by Graham Storrs

I drove the car slowly, like a hearse, through the big, iron gates. Its wide tyres rolled over the gravel of the drive with a soft, luxurious crunch. A big car, gleaming expensively, cleaned especially for the occasion because she would have liked that.

My father sat quietly beside me. He hadn’t spoken since we set off. He peered through the wet, Winter air at the ranks of little headstones in the broad, neat lawn. His watery blue eyes showed nothing, retreating, year by year, into the pudgy softness of his face.

I knew the way this time, followed the gravelled roads through the dreadful homogeneity of the cemetery to the point closest to where we were going.

My father was out of the car already, ambling over the graves to where she was, I climbed out and caught up with him.

"They put them so close together you can’t see if you’re stepping on someone," he said, not looking at me. I looked down at the uneven ground. The graves were still recent but hardly any had flowers.

He stopped beside a low, white headstone. Among the names on it I saw my grandmother’s. All the rest were strange to me.

"Here it is," he said, unnecessarily.

He stood near the headstone, looking at the ground and his posture was saying; "Go on then. Get it over with." I moved ‘round to stand beside the grave. Her ashes lay on the damp ground, grey and white, lying on grass and mud and dead leaves. Lying where they fell, coarse and grainy. More like some kind of fertilizer than someone’s mortal remains.

"You’d think they’d’ve dug them in or raked them," my father said. I nodded but thought how much better she’d have felt to know her ashes would be out here in the open with the pale, Winter sun to shine on them.

There were two wreaths and a few, dying flowers on the little, white headstone. "That’s my wreath," my father said, indicating the smaller one. "Susan brought the other one ‘round on Christmas Day and I came in special to give ‘em to her."

I remembered the funeral then. I had arrived late having driven the two hundred miles up from Cambridge that morning. The house was full of people and flowers. The flowers were gay and bright, in large, effusive bunches laid out on the stairs. The people were ranged around the edges of the lounge with a few in the kitchen and hallway. They were subdued—in the rôle of bereaved relatives. I hardly knew most of them and the ones I did know treated me like a stranger or like someone infamous or dangerous. They averted their eyes and spoke quietly. Even Uncle John, who was like the father I’d always wanted, made no jokes and looked uncomfortable with me near.

After a while, I had gone to stand in the garden on my own until the cortege arrived. When it did, I had broken down. Tears streamed down my cheeks and dripped from my beard as I pressed my head against a cold wall and let the pain wash over and over me. No-one came near me or spoke to me as they filed past to the cars.

When I finally looked up, I saw that they were all waiting for me. One black car held the coffin—held her body—and another behind it waited with its door open for me to take my proper place in their ceremony. Apart from my own tears, there had been no others from that whole crowd except some snuffles from Susan and Debbie. My sister had sat in the big car with dry cheeks and a blank face. My father had looked through the car window as though it had been a portal onto a world of shadows and dark vistas.

"I should tidy these up," my father said and I looked up to see him plucking at the dying flowers, salvaging the ones he thought were not yet dead. Again I nodded although he wasn’t looking.

"Why don’t you just stand still and talk to her?" I thought. "Leave the bloody flowers and talk to her!"

The service had been late and short. Someone had paid for a Catholic Priest to come over to the crematorium’s chapel to read it. He hovered around the ante-room where we all waited, trying to pick up a few hints about what to say about this woman he hadn’t known. He spoke to my father and sister and Aunt Debbie but not to me. No-one spoke to me as I stood by the window, sobbing into my hands.

In the end, my father had laid a hand on my shoulder and had said; "Are you alright, Tony?" I had looked around to see everyone filing out of the room and into the chapel. He wanted me to go along with them. I had a proper place to be and I was messing up the ceremony again.

She had been a Catholic until she married my father and then she had "lapsed". A Priest used to come around to tell her she was living in sin because she’d had a Protestant marriage. My father caught him at it one day and threw him out.

There had been no Mass, of course. She had a shorter, truncated service and the Priest had used it shamelessly to try to persuade us to embrace his faith. I had stared at the coffin throughout, tears dripping down onto my Order of Service, furious that even her precious church had rejected her to the end—even now—and for all time.

In the car, going back, everyone had seemed relieved. It was over. What a nice service it had been. She would have liked the service. "I say, Eddie. She would have liked the service." "Oh, yes. It was nice."

I had turned away and displayed my grief to the curious faces that we passed along the way. No-one spoke to my shaking shoulders but Aunt Debbie told us all how good she thought my brother-in-law had been to make all the arrangements. He was a good lad. He always liked Angela. He had been like a son to her. Always there when she needed something doing.

Fuck you, you spiteful old cow! I thought but it was not what I felt. Let the silly bitch score her points, I thought. After today, I would never, ever see her again.

My father stood up, a few dead geraniums in his pudgy, white hand, and wandered off to find a bin for them. I fell to my knees beside her ashes, glad to be alone at last.

"I brought the car over, Mam," I said.

My voice left me as the pain took over again. I reached out a hand and laid it on the pale, grey ashes. Touching them, I imagined I was holding her hand.

"Don’t worry, Mam," I whispered. "Everything will be alright now." And, despite myself, my mind said; "Look after her. Please. She was only ever ignorant and stupid and frightened. Take care of her. Don’t leave her alone."

My hand tightened on the ashes and wet grass. I could barely see through my tears as I stood up, the mood gone, the world of gods and hidden purposes snapping out like a light to leave its dark afterimage burning in my mind.

My father appeared at the grave. "Are you done?" he asked and we walked back to the car in utter silence.