as he hands a glass to Charles and pours a second for himself.

‘I’d prefer a cup of tea,’ requests one of Simon and Karen’s neighbours.

‘Sure,’ Anna says, tight-lipped, ‘let me make you one,’ and she elbows Steve out of the way to reach for the kettle. ‘Actually,’ – she changes her mind – ‘perhaps you could do this,
darling
. I’m going to see if Molly and Luke would like a bite for lunch. They normally eat quite early,’ – she leans to ruffle their hair – ‘don’t you, my loves?’

*     *     *     

The sign at the end of the carriage tells Lou the lavatory is engaged, but she wants to be first in the queue: must be all the water she drank in the park, earlier. She makes her way in the same direction the train is headed, catching the handles on alternate seat backs in broken rhythm, endeavouring to steady herself as the train speeds and sways.

She stands in the concertina gap between carriages, waiting. The train unexpectedly lurches and Lou loses her footing for a moment, staggers, triggering the automatic door open and closed, open and closed. Eventually the black lettering on the lock rotates to ‘vacant’ and a woman and small boy emerge. ‘Sorry,’ mouths the woman, as she guides the child ahead of her, hand on head. Lou smiles, sympathetic.

She enters the cubicle with a sense of trepidation: they can be grim, train loos. Afterwards, as she battles with the defective hand dryer, she hopes her mother appreciates what she’s putting herself through. Lou spends vast tracts of her life commuting anyway; a train is the last place she’d choose to be on a Saturday. And today she is forgoing both Vic’s birthday party and seeing more of Sofia.

Lou’s mother irritates her at the best of times; she’s not sure she’s going to have the patience to deal with her. It has been a full-on twenty-four hours following a particularly demanding week, and Lou is both physically and mentally worn out. It won’t take much to rile her, yet she knows in advance that her mother is likely to find it hard to comprehend why she wanted to go to Simon’s funeral. If she is expected to justify her decision, that will annoy Lou all the more because she’s seen it coming.

And that is the easy bit, believe it or not. She certainly won’t be able to explain to her mother that she is tired because she met a potential new girlfriend the night before and they were up till the small hours.

Once again Lou wonders just how much longer she can carry on living what is essentially a lie. Time and time again recently, with increasing ferocity, it just doesn’t feel right.