“I’ll get a new one sorted this weekend.”
“What’s up with your old one? Can’t it be fixed?”
I don’t answer her. Hopefully, she’ll get the message that I absolutely don’t want to be having a trivial conversation about a mobile phone whilst following my husband’s coffin to the crematorium.
I feel even more disoriented than normal this morning, probably in part with what I’m about to face, and it might also be the effects of my new medication. At least I hope the tablets have removed all temptation to have a drink at the wake. I fiddle with the bracelet Rob bought me whilst I was expecting Jack.
People pause and even cross themselves in the street as we turn and embark on the final stretch of our journey. It’s a similar day, weather-wise, to the one on which he died. I feel the weather is taunting me somehow. It should be stormy and grey, with driving rain.
The hearse turns into the crematorium driveway towards the throng of darkly dressed people awaiting its arrival. At the other side of the building, there’s a group of mourners emerging into the back courtyard. It’s one in, one out here – a conveyer belt of dead bodies and their mourners.
I scan faces for Dad as we pull up beside the crowd. No sign of him, or Mum. Anxiety rises in me like bile. Surely, he wouldn’t leave me to face this without him. Simone’s face crumples as she sees the coffin. I don’t particularly like her, but the sight of her dad in a hearse is something no ten-year-old should have to witness. Denise draws her towards her.
Bloody Bryony’s here. I must stay away from her. It’s part of my bail conditions. If anyone should have to leave the funeral, it’ll have to be her. DI Green and PC Robinson are standing close to her. What the hell are they doing here? It’s not as though they knew Rob.
I think back to the crime dramas I’ve watched, where police attend funerals to watch how people interact with one another. This sometimes leads them to whodunnit. Who’d have ever thought that I would end up in the middle of my own crime drama? I wonder if Turner is here somewhere, perhaps they will collar him. I can’t see him turning up, somehow.
Christina’s voice slices into my thoughts. “I’ll drop you off here Fiona and find somewhere to park.”
I don’t want to be dropped off. I frantically look around for someone I can stand with. Where is bloody Dad? As I open the door, Lynne steps out of the crowd and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I’m grateful for it. Some of my neighbours are here too – I’ll get through this. People are rooting for me.
They slide the coffin from the hearse onto a trolley. I stare at the lid, recalling it stood against the wall in the chapel of rest yesterday. I can visualise Rob’s face, now encased within the coffin. I wish I could have one more look. I bet everyone else here is curious too. What a macabre thought.
“Do we have any pallbearers? Mrs Matherson?”
My head jerks up in response to the undertaker’s voice. “Erm, I’d not even thought about that.” I don’t think Joseph mentioned it in our meeting on Wednesday. Wednesday seems such a long time ago. Life is so strange. The days seem long, yet in retrospect, everything seems to be happening so fast.
People are staring at me. I can’t breathe. I need to get in and out of there. If only I could hit that golf club and get wasted. I shouldn’t have started those Antabuse.
“I’ll be one of the pallbearers. I’m Rob’s friend.” A man, who I don’t recognise, steps towards the coffin.
Another man comes forward too. “Rob and I played a few rounds.” He beckons towards someone else. “Tom, we’re about the same height.”
Three more men come forward and arrange themselves according to height as best they can to carry Rob in. I’m thankful to them. There’s no sign of anyone from Rob’s work, which is disgraceful, to say he worked there since his university days. No matter what he’s been investigated for, surely he had friends? Maybe Phillip Bracken has forbidden them to attend.
As the pallbearers move along to the strains of the Coldplay song, we follow, me first, with Lynne linking my arm, through the foyer of the crematorium. The song has nearly finished by the time everyone is in.
The D-A-D display has been placed at the foot of the coffin and the beautiful spray of roses, lilies and carnations is sat on the top. I absently wonder what happens to the flowers afterwards. Am I expected to take them home, or do they get binned? There’s nearly three hundred quid’s worth there.
“I’m sorry we’re late love. Traffic.” I want to cry at the sound of my dad’s voice as he slides into the pew beside me. Lynne, on my inside, shuffles up.
“Where’s Mum?”
“She’s here. Just gone to find a loo. How are you doing?” He pulls me towards him, and I feel myself let go. I’m comforted by the scratch of his beard, the scent of his aftershave. He’ll catch me if need be.
“I’m OK. Numb. Sad. But I’m glad you’ve come.”
“Of course we have. We wouldn’t let you go through this on your own.”
I notice an emphasis on the word we. I hate this sudden feeling of unity he has found with my mother. Especially as I know if she’d had her way, neither of them would be here.
Lynne squeezes my arm as Joseph Alexander steps up to the lectern. After addressing us all, he delivers a wonderfully put together eulogy, which he’s written in record time. It’s got the lot, Rob’s childhood, his relationship with Jack, his friends, the ability he had both academically and in sport. Our marriage has been made to sound more robust than
