31
WHAT CAN YOU say about a funeral? Folk ask, 'Did it go well?' then go red realizing what they've said.
There is no wellness in it. I worry that we haven't got the hang of politeness. I mean, those little tubs in bathrooms – what's the idea of them, exactly? Look in, they're empty. And bus tickets that accumulate in your pockets, the fluff in your trouser turn-ups, the grime you scrape from under your fingernails, what's the polite way to get rid?
And what to say when only me, Florence, and Tinker turn up to see Timothy off.
We warbled Bunyan's 'To Be A Pilgrim', the only hymn that matters. Tinker coughed all through, yet surprisingly sang in a good baritone, hardly any shale in clear tones.
Eleanor crept in to the rearmost pew as the service started. She'd brought little Henry, who sang lustily along in discord, and whose belly parped during momentous silences.
These caused Tinker to mutter, 'What the bleed'n hell's that?' looking round until I gave him the bent eye to shut it.
Tinker longingly eyed the kist where the altar wine's kept, disappointed there was no communion so we could all get sloshed in pious commemoration. I'd given him four notes so he could imbibe enough ale to sustain him during our grief. He stank like a brewery.
Still, he had attended. And nobody else had come. Note that, please, for future reference.
Hymns are trouble, I always think. If the congregation's massive, you're okay except when some pushy tenor or soprano reckons they're the bee's knees and outdoes everybody so we all shut up from embarrassment. If there's hardly anybody, like now for Timothy, your voice gets lost in the rafters so pigeons drown you out. It wasn't much of a service. There was no organist. The vicar had driven over from Hawkseley, very narked like we were a nuisance, his coffee ruined by thoughtless dead.
The coffin stood there on its trestles, a singular reproach. Only one wreath, that I'd got Tinker to bring. I always get flowers wrong, so told him to leave the choice to Pam in Sir Isaac's Walk. There's a whole language in blooms, isn't there, but working out what flowers mean only makes your eyes go wet at the wrong time – is there a right time?
The other hymn was Mrs Alexander's 'There Is A Green Hill Far Away'. It got the treatment from Henry, bawling on long after we'd done. Henry warbled his melody –
Eleanor desperately trying to shush him – even as the vicar intoned the homily. He didn't know anything about Timothy, of course, too sloppy to check with anybody. I'd tried to speak to him but he'd hurried in with, 'In your places, please,' and given the service a Brands Hatch start.
For pall bearers I'd got four lads from the Treble Tile, me and Tinker making six.
Carrying a coffin's hard. Our church has a trolley, donated by some kindly soul in 1847
so the poor could save on expense. It has only two wheels, but you put the coffin on it and push it among the gravestones as best you can. The grass isn't cut nowadays – it used to be in the past. Our own fault, really.
Luckily it wasn't raining. Eleanor and Henry came too. The lads lowered the coffin, Henry singing with gusto, his little belly working like tiny bellows, Eleanor trying to quieten him and smiling weakly when the vicar glared. I stood between Henry and the priest, who had a frigging job to do and ought to be getting on with it instead of showing he was a pompous prat.
The lads lowered the coffin and went. It left us six, seven if you count Timothy. I don't like staring in graves. I kept thinking the system's all off kilter. Surely God could have thought up something better than this? Get born, then some so-say accident cutting you off? It's barbaric. The vicar read a bit, shut his book with a snap, and reached to shake Florence's hand. Throughout it all, she'd stayed resolute. We dropped a handful of soil onto the coffin.
Then to my surprise Tinker stepped to the grave edge and cleared his throat, joining his hands like a child at prayer.
'Hang about, reverend,' he gravelled out.
'Tinker,' I said. I know he feels strongly about things, and didn't want Florence upset more than she already was. 'Come on, mate. We're done here.'
'Mr Giverill,' Tinker said, ignoring me and addressing the grave. 'Lovejoy'll do the buggers down as topped you, okay? Just so you know. God bless.'
'Mrs Giverill!' the vicar said, scandalized. 'Am I to understand from this that some threat...?'
'No, reverend.' I tried to smile. 'My pal here is, er, the deceased's cousin. They were very close. Mr Dill only means the, er ...'
'Arrangements for a headstone,' Eleanor put in calmly.
The silence spread until I obeyed Eleanor's prompting eyebrows and quickly cut in,
'Yes! That's it.'
Eleanor invited us all back to hers for tea and a wad. The vicar declined, stood there until I promised to settle his bill, which brought a beam to his face. We thanked him most sincerely for his indefatigable hard labour.
We set off down the lane, Tinker coughing his formidable cough and expectorating copiously into the long grass. Henry watched admiringly, doubtless longing for the day when he too could emit so much sound without being shushed all the time by a troublesome mother.
I was allowed to push Henry. I do this backwards, because he likes to see who's hard at it while he croons. He yelps with glee at passing dogs and bicycles, but goggles with most enthusiasm at wheelbarrows as we pass the allotments, his real favourites. I think he believes they're some kind of novel pram, on their way to collect a specially shaped infant.
Eleanor was kind. She'd seen that I was in difficulties over arranging a wake for poor Timothy. A lot of trouble, really, seeing she didn't know Timothy Giverill from Adam.
People joke, don't they, that a funeral's only ham butties and a slow walk. She'd done sandwiches and a kind of
