there was no public grieving, no counselling sessions for friends, no appearances sobbing on local television. There was a big turn-out at the funeral, though. Colin had been a bright hope in the town, a charismatic presence, an athlete, an academic and a charmer of each generation.
The Western was a well-groomed cemetery with evenly spaced graves, wide walkways and huge monkey puzzle trees. It sat on the edge of town, overlooking tattie fields through a thin wire fence. Colin’s grave was at the back, amongst the more modest modern plots, and David walked up alone, noticing a line of neat Marines’ graves, all young men, not much older than David, who had died in the Falklands War. The idea of all those once youthful bodies lying decomposed under the turf shocked him. Poor bastards. Enjoy life while you can, he thought, because you’re a long time dead. The thought didn’t cheer him up any.
At the graveside he met up with Gary and a few other classmates, most looking like little kids playing a dressing-up game, trying to look upset, trying to wear a seriousness that they simply didn’t have the life experience to actually feel yet. It felt so unreal, the sun beating down between the tree shadows, cars zipping past beyond the fields, the sombre religious intoning from someone who didn’t even know Colin – ‘a life cut down in its prime’, for God’s sake. David noticed Neil wasn’t here. He had considered not coming himself, so he understood.
He looked at Gary, who seemed in worse shape than he was. He wanted to say something, something meaningful that might help both of them make sense of what was a nonsensical situation. A few days ago they’d all been blind drunk together, and now one of them was in a box, having earth shovelled over him. He suddenly couldn’t stand to look at Gary anymore. He wanted to be alone and very, very drunk; he wanted to crawl into his own little hole and hide.
He went to the wake to show face, but only stayed briefly. There was such a colossal distance between his generation and his parents’ that he couldn’t think of anything to say to Colin’s lost-looking mum and dad. His own parents were there, offering bland, formulaic condolences, and all the older mourners seemed like automatons, offering the appropriate programmed responses to stimuli. David just wanted to get out of there and start drinking properly.
He spent the rest of the day drifting from pub to pub, going to places that were not his usual haunts, just so he could be alone and unknown. But there was no such thing in Arbroath, and too many vaguely recognized well-wishers kept making comments about Colin that were simply strings of platitudes and clichés hung out to dry. He was thrown out of two pubs for being loud and abusive, then picked a fight with a large stranger outside Fatty’s chippy, just so that he could be hit and feel the reality of pain in his body. He staggered home, blood dripping from his nose on to his white shirt, and vowed never to go out in this stupid fucking town ever again.
Yet here he was, driving past the old golf clubhouse that was now a guesthouse perched on the hilltop edge of town. He negotiated a new roundabout on the road in, drove past a new statue which seemed to have two people in monks‘ outfits waving a parchment in the air, and headed up the hill towards his B&B.
As he turned into Nolt Loan Road and caught sight of the Keptie Pond his mind was deluged with lighter childhood memories. The water tower stood imperiously over the pond like a tinpot baron’s castle, while the island in the middle of the pond was still packed with trees and ducks and swans. There had been some new landscaping around the edges, he noticed, and new signposts warning about thin ice, and forbidding ball games, and reminding dog walkers about picking up dogshit as they went. The hut where you used to hire boats from was gone, as were the boats. But despite all the small changes, this was definitely
The Western was a well-groomed cemetery with evenly spaced graves, wide walkways and huge monkey puzzle trees. It sat on the edge of town, overlooking tattie fields through a thin wire fence. Colin’s grave was at the back, amongst the more modest modern plots, and David walked up alone, noticing a line of neat Marines’ graves, all young men, not much older than David, who had died in the Falklands War. The idea of all those once youthful bodies lying decomposed under the turf shocked him. Poor bastards. Enjoy life while you can, he thought, because you’re a long time dead. The thought didn’t cheer him up any.
At the graveside he met up with Gary and a few other classmates, most looking like little kids playing a dressing-up game, trying to look upset, trying to wear a seriousness that they simply didn’t have the life experience to actually feel yet. It felt so unreal, the sun beating down between the tree shadows, cars zipping past beyond the fields, the sombre religious intoning from someone who didn’t even know Colin – ‘a life cut down in its prime’, for God’s sake. David noticed Neil wasn’t here. He had considered not coming himself, so he understood.
He looked at Gary, who seemed in worse shape than he was. He wanted to say something, something meaningful that might help both of them make sense of what was a nonsensical situation. A few days ago they’d all been blind drunk together, and now one of them was in a box, having earth shovelled over him. He suddenly couldn’t stand to look at Gary anymore. He wanted to be alone and very, very drunk; he wanted to crawl into his own little hole and hide.
He went to the wake to show face, but only stayed briefly. There was such a colossal distance between his generation and his parents’ that he couldn’t think of anything to say to Colin’s lost-looking mum and dad. His own parents were there, offering bland, formulaic condolences, and all the older mourners seemed like automatons, offering the appropriate programmed responses to stimuli. David just wanted to get out of there and start drinking properly.
He spent the rest of the day drifting from pub to pub, going to places that were not his usual haunts, just so he could be alone and unknown. But there was no such thing in Arbroath, and too many vaguely recognized well-wishers kept making comments about Colin that were simply strings of platitudes and clichés hung out to dry. He was thrown out of two pubs for being loud and abusive, then picked a fight with a large stranger outside Fatty’s chippy, just so that he could be hit and feel the reality of pain in his body. He staggered home, blood dripping from his nose on to his white shirt, and vowed never to go out in this stupid fucking town ever again.
Yet here he was, driving past the old golf clubhouse that was now a guesthouse perched on the hilltop edge of town. He negotiated a new roundabout on the road in, drove past a new statue which seemed to have two people in monks‘ outfits waving a parchment in the air, and headed up the hill towards his B&B.
As he turned into Nolt Loan Road and caught sight of the Keptie Pond his mind was deluged with lighter childhood memories. The water tower stood imperiously over the pond like a tinpot baron’s castle, while the island in the middle of the pond was still packed with trees and ducks and swans. There had been some new landscaping around the edges, he noticed, and new signposts warning about thin ice, and forbidding ball games, and reminding dog walkers about picking up dogshit as they went. The hut where you used to hire boats from was gone, as were the boats. But despite all the small changes, this was definitely
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