Chapter 5
‘For God’s sake, Flash. Get on with it, can you?’
The fat border collie puppy stared at me as he sat on his hind legs under a tree, for all the world like a furry black-and-white gnome.
I waved the plastic bag at him accusingly. He carried on staring.
‘All right, I get it. You want some privacy. Just hurry up, that’s all.’
I turned away to look across the daisy-foamed landscape. It was an overcast summer’s morning, the sun just breaking through. Long beams of light – God’s fingers, Dad called them – bounced off the viaduct and shattered on the reservoir behind. There was a bleak, empty beauty to those grey arches, which today I couldn’t help hating.
I glared at the sunbeams. What did they have to be so bloody shiny about?
My phone buzzed and I yanked it out of my pocket.
T minus two hours. You going to be much longer?
‘You done yet, pupster?’ I called to Flash. ‘Uncle Tommy says time to go home.’
I turned to discover Flash had finally done his business and was standing proudly next to it, tail wagging, like he expected to be awarded the Turner Prize any minute.
‘Good boy,’ I said, giving him a stroke. ‘Come on then. It’s time.’
Back at the restaurant, Tom was waiting downstairs for us in his suit and tie.
‘Oh good, you’re back,’ he said with a sigh of relief. ‘Was worried you’d forgotten the time. Are you going to change?’
‘I’ll just put Flash in his bed.’
But Flash was way ahead of me, tearing through the restaurant and up the stairs. I found him on the landing by Dad’s room, scratching at the door.
‘No, boy. You can’t go in there.’
He whined, staring at me with big, pleading eyes.
‘I said no, Flash! Get in your bed.’
But it was too late. Flash had managed to push his way in with his nose. Sighing, I followed.
The curtains were drawn, just enough light peeking through to bathe the room in a dismal gloom. Dad’s book was lying face down on the bedside table next to his pain medication. I found Flash sitting in the Dad-shaped depression in the middle of the bed, whimpering.
‘You’re a naughty dog. He’s not here, see? Come on.’
I turned as if to make for the door, but Flash didn’t move. He just carried on whimpering.
‘Come on, you daft pup! Don’t you hear me? He’s not here. He’s gone.’
I glanced at Dad’s book, still open at the last page Tom had read to him. The Road to Wigan Pier, George Orwell – he loved that one.
Had loved. He had loved that one.
Sinking into my chair by the bed, I burst into tears.
‘It’s no good, Flash,’ I whispered to Dad’s little puppy. ‘He can’t cuddle you any more.’ I reached out to stroke him, a furry blob through the mist of tears. ‘You’ll miss him, won’t you? Me too, my lamb.’
‘But at least he’s out of pain.’
I looked up to see a Tom-shaped cloud walking towards me. A heavy hand rested on my shoulder and I seized it gratefully.
‘I know, I know. It was a prison to him. I’m a selfish cow to wish him back again.’
‘No you’re not. You’re his little girl.’ He gave my hand a slightly ferocious squeeze. ‘He should never have gone like this. Fifty-two, what age is that? That fucking disease…’
‘And so we’re orphans. Twenty-six and I’m already a bloody orphan.’ I stood to hug him. ‘Oh God, Tommy, how’re we going to get through today?’
‘Together. No other way.’ He patted the back of my head. ‘You’d better get your suit on. The car’ll be here in an hour.’
***
When the funeral car pulled up outside Cedarwood Crematorium, a gaggle of mourners were outside chatting to Sal, the kind-eyed Humanist celebrant Dad had chosen to conduct the service.
‘This isn’t everyone, is it?’ I murmured to Tom. There were only about ten people: Aunty Clem and her husband, who’d flown out from Italy specially, and a few folk from the village.
‘I announced it on the Facebook residents’ group,’ Tom said. ‘Maybe there’s more on the way.’ But he sounded concerned.
Sal came forward to greet us as we stepped out of the car.
‘How’re you both doing?’ she asked when she’d given us a hug each.
Tom managed a smile for her. ‘Been better, I think.’
‘Of course you have,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m here to worry about the difficult stuff. You two just say if you need anything else from me today.’
That was one thing I really liked about Sal. Ever since Dad had asked us to send for someone to help him plan his funeral, she’d been the perfect combination of sympathy and efficiency, none of the faux-sentimental nonsense you got so often from strangers. It was exactly what we’d all needed. I think Dad might’ve been a bit in love with her by the end.
‘Where’s the coffin?’ I asked. I was dreading seeing it.
‘Inside.’ She gave my arm a squeeze. ‘Look, I know today’s going to be tough. There’s not really any such thing as a joyful funeral, is there? But remember your dad wanted this to be a celebration of his life. Think of the happy years you had together, and try to see it as… well, a closing.’
‘All I can think of is that he isn’t coming back.’ I let a little sob escape. ‘My dad’s gone and he isn’t coming back.’
‘If he came back it’d be to pain.’
‘We know,’ Tom said. ‘God, we saw enough of that. It should make it easier, but… well, it doesn’t.’
‘Just hold on to the fact he loved you, and he was proud of you,’ Sal said gently.
I let out a damp laugh. ‘I know he was, daft old bugger. Imagine being proud of a pair of screw-ups like us, eh?’ I gave Tom a nudge, and he shot me a fond smile back.
‘Come on then, guys. Let’s get this over with.’
Tom gave an involuntary laugh as we followed Sal into the crematorium.
‘God, Lana, it’s the whole village!’
It certainly looked like it. The place was packed to the rafters with Egglethwaite folk, standing room only apart from a couple of chairs at the front that had been saved for us. There was Deano and Jasmine and Debbie from work; there was the butcher, Jean from the flower shop, Billy the landlord of the Sooty Fox…
But before I could properly take it in, my eyes were drawn to the long wooden box up front by a pair of curtains I knew hid the furnace. An image of poor Flash, whimpering quietly in the depression that still held the shape of Dad’s body, appeared uninvited in my mind.
‘Oh God, he’s in there,’ I whispered to Tom, sudden panic sweeping through me. My head felt tight and uncomfortable, as if I had my restaurant cloth cap on and it was shrinking around my brain. ‘Dad’s in there, Tom!’
He shook his head. ‘Dad’s gone. What’s in there… it’s not him. It’s empty.’
But I couldn’t take my eyes off the coffin. I stared at it in horror, feeling like I might black out.
‘I can’t do this,’ I muttered. ‘Tommy, I’m so sorry, I… I can’t watch.’
‘Lana!’ he called after me, but I was already running for the exit.
Outside I sagged against the wall, panting, trying desperately to calm the frenzied beating of my heart.
My dad… they were going to…
‘So you’re here, are you?’
Sue had followed me out and was holding me in a stern gaze, arms folded.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ I mumbled. ‘Just about.’
‘What’re you doing outside? There’s a lady vicar in there waiting for you so she can get started.’
‘Celebrant.’
‘What?’
‘Celebrant. She’s not a vicar.’
She shook her head. ‘Your dad and his funny ideas. Are you coming in then?’
I swallowed a sob. ‘I can’t, Sue. The coffin… I can’t watch it go in.’
‘Don’t make me Mum at you.’
‘You wouldn’t Mum at me.’
‘I would. I’ll Mum you up properly, girl, so just you get in there and give your brother some support.’
‘But – ’
‘Don’t “but” me, Lana Donati. I bought you your first bra.’
I frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
She ignored me. ‘With her last breath, your mother said to me. “Sue,” she said. “Watch that those kids of mine always look after each other. Especially Lana.”’
‘I thought her last words to you were “For God’s sake, when I’m gone make sure Filippo gets rid of those curtains”?’
‘Well, this she said with her eyes.’ She rested a gentle hand on my arm. ‘I know it’s tough, but that’s the way life is. You love someone, then the day comes when you lose them and there’s just the memories left. It’s a kick, but there it is. You and your brother need each other now. So pull up your knicker elastic, get back inside and look after him like your old mum said, eh?’
‘Which mum?’
‘Both of us.’ She slipped an arm around me. ‘He’s not in there, chicken,’ she said softly. ‘He’s somewhere else, somewhere it doesn’t hurt any more. It’s just a box, that’s all: a big, empty box of nothing.’
‘That’s what Tom said.’ I sighed. ‘Poor little Tommy. We’ve just got each other now.’
‘No you haven’t.’
I smiled. ‘No. Thanks, Sue.’
‘Just you look after poor little Tommy and let me and Gerry look after poor little you.’ She passed me a tissue and I blew my nose noisily. ‘We’re on Mum and Dad duty now.’
‘Is that why you’re so bossy?’
‘No, that’s because I enjoy it.’ She guided me back towards the crematorium. ‘Time to say goodbye now, my love. Time to live your life.’
***
Inside, everyone had taken their seats, music playing softly in the background.
Ugh. Harpsichord Renaissance. Still, it was what Dad wanted.
Sal was behind the lectern, waiting to start. I leaned heavily on Sue as she guided me down the aisle, trying not to focus on the coffin in case I freaked out again. All I could see from the corner of my eye as I passed were the blurred colours of Dad’s football scarves, Bradford City and Napoli, crossed over the top.
‘I’m sorry, Tommy,’ I said when I was seated by him, giving his knee a pat. ‘I’m here now. Won’t leave you again.’
He smiled weakly, eyes soaked. I could tell he was past the point where speech came easily.
Sal cleared her throat, and the hum of conversation died down.
‘I only knew Filippo Donati for a short time,’ she said. ‘And I could fill pages with the usual fluff: how he was larger than life – which he was, even when I knew him at the end; how much he loved his kids, his friends, his community; the energy he brought to everything he did. But I won’t, because no one can tell you the kind of man Phil was better than him.’ She scanned the sheet of paper in front of her. ‘So I’m going to let him tell it, by reading the eulogy he wrote himself.’
I reached for Tom’s hand and gripped it tight. Sal had asked if we wanted to hear what Dad had written before the service, but we’d foolishly decided to put it off for as long as we could.
‘When I was a little boy in Naples, they made us study a poem by an Englishman called John Keats,’ Sal began, reading Dad’s words. ‘I forget most of it now, but one line was “Now more than ever seems it rich to die”. When I was a child I thought what a foolish thing that was to write, because nobody wants to die. These English must be a strange bunch, I thought.’
Muted laughter hummed around the room.
‘And I laughed, because I was ten years old and I knew, as all ten-year-olds know, that I was going to live forever,’ Sal went on. She took a deep breath, voice trembling. ‘But writing this, I understand what Mr Keats meant. Because now I am dying, and yes, it is rich, filled with a wistfulness that’s sweetness and pain in equal parts. I didn’t live forever, but I lived well, and I lived happily. I fell in love with a beautiful woman – my Paula – who, for a reason I don’t understand to this day, loved me too, and I brought up two wonderful children, Tom and Lana, to become two wonderful adults. I lived amongst the immortal beauty of the Yorkshire Dales, the hills and valleys that became my home and whose people took me into their hearts, and for every ounce of pain there was a ton of pleasure. No man should be mourned that has loved and been loved.’ She looked at Tom and me, the tears rolling down our faces. ‘Don’t cry, kids. Don’t regret a single day of your precious, precious lives. Love, and live, and when you reach the end you’ll see that no amount of pain can rob of you of the sweetness that comes from knowing you leave the world a better place for having been in it. Remember I’ll always love you, and live. That’s all. Goodnight, my dears.’
Tom’s hand was gripping mine so hard the knuckles were white, but I barely felt it.
Sal put the paper down. ‘And now it’s traditional to have a moment’s silence to remember the person who’s gone. But Phil didn’t like silence. So instead we’re going to take a minute to turn to our neighbours and give them a hug, as he wanted us to.’
There was a hum of conversation as people stood to follow Dad’s last request, embracing, shaking hands, kissing cheeks: there was even some laughter. It was beautiful.
I turned to Tom and hugged him tightly.
‘The last thing he thought of was us,’ Tom said in a choked whisper.
‘I know. Let’s try to do what he wanted.’