‘I wanted to read one of Mum’s favourite poems,’ I say into the microphone. ‘It’s called “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman. Mum was always on at me to read it when I was younger. She was always on at me to read a lot of things but, being a typical moody teenager, I never listened to her. And then, a week ago, Simon and I were going through stuff at her house, and I spotted this on one of her bookshelves.’ I take the tatty Walt Whitman paperback out of my pocket and hold it up. ‘It’s not exactly in great condition, as you can see. And as everyone here will probably know, that’s typical for one of Mum’s books. Pretty much every book she ever owned has a cracked spine and dog-eared pages and is full of scribbled notes in the margins. She was proud of that. She used to say to me: “That’s how you know they’ve been properly read.”’
There’s a warm ripple of laughter at this, and for a moment it drowns out all the sobs and sniffs. I keep going.
‘A week ago I finally read this poem, and I can see that I should have listened to her all along. Because she was right: it’s brilliant. She was always right, really … about everything.’ I feel myself starting to falter, and I have to grip both sides of the podium. ‘I’m not going to read the whole thing, because it’s far too long. But the last stanza was where Mum had done most of her underlining and scribbling, so I thought I’d read that. So, here goes.’
I take a deep, wobbly breath. And as I lay the book open on the podium, I spot him.
The watch-seller.
He’s sitting in an empty pew right at the back of the church, his blue eyes fixed straight on me. The rest of his face is unreadable beneath his wild grey-gold facial hair. He’s still wearing his shabby suit, with the jacket buttoned right up and his reindeer tie just about visible underneath. He nods at me solemnly, and without thinking, I nod back. A sad smile cuts through his scruffy beard, and I’m reminded again of Grandad Jack. It’s weirdly comforting, like there’s another member of my family here, spurring me on.
In the front row, Daphne is smiling encouragingly too. Three rows behind her, Harv is doing the exact same thing.
For some reason, I don’t feel angry at being back here any more. I don’t need an explanation. I understand.
Trying to keep my voice steady, I open the book and focus on the words in front of me:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
I look up. The sea of faces is now completely blurred by my own tears. But I got through it. I didn’t let her down.
People are clapping now as I walk back to my seat, and Uncle Simon grabs my shoulder as I pass and whispers, ‘Well done.’ And as I reach Daphne, she stands and takes me in her arms, and I just feel so pathetically grateful that I was given this second chance.
When the ceremony is over, my cousins and I carry the coffin outside while Mum’s all-time favourite track, ‘A Song For You’ by Gram Parsons, echoes around the church’s wooden beams.
I look around for the watch-seller, but I can’t see him. The whole congregation gathers as the coffin sinks down into the earth, and I remember what happened at this point last time. I just walked out: told Daphne I needed some time to myself before I joined everyone else at the wake, and spent the next hour wandering the streets alone, fizzing with misery and anger and horror at the idea of living the rest of my life without Mum in it.
This time, though, I take hold of Daff’s hand and ask if she minds if we stay here a little longer, just the two of us. I tell Simon and Harv we’ll be right behind them all, and before long the graveyard is empty, and it’s just me and Daphne, sitting in silence on a bench in front of Mum’s grave.
‘I’m so glad you did that reading,’ Daff says. ‘Your mum would’ve been so proud.’
‘I’m glad, too,’ I tell her. ‘Though to be honest, just before I got up to do it, I thought I was going to lose it completely. I’m sorry.’
She shakes her head almost angrily. ‘Ben, are you crazy? You don’t have to say sorry. You should be losing it. You don’t ever have to apologise for that.’
‘I do, Daff. I wish I’d told her … I wish I could have said sorry to her.’
‘Don’t be so silly. What would you possibly need to say sorry for?’
And so, finally, I decide to tell her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was a Sunday night, eight days before she died.
Daphne and I were supposed to be round at Mum’s for dinner, but Daff had been called to some last-minute film screening in Soho. So in the end, it was just Mum and me.
And that felt
