‘How long do you think we’ll be in there? I’ll put in two hours’ worth. I can always pop back out,’ she said, glancing in the rear view, biting her lip.
‘Yes, good idea.’
‘God, I hate driving in London . . . ’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it that one?’ She pointed to a building across the street, a dove grey facade, signage all in italic scroll.
‘Yes.’
We walked into the funeral parlour in silence, discreet lights encased in brackets on the wall, soft pink curtains pulled back to reveal a door behind the counter. On one side of the room a choice of urns in different shapes and colours on pedestals, framed quotes on the walls, a picture of footprints in the sand, low classical music piped from somewhere. A man with a too-flamboyant moustache emerged from the back room.
‘Mr Campbell.’ He walked towards us, his hand outstretched.
I took it.
‘Good to see you again,’ I said, remembering that first morning, the men who had arrived to remove your body. I hadn’t wanted to see any of them again, didn’t want to think about that moment, then realised your body was here somewhere being prepared, that you were in this building. The thought made my head spin and I tried to focus on the present. ‘This is Lottie, my granddaughter.’
Lottie was staring at the urns and it took a moment before the sound of her name sank in. She started a fraction before moving to shake the man’s hand. In this soft light she looked less wan, less thin.
I pulled the pieces of paper from the envelope wallet I’d been clutching as we were directed to two soft leather chairs at a side table.
‘Shall we? Can I get either of you a tea or a coffee?’
We both refused in low voices, a sombre mood settling over us. Simon should be here with me, not Lottie; it was such a lot to ask of her, she was only young.
Your list was thorough, decisions taken out of our hands. Short readings selected, brief, eloquent: you.
We were both grateful for your direction. The list meant you were in control, removing the need for us to second-guess, to worry it was something you wouldn’t want. I realised Lottie was as lost as I was and I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, reassure her, thank her for being there with me. My hands stayed frozen on my thighs.
A coffee ring had almost obscured your last song choice but the funeral director had been able to decipher it.
‘What do you think?’ I’d asked Lottie, pushing the sheet across to her.
‘It’s what she wanted, at least.’
The funeral director had bowed his head.
She dropped me back at the house, didn’t come inside, said she had work to do but that she’d call. I knew she was on the verge of tears and I wavered, wondering if I needed to force her out of the car, frog-march her into the house. My own energy levels were depleted, though, and I wouldn’t know what to say or do. I thanked her for the lift, tapped on her window as she left. She wound it down and I told her a brake light was out. Nodding thanks, she drove away.
The night before the funeral I couldn’t sleep. The house has been strange without you in it. I slept on my side of the bed, scrunched up far too close to the edge as if you were still starfished by my side. I miss the feel of your foot nudging me inch by inch, causing me to grumble, reminding me you were there. I haven’t slept well since you’ve died, and yet I’m dreading a night when I do.
Did I regret saying I’d meet people there? The house was empty and silent that morning as I stared at myself in your full-length mirror, at the ill-fitting suit that had been dusted down for too many weddings and funerals. Why hadn’t I bought something new for today?
I’d wanted to stay in the car park of the crematorium. You would have been in the passenger seat, pressing your lips together as you fussed in the small rectangular mirror overhead, chiding me, reminding me who so-and-so was married to, and remember X had divorced Y a while ago so I mustn’t put my foot in it. I glanced across at the empty seat, still unused to the silence, the space, the fact you were simply no longer there. And now I was about to get up and walk inside without you.
The funeral hearse was parked outside and I couldn’t help but drag my eyes across to it, the oak polished and bright, the wreath we had selected woven with the flowers you so loved. You were in that box, in this car park. I froze in the seat, hand on the lock, watching people drift inside. I saw Geoffrey fussing over Arjun’s tie before they disappeared inside, a woman I couldn’t place following in their wake.
Moving quickly across the tarmac, skirting puddles, my shoes tight, I managed to make it inside and up the aisle, eyes down, not yet ready to talk. I shuffled into the front pew, Lottie and Luke already there at the other end, Luke’s hand on Lottie’s lower back making small circular motions. Your sister Sue stepped across the aisle to say hello, her eyes, the same shade of blue as yours, red-rimmed.
Clasping my arm, she asked, ‘All ready?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
‘She would have liked the arrangements,’ Sue added, her head motioning to the enormous standing spray Lottie and I had picked out, the smell hitting me suddenly, the sweet fragrance winding round me in the front row.
One of the pieces you had chosen was playing, Haydn, and there was a gentle hum of talk, low voices, people reaching across to squeeze hands or kiss cheeks. I had been to services like this before, rifled through the Order of Service or stared round at the congregation. Now it was your funeral, your plans and it all seemed incredibly important. I wanted everyone to be still, to be quiet, to listen, to wonder at why you’d chosen this piece.
The coffin was wheeled up the aisle and there was a general hush as it was manoeuvred close to the curtains ready for the committal.
The service began. The female officiant had tight ginger curls and a thickening waist. She welcomed us and introduced the service. Sue delivered the first reading, her voice faltering at the start and then growing in strength as she looked round at us all. I tried to raise an encouraging smile, couldn’t hear the words, too aware of the coffin only metres away, the eulogy I was about to deliver. My palms dampened at the thought. I knew there wasn’t long, stared at the small stand set up on the left as the officiant moved the service along.
‘And now Cora’s husband Teddy would like to say a few words.’
Cora’s husband doesn’t. He doesn’t want to say anything. He just wants you here, healthy, sitting next to him. He wants this to be someone else’s funeral.
I felt my knees tremble as I walked past your coffin, couldn’t stop my eyes travelling its length, a breath catching in my throat, before I turned my attention to the rows in front of me, all eyes watching. Hastily I stared down at the small square of paper I was gripping, unfolded it, smoothed it. A lone cough, someone rustled. The words on the page couldn’t possibly be a sum of your parts. I read them softly, quickly.
Your sister gave me a watery smile as I passed her, dabbing fruitlessly at her face as the tears fell. Lottie was staring at the coffin. My heart ached for her, a small surge of anger at our son for not being the one standing next to her, and me. He should have got on a flight, he should be here. You’d never asked him for much; why wasn’t he here at your funeral? How could he miss this?
Another reading. I could barely concentrate on what Geoffrey was saying, too aware of the moment the coffin with you inside would disappear behind the curtain. It finally did. I stared at the space, the curtains remaining stubbornly closed as the service ended and we were being dismissed. People lingered in the doorway opening umbrellas to protect themselves against the dribbling rain, not enough to really get drenched. Lacklustre weather. Cars moved on out, windscreen wipers going. We had hired the hall back at Maplelands club for drinks and canapés, normally a place I loved spending time.