cheeks were flushed and wet and she was rubbing her hands together like an old woman. I put my arms around her and held her, feeling the tears trickle onto my shoulder as she cried.
‘I dreamt Daddy was back,’ she said, haltingly between the sobs. ‘He came into my room and said he’d been away but he’d come back and he’d bought me a present. He kissed me. I could feel him kiss me. Then I woke up and he wasn’t there.’ She sobbed again and after a while her breathing steadied and deepened and I thought she was asleep, but she spoke again, whispering into my ear. ‘Daddy is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, love, he is.’ There was no doubt about it, we’d watched the coffin slide along the stainless steel rollers and through a purple velvet curtain on the way to the furnace to the tune of some recorded hymn. We’d seen the coffin go but I knew what Sally meant. We’d said goodbye to a wooden box with a wreath on top, we hadn’t said goodbye to him. He’d died in his office of a massive haemorrhage that flooded his brain in less than two seconds and which killed him before he even hit the floor. Click, like a light being switched off. Sally and I were at home when our mother got the phone call. It was the school summer holidays, I was waiting for my A level results and Sally was enjoying her seemingly endless break from primary school drudgery. Our mother walked into the room in a state of shock and put her arms around us. The Saint was on television, Roger Moore in black and white. It was 4.15 in the afternoon. It was a Wednesday. Our dad was dead and we never saw him again. He was cremated three days later and Sally started having the ‘I’m back’ dreams.
‘I don’t know if he’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘They should have let me see him,’ and then she fell asleep. She was right, of course. We’d last seen him at the wheel of his BMW, waving goodbye and promising to take us to the pictures that night. The memories were all of him alive, walking, talking, laughing, shouting. The memories didn’t allow for the possibility of him not coming back. He was alive in our heads and our hearts. We should have been allowed to see him before they cremated him, but that wasn’t the way things were done. He went from the office to a hospital to an undertaker into a sealed coffin and into a furnace. A wake would have been better, the Irish had the right idea, put the corpse on show, remember the good times, celebrate them, but be aware that they are over. It’s not even a human thing. Take two dogs that have lived together for years, then one of them gets run over. The survivor will pine for weeks, searching the house, looking for its partner, ears pricking up hopefully at every night-time noise, just in case. But if you take him to the body of the dead dog, he’ll sniff it, maybe nudge it with its nose, then walk away uninterested. There’s no forlorn howling, no whimpering, no attempt to get the carcass on its feet, just a placid acceptance that what was once living is now dead. Acceptance, that was what I wanted, just the knowledge that Sally was dead so that she wouldn’t walk into my room when I was asleep and say ‘I’m back’ and kiss me on the cheek. But how could I explain that to Howard? I couldn’t, so I didn’t even try.
The taxi stopped in front of a line of wreaths on the pavement. Before I could reach for the door handle it was opened by a swarthy youth wearing a red T-shirt and dark blue shorts. His hair was damp with sweat and in his hand he held a battered black clipboard. He spoke to me in rapid Cantonese and I shook my head. Howard was still sitting in the taxi, sorting green notes out of his wallet. The man pushed the clipboard in front of my face – it held a chart full of different designs of wreaths, circular, oval, square, plain and fancy. He poked at one of the varieties with his forefinger and spoke to me again. I shrugged, but by then Howard was by my side.
‘What does he
‘I dreamt Daddy was back,’ she said, haltingly between the sobs. ‘He came into my room and said he’d been away but he’d come back and he’d bought me a present. He kissed me. I could feel him kiss me. Then I woke up and he wasn’t there.’ She sobbed again and after a while her breathing steadied and deepened and I thought she was asleep, but she spoke again, whispering into my ear. ‘Daddy is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, love, he is.’ There was no doubt about it, we’d watched the coffin slide along the stainless steel rollers and through a purple velvet curtain on the way to the furnace to the tune of some recorded hymn. We’d seen the coffin go but I knew what Sally meant. We’d said goodbye to a wooden box with a wreath on top, we hadn’t said goodbye to him. He’d died in his office of a massive haemorrhage that flooded his brain in less than two seconds and which killed him before he even hit the floor. Click, like a light being switched off. Sally and I were at home when our mother got the phone call. It was the school summer holidays, I was waiting for my A level results and Sally was enjoying her seemingly endless break from primary school drudgery. Our mother walked into the room in a state of shock and put her arms around us. The Saint was on television, Roger Moore in black and white. It was 4.15 in the afternoon. It was a Wednesday. Our dad was dead and we never saw him again. He was cremated three days later and Sally started having the ‘I’m back’ dreams.
‘I don’t know if he’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘They should have let me see him,’ and then she fell asleep. She was right, of course. We’d last seen him at the wheel of his BMW, waving goodbye and promising to take us to the pictures that night. The memories were all of him alive, walking, talking, laughing, shouting. The memories didn’t allow for the possibility of him not coming back. He was alive in our heads and our hearts. We should have been allowed to see him before they cremated him, but that wasn’t the way things were done. He went from the office to a hospital to an undertaker into a sealed coffin and into a furnace. A wake would have been better, the Irish had the right idea, put the corpse on show, remember the good times, celebrate them, but be aware that they are over. It’s not even a human thing. Take two dogs that have lived together for years, then one of them gets run over. The survivor will pine for weeks, searching the house, looking for its partner, ears pricking up hopefully at every night-time noise, just in case. But if you take him to the body of the dead dog, he’ll sniff it, maybe nudge it with its nose, then walk away uninterested. There’s no forlorn howling, no whimpering, no attempt to get the carcass on its feet, just a placid acceptance that what was once living is now dead. Acceptance, that was what I wanted, just the knowledge that Sally was dead so that she wouldn’t walk into my room when I was asleep and say ‘I’m back’ and kiss me on the cheek. But how could I explain that to Howard? I couldn’t, so I didn’t even try.
The taxi stopped in front of a line of wreaths on the pavement. Before I could reach for the door handle it was opened by a swarthy youth wearing a red T-shirt and dark blue shorts. His hair was damp with sweat and in his hand he held a battered black clipboard. He spoke to me in rapid Cantonese and I shook my head. Howard was still sitting in the taxi, sorting green notes out of his wallet. The man pushed the clipboard in front of my face – it held a chart full of different designs of wreaths, circular, oval, square, plain and fancy. He poked at one of the varieties with his forefinger and spoke to me again. I shrugged, but by then Howard was by my side.
‘What does he
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