She had planned the funeral meticulously. The appointment of the celebrant, Joan – caring, non-religious. The eulogy, which had been funny and heartfelt. The choice of Gabbie – calm, mature Gabbie – to do the reading. The wicker casket. The careful selection of the songs from Jess’s favourite playlist. The flowers – a simple, modern, hand-tied spray of long-stemmed white roses with spurs of orchid. Even the weather was as ‘ordered’: benign, light, bright shafts of spring sunshine falling between the trees. Fran had discovered that funeral-planning played to her strengths. Organisation, budgeting, meticulous time- and people-management. It helped, of course, that she had an in-depth knowledge of her subject. Her daughter. Marcus had let her have free rein, assenting to her choices with little comment.
Now for phase two. The wake. An open bar at the local rugby club, chosen because it was big enough to hold all the mourners. Fran had opted for non-traditional catering – curries and samosas from Jess’s favourite restaurant. Everyone had been invited back to send her off in style. Well, not everyone. Dom and Harry had been asked not to come back to the club. It was only at Marcus’s insistence that Fran had agreed to them coming to the funeral. She hadn’t wanted the pressure of their attendance, the inevitable speculation it would cause. This day was for Jess. And Jess alone. In reality, Fran had seen Dom and Harry only briefly when Jess was carried into the chapel, two tall, dark shapes in the back row – Harry’s shoulders shaking and Dom standing unwavering beside him; but that was it, a glance. It was all she could cope with.
The bottleneck outside the crematorium didn’t seem to be dispersing. The relief at getting the service over and done with was palpable, the mood strangely upbeat. Conversations sprang up, ties were loosened. Many of the mourners tilted their faces up to the sun, a few even closed their eyes. Fran and Marcus were trapped amidst the sea of bodies. As yet another relative pulled her into an unwelcome embrace, Fran looked over their shoulder and saw the ushers moving through the crowd, trying to encourage people to make their way back to the car park at the bottom of the drive. Another service was due to start, presumably. A conveyor belt of grief. Their efforts seemed to be having little effect. The wodge of bodies remained solid. There was a slight pressure on her elbow, another demand for attention. She turned. It was the undertaker.
‘Perhaps if you made your way to the car, Mrs Beaumont. People might follow suit.’
Fran nodded and passed the request on to Marcus. He seemed relieved to be asked to make a move.
By an unspoken understanding, a pathway opened up to let them through and the crowd grew silent once again, the same ripple of respect that they had endured in the hospital corridor. The undertaker led the way. Fran and Marcus followed his slow, measured steps, the object of pity. Everyone was sympathetic and supportive, of course – sharing a tiny portion of their pain – but, in truth, Fran knew that many of them were secretly counting their blessings. She would have been the same. Unable not to think, ‘Thank God it wasn’t my child.’ A glimpse of Sal, with Tish at her side, standing under the trees, on the far side of the crowd, only served to underline their fate.
With the wake in full flood, Marcus excused himself and headed to the Gents, not because he needed to go, but because he wanted a break from the distress of other people. Jess’s friends were the worse. Their beautifully made-up, bewildered faces haunted him. And his mum, Karen, pouring tea, passing around the food, comforting others with such kindness and dignity, it hurt. Marcus felt guilty for bringing so much grief into her life. He had failed to protect them all. Failed to protect Jess.
But there was only so long a fully-grown man could hide in a toilet cubicle. Eight minutes felt like the maximum. He tugged his shirt straight, glanced at himself in the mirror and headed back down the corridor towards the melee.
Based on the noise alone, you would never have guessed it was the funeral tea for a seventeen-year-old girl. The clink of glasses, the volume, the requests for another G&T and half of lager – it sounded like a party. As he neared the room he slowed. He wished they would all just go away. He wanted to go home, shut the door, lock it, go upstairs, take off his suit, lie on the bed and stay there. He couldn’t face having to talk again, to absorb the inarticulate struggles of these people, all of whom he knew, many of whom had loved Jess in their own, individual ways, but none of whom had loved her as much as he did.
Marcus stood, unobserved in the corridor – invisible for the time being. The gathering had a life of its own now, fuelled by food and drink and relief. The tension from earlier at the crematorium had dissipated. The worst bit was over, for them.
He searched the room, looking for Fran.
She was on the far side, sitting with Teri and Chris, their next-door neighbours. At least she was with good people. Teri, especially, had been stalwart in her support. She’d been round to the house most days, bringing food, offering to shop or run errands, trying to help Fran with the funeral arrangements – though Fran had been very resistant to that. He understood. The funeral was the last thing she was going to be able to do for Jess. Hence the obsessive attention to detail on everything from the exact shade of purple for the ribbons on the casket to the appropriate number of poppadoms for each person.
From his vantage point, Marcus watched them, gathering enough momentum to propel himself across the room. Fran was talking, her hands carving shapes in the air – a noticeably frantic spot in an already-busy room. The repressed energy that had been crackling through her in the build-up to the funeral was obviously, finally, finding an outlet. In response to her deluge of words, Teri and Chris seemed to be nodding – a lot – and saying very little.
Marcus worried about what was going to happen when Fran’s mania ran out; which it no doubt would, when they returned home, alone, with nothing to do. He set off, weaving through the throng, saying ‘Excuse me’ often and swerving the many attempts to stop him and draw him into a conversation or buy him a drink. He acknowledged the sympathetic smiles and tried not to flinch away from the pats on his arm and his back, but he was determined to keep moving. He needed to be with his wife.
The area near the food was packed. A lot of people were still eating, many appeared to be on their second ‘fly-by’ of the buffet. Fran, Teri and Chris were trapped at a small table in the corner, cut off from him by the queue for the lamb bhuna. Marcus edged through the line, making his apologies, and very nearly made it. The celebrant, Joan, proved to be the last obstacle. She turned, saw him and put down her plate.
She’d conducted the service beautifully. She’d spent a lot of time with them beforehand, ‘getting to know’ Jess, making notes, recording anecdotes, asking gentle but probing questions about the glory that had been their daughter. The resulting eulogy had been written with great care, and delivered with sensitivity and humour.
‘How are you holding up, Marcus?’ Joan rested her hand on his arm. Painted nails. That surprised him.
He shrugged. ‘You know.’
She smiled. Because of course she did. She did this for a living. ‘I thought Jess’s young friend, Gabbie, did an amazing job. Such maturity. But there again, people often underestimate the young, especially at times like this. In my experience, they can actually be the best at processing and expressing their emotions. It’s a different generation. A different approach to feelings and loss. And all the better for it, if you ask me.’ She went on, ‘There are a few practical matters that I could do with discussing with you. If that’s all right.’