The service was at eleven thirty in the morning and by the time Merrin made it up the hill in the black dress and shoes that Miguel had so kindly and thoughtfully packed for her, a borrowed scarf and her coat, the blue sky had taken on a grey bruise. It was the colour only the Cornish coast knew: a special dull, mink grey that filled the big sky, conveying not only the damp chill in the air, but also the misery.
Of course, she hated arguing with Ruby at any time, but especially right now, with so many other upsetting and intrusive thoughts jostling for position in her head. She made the decision to apologise to her sister when the opportunity arose, whether justified or not, but still she was pleased at how she had stood up for herself, not only to Ruby, but to Loretta too. It was all about clearing the air and making things as smooth as possible for her mother. Plus, Ruby was pregnant and any added stress could not be good for her or the baby.
Kicking off her shoes, she found a spot on the verge overlooking the church in the centre of the village and squatted down out of sight, resting on gorse and hidden by the trunk of the great oak tree, on which she rested her palm, taking some small measure of comfort from the history of the place in which she had been born and bred. Leaning against the tree, she pulled the scarf into her neck, not that it stopped her shaking – nothing could. Her cold went all the way to her marrow. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t. Today her sadness went way beyond tears. Her bare feet anchored her to the spot and helped clear her muddled head in the way that they did. Her heart hurt as much as her head and she felt a little otherworldly.
‘I can’t believe this is happening, Dad. Can’t believe I won’t see you . . .’ She had learnt over the last few days that a lack of response did not stop her chatting to him.
With a clear view of the neat flint walls surrounding St Michael’s, she watched as people began to arrive early. Mrs Everit from the shop with Mr Everit in tow. Dr Levington, his wife and their two children. Mac and Mrs Mac from the pub, and Mr and Mrs Higgins from the butcher’s, Robin. Everyone was there. And still they kept coming. Faces she recognised from school and other businesses around Port Charles, neighbours near and far, the vet – everyone, that was, except her own family, who she knew were waiting until the last minute before having to step inside the church, delaying the moment they had to say goodbye to the man they so loved.
A shiny Range Rover pulled up and out popped Loretta. Merrin held her breath and peered at the woman, paying close attention to her and the very red lipstick on her thin lips. And something occurred to her: while she would never be fond of the woman and most likely would never forgive her, gone was the intense hatred she had felt towards her, and more importantly, gone was much of her fear. It was a wonderful realisation that she could bump into her in the street or even the shop without anger and dread in her stomach. In fact, there was no one in the whole town she felt the need to avoid, not any more. She was a Kellow and it was here in Port Charles, a place she had missed so much and where everyone had now turned out to show love for her dad, that she would always belong.
She looked up at the sky and noticed how very still the clouds were, as if not a whiff of breeze dared stir the solemnity of the moment. There were no birds flying overhead; even the resident gulls were silent. And the ocean appeared to have lost its roar. Life was on hold and to Merrin this made sense, as for her, too, time had almost stood still. A quick glance at the church clock told her it was ten minutes past eleven; time to go. She wiped the bottom of her feet and slipped her shoes back on before making her way to the path and walking down the hill, just as her mum, Jarvis and Ruby came alongside the slipway and into view. Their arms were linked, like a depressed cabaret act, all in textures of black and staring down the street with heads that looked heavy as they waited for the hearse, which they would, as agreed, walk behind. Merrin rushed over and stood behind Ruby, before reaching forward and holding her sister close to her in a tight hug.
‘I love you, Ruby Mae,’ she whispered. ‘My big sister.’
Ruby turned her head and smiled through her sore, swollen eyes.
Merrin kissed her cheek and walked to the end of the chain, linking an arm with her mother, who squeezed it against her waist with love.
The car moved slowly into view. It was long, black, shiny and imposing, quite out of place in their little village. It pulled over a little way down the lane and out climbed a man in a black frock coat and a black hat. He nodded ceremoniously at them and moved to the middle of the road, where he walked with solemnity, and the car followed.
The family held each other tight as the vehicle passed them and there in the back lay a pale-wood coffin with shiny handles and a large fish made of flowers lying on the top, perfect for their man of the sea, a son of Cornwall.
With almost perfect choreography, they fell into step behind the car, not crying, not wailing, but leaking their sadness and wiping at eyes that in recent days might have wondered if this was their new permanent state: releasing tears and swelling in response. Heather was strangely silent, walking like a drunk and being held up by those who loved her.
As they started the slow procession, accompanying Ben on his final trip through the place he loved, a sound so mournful and beautiful cracked open the stillness. It was the voice of a male choir, lined up on the terrace of the pub and all with eyes closed and faces turned towards the heavens, singing ‘I Am Sailing’ – loudly, proudly and beautifully, their deep voices carrying the words higher and higher all the way up to Heaven and out over the sea. There wasn’t a soul present who could fail to be moved by the soulful melody, sung in perfect time.
‘Did you do this, Jarv?’ Heather asked, looking from her son-in-law to the men singing them along their passage.
Jarvis nodded through his tears.
‘I thought he’d like it,’ he managed.
‘Oh, Jarv.’ She smiled at him with a hint of life behind her eyes that had been missing for days. ‘He’d bloody love it.’
And so they walked together, with the song falling and rising around them, carrying them forward like the tide itself.
‘Where are you going, Merry?’
‘Just for a walk on the beach. I want to get the last of the light.’ She grabbed her dad’s old yellow oilskin jacket and popped it on, letting the sleeves hang over her hands and liking the scent of him that lingered on it still.
‘How are you feeling?’ her mum asked softly, her expression tortured, her eyes tired.
‘Glad today’s nearly over. I’m sad, Mum, a bit numb. I don’t really know how to feel.’
Heather nodded, suggesting it was the same for her.
‘I’m going to close my eyes in the chair for a minute or two. I know it’s early, but I’m done.’ Her mum bit her lip and wiped her face with trembling fingers.
‘I shan’t be long,’ she said over her shoulder as she quietly closed the cottage door behind her.
Merrin walked the cobbles and let the cold air of early evening sharpen her thoughts. The moon was full and the sea calm. The sounds of celebration and remembrance and hoots of laughter drifted from the back room of the pub, where Ben’s wake was still in full swing for those who had decided to make a night of it. And for the briefest moment in the foggy confusion of grief, she pictured her dad inside, propping up the bar and laughing at whatever merriment was occurring, before the hard lance of realisation made him fade from the picture. The irony was he would have loved today: the singing, the beer, being the centre of attention . . .