I was tempted to try claiming my own body one last time, repossess my life—can you imagine the astonished faces of the crowd if the coffin lid pulled aside and a dead man climbed out? I knew it would be pointless, though: my corpse would already be beginning to deteriorate despite the mortician’s best efforts to delay the process. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t be looking my best.
Leave it, I told myself. There is no going back.
Primrose, my once oh-so-happy little girl, was helped into the limousine and I fought against a desperate desire to climb in beside her. But, trivial as it might sound, I wondered where I would sit. Andrea had climbed in after Prim, followed by her parents and my mother. And there was Oliver too, occupying the passenger seat beside the driver. Six, plus the driver, was probably full capacity, even if one was only a half-pint.
Others had started to follow, getting into their cars and switching on the engines. Grey vapours were coming from exhaust pipes like swirling ghosts in the cold, damp, morning air. It was no longer raining, but the day was overcast and dull, perfect for a funeral. The hearse pulled away and proceeded slowly along the avenue, Andrea’s limo trailing it, more falling in behind, the cortege speeding up only slightly when it turned into the busy main road. I glided alongside the long car carrying Andrea and Primrose, peering into the side windows to catch a glimpse of them. Prim’s face was buried into her mother’s side, and Andrea’s own face remained concealed beneath the veil. I hardly needed prompting, but I realized again how precious your own family was. They are a man’s unit. They go beyond parents and siblings; they had to mean so much more to you. They own you and you own them, not in any selfish way, but in terms of responsibility. They are a huge part of you and help define who you are. And mutual trust is the cloth that binds. Remember I said that.
I was struck by the courtesy shown to the funeral procession, both by other road users and pedestrians. On two occasions I witnessed elderly men remove their hats as a mark of respect when the hearse passed them, but the biggest surprise came when a baggy-trousered youth in a camouflage jacket whipped off his reversed baseball cap and made a quick Sign of the Cross as we drew level. Other drivers were remarkably patient with the slow pace, and one bus driver even refused to overtake when there was plenty of room to do so. I have to admit, their regard touched me.
On we went and it was easy for me to glide alongside, my feet touching tarmac only now and again, but the misery bleeding from the limousine carrying my nearest and dearest was palpable and I was beginning to feel sorry again not only for them, but for myself. I suppose all of us have at one time or another wondered what it would be like to be a guest at our own funeral, and I can honestly tell you this: it’s no fun at all.
I shouldn’t have been shocked, but there you go: I was. Totally. I hadn’t expected the funeral cortege to pull into a crematorium.
They were going to burn me.
I really hadn’t anticipated that. Why should it matter if I were dead anyway? I don’t know. It just did.
Maybe I hadn’t entirely given up reclaiming my life, sinking back inside my body and willing it to move. It would scare the hell out of everybody and I’d have to spend years undergoing operations and a lot of plastic surgery, but what did I care? Anything to be flesh and blood again.
No. The burning of my flesh and bones meant the end of me. Possibly I was doomed to roam the earth (or hang around my house) for the rest of eternity as an entity, a shade, wraith or ghost; a lost soul, a spirit, a bogeyman, a spectre, a wandering phantom, a disembodied being—there were all kinds of names for what I’d become. Yet I didn’t feel any one of them was truly me. And now, to have what I was reduced to warm ashes—well it left me without any connection at all to the world I knew, not even the proof that I’d once lived.
Andrea and I had never discussed our individual deaths, had never made any plans for whoever was to go first. I was certain I’d never mentioned cremation at any point in our life together, probably because when you’re young and healthy it isn’t the kind of thing you want to think about. I suppose I’d just assumed that one day I’d be buried. After all, I was a Catholic, a bad one, I know, but nobody had ever banned me from the club, and Catholics were not meant to be cremated. Or didn’t it matter anymore, had the rules changed without my knowledge? Maybe nobody had bothered to tell me. Perhaps it had become like eating meat on a Friday, reduced in the ranks from most grievous sin to no sin at all. Maybe it no longer necessarily meant that my soul would be condemned to the fires of hell throughout eternity. Maybe these things were not as important anymore. Like missing mass on Sunday—a mortal sin I’d been assured by nuns and priests when I was a child. Like masturbation. God, the guilt I’d suffered. Things changed in the more popular religions, centuries-old dogma suddenly modified or just plain recanted because the church had to keep up with the times, had to modify to fit in more easily with today’s society in which values had diminished and morality was politically incorrect. We told you that, did we? Sorry, but there’s been a change in policy. All those who committed what they thought was mortal sin throughout the centuries agonizing over it, punishing themselves for it. Well, they’d understand when they finally reached nirvana. So what else isn’t really a mortal sin anymore? Well have to get back to you on that one.
And they wondered why people had become cynical about religion these days.
Anyway, none of that really mattered to me right then. It hadn’t been a huge revelation to me that I’d found neither heaven nor hell after my death, so why was I bitching now? Oh yeah, I was annoyed that I was going to be cremated.
It was an imposing (imposing while remaining understated) red building set among splendid lawns and gentle rises. A tall tower, which obviously was a chimney stack, rose from the rear of the building, and inside the entrance vestibule was a glass door tastefully marked “Chapel”. Everybody alighted from their vehicles, and followed the coffin, which was respectfully carried on the shoulders of four pallbearers, into the red-brick crematorium. There had been other cars waiting when the cortege had arrived, people standing around in groups, making polite and suitably reverential conversation, and I began to feel humbled by the large turnout. I hadn’t realized so many people had liked me—there were even some of my business clients among them—and felt the need to pay their respects. I saw familiar faces that I hadn’t set eyes on for years; friends, acquaintances, even my lawyer. There were also a lot of faces I didn’t know, wives or husbands, partners of people who knew me when I was alive. The sight of all those mourners made me gulp. Again, I wanted to cry.
Into the chapel they filed, voices hushed, movement slow, and I waited for a break to slip through. I could have entered via the red-brick wall itself, but for some reason I wanted to do things as normally as possible. I drifted down to the front pew where I knew I’d find the two people dearest in the world to me.
Andrea and Primrose sat in the middle of the front bench, Andrea’s parents by the side of her, my mother next to Prim, whose poor little face was puffy with new tears. My wife had lifted her veil and her face was drawn, her skin ashen. Behind them sat Oliver and Sydney, members of our staff filling the rest of the row. Sydney’s expression was grim but passive; Oliver’s eyelids looked sore, as if he had wept a lot himself these past few days.
I sat on a raised dais at the centre of which was a plain, linen-covered altar bearing a wooden crucifix. I wanted to look at the feces of my friends and family, silently to thank each and every one for attending. There must have been a hundred or more people there and I was filled with a sad warmth, suddenly loving and missing them all. If only I could communicate, let them know that I was fine, that physical pain never followed you into death. In fact, very few physical sensations did, for I was neither warm nor cold, I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. And the weariness I felt was of the soul, with nothing physical to it. All other sensations were merely remembered.
I leaned against the lectern.
The service seemed to pass very quickly. No hymns were sung, but Grieg and Beethoven were played through the adequate sound system. It was soft and gentle and almost composed to evoke tears. The priest said a few words, indicating I was a good man if not a particularly religious one. The fact that he’d never actually met me didn’t deter him from showering me with praise that I felt I hadn’t deserved and was probably attributed to all the deceased, no matter who they were, in every service he conducted. To my surprise, it was Sydney who went to the lectern for the eulogy; I’d expected Oliver to say some kind words about me. When I looked at his wretched face I guessed he had probably been too afraid of breaking down halfway through his speech to take on the responsibility. We’d known each other for a long time and been through many highs and lows together.
I won’t repeat Sydney’s generous words about me; suffice to say that there were quite a few loud sobs and sniffles here and there amongst the congregation, as well as much blowing of noses. Andrea kept her head low so that I could not see her face, while Primrose softly cried against her mother’s breast throughout, a short length of material, known as her “Bit of Blank”, held in her hand so that she could stroke her own cheek with it. The material was all that remained of the pink blanket she had constantly carried around with her since she’d been a toddler. After years and years of wear and washing, the wool had finally disintegrated into tatters, and eventually only the
