I’m sure Dad can talk Mum around in terms of the costs. If not, I’m going to have to use the last of my money. Or try to access what’s in trust for Jack. I feel guilty for even contemplating that, but I’m running out of options. That’s if Rob hasn’t had it already. I must check. He’d have needed to forge my signature again, but he clearly wasn’t averse to doing that.
Emma thumbs through diary pages. “We’ve got an eleven thirty am slot this Friday for a cremation, if that’s any good? Is that long enough for you to inform everyone who might want to attend?”
“I can’t imagine there’d be that many people.” My voice sounds hostile, even to me.
She looks slightly taken aback, so must have noticed it too. Although I’m sure that in that her line of work, she will have heard everything.
“This Friday is fine.” Well, I wanted to get on with it. I can’t imagine anyone coming from his work, given the circumstances.
“We have your husband’s full name as Robert Lee Matherson, date of birth, 4th February 1983, and home address 7 Orchard Mews, Otley, West Yorkshire.”
“That’s correct.”
“We have the date of death as the 8th June, the cause of death on his certificate, as a brainstem trauma, and the place of death as Denton Road, Otley.”
I nod. I should be bawling my eyes out. After all, I’m sat here, arranging my husband’s funeral. The man I had adored enough to marry and have a baby with. At one time I would have done anything for him. And I did, mostly. But now… perhaps I’m just my mother’s daughter. Heartless. Cold. Unfeeling.
“Right. I need to get some details to personalise the funeral. First, can you make a choice from these options?”
I’m floored as a brochure full of coffins is slid towards me. What a decision. How does anyone choose a coffin? “That one,” I say, letting my finger hover over the cheapest one.
“What about flowers?” She flicks her brochure open to a price list.
“What do people normally have?”
“Lilies or roses, usually. White is a popular choice.”
“Budget is a consideration.” I hang my head. What must she think of me? I can hardly tell her he’s fleeced me of most of my money, and that he was carrying on with his former fiancé behind my back. Nor can I tell her I’m a prime suspect in terms of who finished him. Maybe I should have let bloody Bryony sort his funeral out.
“We could organise a mixture of the two and include some white carnations. That would work out less costly. Is it just a spray for the top of the coffin?”
“Yes.” Then I think of Jack. I’ve seen flowers spelling out names at the side of coffins. He’s too young to come to the funeral. Then I remember something. Oh God. It’s his birthday on Wednesday. I’ve not even bought him a present or organised anything. I must sort that when I leave here.
“How much would it cost to spell D-A-D out in flowers?”
She runs her finger down what looks like a price list. “Erm, fifty pounds per letter.”
Daylight robbery, I want to say, but I ask her to add it to the bill.
“Have you thought about what you’d like your husband to be wearing for his final journey?”
I hand the carrier bag of clothes I’ve chosen across the table. It’s what he’d normally wear – when not at work, cycling or golfing. Jeans, t-shirt, and trainers.
“When we’ve got him ready, you’re welcome to visit him. If you could call us first.”
“Visit him?”
“It often helps with the grieving process. Some relatives report it helps to bring about a sense of closure and acceptance to see their loved one at peace.”
Loved one. What does she know? I certainly wasn’t his loved one, the way he was treating me. However, this sudden pique of incredulity turns immediately to sorrow. If anyone had told me nine years ago, when we married, that I’d be sitting here now, arranging his funeral, I would never have believed them. I would have somehow ensured that events had taken a different path.
“I don’t think I’ll want to see him, thanks.”
She looks at me, curiosity written all over her face. “Are you getting any support for yourself, Mrs Matherson?”
“Call me Fiona. Yes. I’m OK.”
“I can put you in touch with someone if you’d like me to.”
“Honestly, I’m fine. If we could just get on.”
“Right, OK, onto the service. Will you be wanting a family car to follow the hearse?”
“I’ll follow it in my own car, if that’s OK. It’s black anyway.” That’s if the police don’t end up impounding it before then, I feel like adding. My next-door-neighbour, Tim, mentioned he saw DI Green and PC Robinson looking around the Jeep last Monday afternoon, when they first came to give me the news. Come to think of it, Christina mentioned something when she first came over too. Though that afternoon is a complete blur. Obviously, there was nothing on the car for them to see. I must mention this to my solicitor. It’s why they haven’t impounded my car. At least that makes sense.
“You will not drive yourself, will you?”
“No. I’ll probably go with my dad.” I imagine Mum will come too unless she has plans to reunite with lover boy. I can’t believe all the crap that’s flying around my head. Maybe I should take up the undertaker’s offer of being put in touch with someone and try to let it all out. Although it would take a unique specialist to pervade and help make sense of my thoughts and feelings right now. I feel like I could explode.
