The Widow

Chapter 48

Thursday, 27 May 2010

The Widow

THE FUNERAL HAS come round so quickly I’ve let Mary choose the hymns and readings. I couldn’t think straight and wouldn’t have known what to pick. She’s gone for the safe options: ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ because everyone knows the tunes – which is lucky as there are only fifteen of us singing in the crematorium chapel.

We went to see Glen in the Chapel of Rest, all smart in his three-piece bank suit and the navy and gold tie he liked. I’d washed and ironed his best shirt and it looked perfect. Glen would’ve been pleased. Of course, it wasn’t really Glen in the coffin. He wasn’t there, if you know what I mean. He looked like a waxwork Glen. His mum wept and I stood back, letting her have a moment with her little boy. I kept looking at his hands with their perfect pink buffed-up nails; innocent hands.

Mary and I went from the funeral home to John Lewis to buy hats.

‘You’ll find the range over there,’ the assistant pointed, and we stood in front of thirty black hats, trying to imagine ourselves at Glen’s funeral. I picked a sort of pillbox one with a little net veil to hide my eyes and Mary went for one with a brim. They cost a fortune, but neither of us could summon the energy to mind. We came out into the street with our carrier bags and stood, lost for a moment.

‘Come on, Jeanie, let’s go home and have a cup of tea,’ Mary said. So we did.

Today we put on the new hats in front of the mirror in the hall before getting into the taxi to the crematorium. Mary and I hold hands loosely, just touching. Glen’s dad stares out of the window at the drizzle.

‘Always rains at funerals,’ he says. ‘What a bloody awful day.’

Funny things, funerals. So much like weddings, I think. Gatherings with people you never see at any other time, catching up over a buffet, people laughing and crying. Even here at Glen’s funeral I hear one of the old uncles laughing quietly with someone. When we arrive, we are guided into the waiting area, me with my mum and dad, his mum and dad and a small crowd of Taylors. I’m grateful anyone has come, really.

No one from the bank or the salon. We’re not part of that world any more.

Then Bob Sparkes turns up, all respectful in black suit and tie, looking like an undertaker. He stands apart from us, on the edge of the Garden of Remembrance, pretending to read the names of the dead on the plaques. He hasn’t sent flowers, but we told people not to. ‘Family flowers only’ the undertaker advised, so there’s just my wreath of lilies and laurels – ‘Classic and classy’ the young florist said, almost chirpily – and Mary ordered Glen’s name in white chrysanthemums. He’d have hated it. ‘How common,’ I can hear him say, but Mary loves it and that’s what matters.

I keep looking to see where Bob Sparkes is.

‘Who invited him?’ Mary says, all cross.

‘Don’t worry about him, love,’ George pats her shoulder. ‘Not important today.’

The vicar from Mary’s church does the service, talking about Glen like he was a real person, not the man in the papers. He keeps looking at me as if he is talking just to me. I hide behind the veil on my hat when he goes on about Glen, as if he knew him. He talks about his football and his cleverness at school and his wonderfully supportive wife during difficult times. There’s a murmur from the congregation and I rest my head on my dad’s shoulder and close my eyes while his coffin slides forward and the curtains close behind him. All gone.

Outside, I look for Bob Sparkes but he’s gone as well. Everyone wants to kiss and hug me and tell me how fantastic I’ve been. I manage a smile and hug people back and then it’s over. We thought about putting on a tea but we didn’t know if anyone would come, and then if there was a tea we would have to talk about Glen and someone might mention Bella.

We keep it simple. The five of us go home to my house and have a cup of tea and some ham sandwiches Mary made and put in the fridge. I put my hat in its tissue paper and John Lewis bag and slide it on top of the wardrobe. Later, the house is quiet for the first time since Glen died and I put on my dressing gown and wander through all the rooms. It isn’t a big house but Glen is in every corner of it and I keep expecting to hear him shout to me – ‘Jeanie, where’ve you put the paper?… Off to work, love, see you later.’

In the end, I make a drink and take it up to bed with the handful of cards and letters from the family. I burned the nasty ones on the gas hob.

The bed feels bigger without him. He wasn’t always in it – sometimes he slept on the sofa downstairs when he was restless. ‘Don’t want to keep you awake, Jean,’ he’d say and pick up his pillow. He didn’t want to go in the spare room any more so we got a sofa that pulls out into a bed and he’d crawl into it in the middle of the night. We kept a duvet behind it during the day. I don’t know if anyone noticed.