Twenties Girl

The funeral director has made me a cup of tea and rustled up two shortbread biscuits, which he’s put on a plate decorated with roses. He’s a man with a receding chin, who answers every comment with a somber, low-pitched “aaah” before he gets to the actual reply. Which gets really irritating.

He leads me down a pastel corridor, then pauses meaningfully outside a wooden door marked Lily Suite .

“I’ll let you have a few moments alone.” He opens the door with an expert twist and pushes it a little way, then adds, “Is it true she was once the girl in that famous painting? The one that’s been in the papers?”

“Yes.” I nod.

“Aaah.” He lowers his head. “How extraordinary. One can hardly believe it. Such a very, very old lady-one hundred and five, I believe? A very great age.”

Even though I know he’s trying to be nice, his words touch a nerve.

“I don’t think of her like that,” I say curtly. “I don’t think of her as old.”

“Aaah.” He nods hastily. “Indeed.”

“Anyway. I want to put something in the… coffin. Will that be all right? Will it be safe?”

“Aaah. Quite safe, I assure you.”

“And private,” I say fiercely. “I don’t want anyone else going in here after me. If they want to, you contact me first, OK?”

“Aaah.” He surveys his shoes respectfully. “Of course.”

“Well. Thank you. I’ll… go in now.”

I walk in, close the door behind me, and just stand there for a few moments. Now that I’m in here, now that I’m actually doing this, my legs feel a bit watery. I swallow a few times, trying to get a grip on myself, telling myself not to freak out. After about a minute I make myself take a step toward the big wooden coffin. Then another.

That’s Sadie. Real Sadie. My 105-year-old great-aunt. Who lived and died and I never knew her. I edge forward, breathing heavily. As I reach forward, I see just a puff of dry white hair and a glimpse of dried-out old skin.

“Here you are, Sadie,” I murmur. Gently, carefully, I slip the necklace around her neck. I’ve done it.

At last. I’ve done it.

She looks so tiny and shriveled. So vulnerable. All the times I wanted to touch Sadie, I’m thinking. The times I tried to squeeze her arm or give her a hug… and now here she is. Real flesh. Cautiously, I stroke her hair and pull her dress straight, wishing beyond anything she could feel my touch. This frail, ancient, tiny crumbling body was Sadie’s home for 105 years. This was really her.

As I stand there I’m trying to keep my breathing steady; I’m trying to think peaceful, suitable thoughts. Maybe even a couple of words to say aloud. I want to do the right thing. But at the same time there’s an urgency beating inside me, growing stronger with every moment I stay here. The truth is, my heart isn’t in this room.

I have to go. Now.

With trembling legs I reach the door, wrench the handle, and hurtle out, to the obvious surprise of the funeral director, who’s loitering in the corridor.

“Is everything all right?” he says.

“Fine,” I gulp, already walking away. “All fine. Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch. But I must go now. I’m sorry, it’s rather important…”

My chest feels so constricted I can barely breathe. My head is throbbing with thoughts I don’t want to have. I have to get out of here. Somehow I make it down the pastel corridor and through the foyer, almost running. I reach the entrance and burst out onto the street. And I stop dead, clutching the door, panting slightly, looking straight across the road.

The bench is empty.

I know right then.

Of course I know.

But still my legs take me across the road at a run. I look desperately up and down the pavement. I call out “Sadie? SADIE?” until I’m hoarse. I brush tears from my eyes and bat away inquiries from kindly strangers and look up and down the street again, and I won’t give up and at last I sit down on the bench, gripping it with both hands. Just in case. And I wait.

And when it’s finally dusk and I’m starting to shiver… I know. Deep down, where it matters.

She’s not coming back. She’s moved on.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Ladies and gentlemen.” My voice booms so loudly, I stop and clear my throat. I’ve never spoken into such a big loudspeaker system, and even though I did a “Hello, Wembley, one-two, one-two” sound check earlier, it’s still a bit of a shock.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” I try again. “Thank you so much for being here today at this occasion of sadness, celebration, festivity…” I survey the mass of faces gazing up at me expectantly. Rows and rows of them. Filling the pews of St. Botolph’s Church. “… and, above all, appreciation of an extraordinary woman who has touched us all.”