The priest read on. ‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’
Famie opened her eyes.
‘Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days: that I may be certified how long I have to live.’
Ella and Freddie were lined up by the graveside. The sight of them, faces now screwed up in grief, not wanting to throw their handful of earth on their mother’s coffin, was, finally, more than Famie could take. She ran. She ran and sobbed, ran and raged, ran and cursed. Tommi and Sam caught up with her eventually but by then she was almost at the car park and they knew better than to talk to her. She slowed, they all slowed. They walked to the car in silence.
Sam noticed the envelope first. ‘Someone’s left a message,’ he said.
A blue envelope had been tucked under the right windscreen wiper. They all peered at it. It had ‘Famie Madden’ typed on it.
‘What the fuck …’ she said, tugging it from under the rubber. Welcoming the distraction.
Sam and Tommi pushed closer as she opened the envelope. Inside, a single sheet of white paper, folded once. She pulled it out. Unfolded it. It contained two lines of double-spaced typewriter script.
Famie read out loud. ‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.’ She looked at Tommi, then Sam. ‘Huh?’ she said.
‘Well at least it’s not a parking ticket,’ said Sam.
13
THE RETURN JOURNEY was a lighter affair. Three quarter-pounders and a pile of fries sorted their post-funeral hunger and when Famie offered Sam and Tommi drinks at her flat, they accepted. She found a new bottle of gin, some tins of tonic, and filled a bowl with some ice.
‘Knock yourself out,’ she said.
Famie opened the lounge windows wide to the early evening breeze and the stale, oppressive heat in the flat eased considerably. She sat on the sofa, grabbing her laptop as she propped herself up. From her pocket, she fished out the envelope.
‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,’ she read again. ‘Any takers?’ She looked up at Sam and Tommi, measuring tonic into three tumblers, her fingers poised above the keyboard.
‘Sounds vaguely familiar,’ muttered Sam. ‘Line from a film maybe?’ He handed Famie her drink.
‘Probably someone advertising pizzas or something,’ suggested Tommi, already pouring his second.
‘OK, you’re officially useless,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what Dr Google has to say.’ She typed and sent. Her screen filled with text and video links, and she hit the first one. ‘There you go,’ she said, spinning the screen to include Sam and Tommi. She hit play. A black and white video started to play. A young waistcoated Bob Dylan stood in a ramshackle street, white A3 cards held in his hands.
‘What is it?’ said Tommi.
Famie’s jaw dropped theatrically. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Really?’
Tommi shrugged.
‘“It”,’ said Famie, ‘is one of the most iconic videos of all time.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Remind me not to put you on any entertainment stories,’ she said.
They watched as the singer held, then threw away the cards, each with key words and phrases from the song written on it in black marker.
‘And that’s Allen Ginsberg on the other side of the street,’ she said. Tommi opened his mouth to speak but Famie ploughed on. ‘And if you ask who Allen Ginsberg is, you’re fired.’ Tommi closed his mouth.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Sam.
‘Wait,’ said Famie, ‘I remember this now. My dad used to play this stuff all the time.’
Dylan was into the second verse, the words ‘District Attorney’ etched in black capitals on his card. There followed ‘Look Out!’, ‘It Don’t Matter’, ‘Tip Toes’, ‘No Dose’, ‘Those’, ‘Fire Hose’, ‘Clean Nose’ and ‘Plain Clothes’.
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Tommi,’ shouted Famie, pausing, rewinding slightly. ‘Listen, for Chrissakes.’
She hit play. As Dylan dropped the ‘Plain Clothes’ card, he sang the words they’d been looking for – ‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows’ – while holding a card with ‘Wind Blows’ written on it.
There was silence in the room.
‘OK, well, so what?’ said Sam. ‘It’s a line from a Bob Dylan song.’
‘“Subterranean Homesick Blues”,’ said Famie.
‘OK, it’s a line from “Subterranean Homesick Blues”. And?’
Famie spread her arms wide. ‘And … I have no idea. It means something. Rings a bell I think, but right now, I’ve not a clue. Neat video though. I’d forgotten how much I love his stuff.’ She selected some tracks from a playlist on her laptop and the opening chords of ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ played from the speakers.
‘Your brain has been addled by all that Mozart,’ said Sam over the intro. ‘Now this is music.’ He raised his glass, clinked the ice.
They sat in silence, a companionable if mournful silence. Famie glanced at her friends; Sam with his eyes closed, Tommi leaning forward, eyes to the floor. She knew they were about to embark on an alcohol-driven, post-funeral reflection so she thought she would go first.
‘Well today has been fucking awful,’ she said.
