you.’
‘It’s wonderful you’re here,’ he said, so sincerely that it was almost as if it was his wife that was being buried. He stepped backwards, but didn’t yet look away.
‘Thank you for coming. And nice to see you too, Ged.’
I looked after his retreating back, not quite sure what to make of him.
‘Thank God they released the body,’ said Ged, his voice low.
‘Was it ever really in doubt?’ I asked.
‘They had to do a postmortem. They haven’t even got a death certificate yet.’
I gulped in a mouthful of warm air. ‘Why not?’
‘They can’t give a cause of death.’
‘She killed herself,’ I said, too sharply. Why was I so desperate for the facts to stay in straight lines? ‘She died because she fell.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ged, ‘but with suicides they don’t just say it’s a suicide. There’s still got to be an inquest. They just give you some scrappy thing – an
interim death certificate – so you can . . .’ He looked over at Lysette. She was holding on to Helena, Kimberley hovering close by, her glossy blonde hair pinned into an
elaborate up do. She’d obviously found the strength to get herself to the hairdresser. ‘Do what you have to do.’
‘It’s just a formality though?’
‘Yeah, sure, it’s quite normal . . .’ Ged winced at his choice of word. ‘With suicides it’s often an open verdict, if they feel like they don’t
know exactly what happened. It’s not “beyond reasonable doubt”. I’ve been reading up. Didn’t think the Mrs was in need of regular updates.’ We looked back over
to her, and, almost as if she could feel our gaze, she broke away from the group. She half ran towards Ged, mascara painting her raw cheeks.
‘Come on,’ she said, urgent, grabbing hold of each of our hands, and pulling us towards the dark mouth of the church door.
Just for a second, my feet refused to comply. I looked behind me at the open church gates, my heart lurching. Tragedy came through the door every day in my job, but it wasn’t like
this.
*
The church was thronged with mourners, airless and muggy. The coffin was already there at the front like a hostess waiting for her guests. When silence eventually fell it was
more like a scream. Lysette’s gang were in a pew a few rows from the front and we squeezed in next to them. I perched on the end, which gave me a perfect vantage point of the front row.
Joshua was in the middle, his arm firmly encircling a small boy. Max. I’d seen him outside, a doll – Woody from Toy Story – clutched in his hand, a big
pair of glasses dominating his small, freckled face. When Joshua turned to whisper something in his son’s ear, I saw his aquiline face in profile. It was lined and angular, moulded by grief
into an equation all of its own. When he bowed his head down towards Max’s ear, his movement was slow and measured, like he had his feelings under control, but it was taking every scrap of
his energy. Max looked up at him, his face full of trust that was absolute and broken all at once. Tears rolled down my cheeks unbidden, and I searched my pockets for the wad of loo paper I’d
hastily snatched from the downstairs bathroom when we left.
The vicar – a tall, spindly man with greying curls – stepped up to the pulpit. His opening words felt like thin gruel, inadequate for what it was we’d come to mourn –
when he directed us to the order of service for the first hymn I was glad he’d been put out of his misery. But as the singing started – quiet at first and then swelling and rising to
engulf the space – I found myself almost missing the dull monotony of his voice. This was only the beginning. It was like the first juddering shakes of a roller-coaster car, the whole
tumultuous ride still to come. People were openly sobbing all around me, but the jagged, animal cries from a few rows behind were impossible to ignore. My head swivelled round before I could stop
myself.
It took a few seconds to
‘It’s wonderful you’re here,’ he said, so sincerely that it was almost as if it was his wife that was being buried. He stepped backwards, but didn’t yet look away.
‘Thank you for coming. And nice to see you too, Ged.’
I looked after his retreating back, not quite sure what to make of him.
‘Thank God they released the body,’ said Ged, his voice low.
‘Was it ever really in doubt?’ I asked.
‘They had to do a postmortem. They haven’t even got a death certificate yet.’
I gulped in a mouthful of warm air. ‘Why not?’
‘They can’t give a cause of death.’
‘She killed herself,’ I said, too sharply. Why was I so desperate for the facts to stay in straight lines? ‘She died because she fell.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ged, ‘but with suicides they don’t just say it’s a suicide. There’s still got to be an inquest. They just give you some scrappy thing – an
interim death certificate – so you can . . .’ He looked over at Lysette. She was holding on to Helena, Kimberley hovering close by, her glossy blonde hair pinned into an
elaborate up do. She’d obviously found the strength to get herself to the hairdresser. ‘Do what you have to do.’
‘It’s just a formality though?’
‘Yeah, sure, it’s quite normal . . .’ Ged winced at his choice of word. ‘With suicides it’s often an open verdict, if they feel like they don’t
know exactly what happened. It’s not “beyond reasonable doubt”. I’ve been reading up. Didn’t think the Mrs was in need of regular updates.’ We looked back over
to her, and, almost as if she could feel our gaze, she broke away from the group. She half ran towards Ged, mascara painting her raw cheeks.
‘Come on,’ she said, urgent, grabbing hold of each of our hands, and pulling us towards the dark mouth of the church door.
Just for a second, my feet refused to comply. I looked behind me at the open church gates, my heart lurching. Tragedy came through the door every day in my job, but it wasn’t like
this.
*
The church was thronged with mourners, airless and muggy. The coffin was already there at the front like a hostess waiting for her guests. When silence eventually fell it was
more like a scream. Lysette’s gang were in a pew a few rows from the front and we squeezed in next to them. I perched on the end, which gave me a perfect vantage point of the front row.
Joshua was in the middle, his arm firmly encircling a small boy. Max. I’d seen him outside, a doll – Woody from Toy Story – clutched in his hand, a big
pair of glasses dominating his small, freckled face. When Joshua turned to whisper something in his son’s ear, I saw his aquiline face in profile. It was lined and angular, moulded by grief
into an equation all of its own. When he bowed his head down towards Max’s ear, his movement was slow and measured, like he had his feelings under control, but it was taking every scrap of
his energy. Max looked up at him, his face full of trust that was absolute and broken all at once. Tears rolled down my cheeks unbidden, and I searched my pockets for the wad of loo paper I’d
hastily snatched from the downstairs bathroom when we left.
The vicar – a tall, spindly man with greying curls – stepped up to the pulpit. His opening words felt like thin gruel, inadequate for what it was we’d come to mourn –
when he directed us to the order of service for the first hymn I was glad he’d been put out of his misery. But as the singing started – quiet at first and then swelling and rising to
engulf the space – I found myself almost missing the dull monotony of his voice. This was only the beginning. It was like the first juddering shakes of a roller-coaster car, the whole
tumultuous ride still to come. People were openly sobbing all around me, but the jagged, animal cries from a few rows behind were impossible to ignore. My head swivelled round before I could stop
myself.
It took a few seconds to
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