My then-girlfriend wasn’t big on funerals. Marisa. Not your usual Irish name. Her mother had notions of grandeur and some gothic romance she’d been reading lodged in her memory. Her brother was less fortunate. He’s Raoul Darcy. Try telling the knackers in the school yard you’re Raoul...
I met her ’round about the time I’d got my first funeral notched up. I was a novice then and fairly shaken by the grief of the family.
No stranger to drink myself, I went to The Weir for some oblivion. I was building towards heaven when she sat down. I took note without interest. Early twenties, blond hair, dark eyes, roughly 5’2” and thin to the point of anorexia. Turned-up button nose and a “friendly” mouth, as they say here. The hair was fresh washed and with new leather and baked bread, my favourite fragrance. I dismissed her.
“Bit early... is it?”
“Wot.”
“Early, like early to be getting legless. Don’t you have work then?” I played the gamut of responses,
— mind yer own business
— wot’s it to you
— silence
— a belch.
So I said,
“I’ve just come from a funeral.” She didn’t disappoint. Her face was a mix of concern and curiosity.
“Oh! I’m sorry... oh dear... am... was it someone close?”
“Close enough.”
“Let me get you a drink. Is that Jameson?”
“Paddy.”
“Oh right... I mean, sorry... I’ll get it.”
I watched her order the drink. I liked the air of calm she had. How far wrong can you go with a girl who’ll get the drink? A coffee for her. I was reaching immunity and little cared.
“I’m Marisa.”
“Howya Marisa...”
“And you?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“No, I mean... what’s your name?”
“Well, while my father was alive, I was always called young Dillon. Since he died, they dropped the ‘young’... which I’m not... am...”
“Not what?”
“Not so young either... anymore.”
I was becoming befuddled. As this was the point of the exercise, I didn’t struggle.
“Well, okay then. Dillon, so... highly trendy.”
“What! What are you on about?”
“Bob Dylan... Dylan Thomas, you’re right in there.”
“I have to go now.”
She looked startled. Good, I thought, and left.
A week passed. I slotted in ten funerals. I still hadn’t come to grips with my vocation. Back to The Weir. I was putting down the first part of the funeral thoughts on paper. This was slow. Three glasses of Paddy were whispering “Why write, let go...”
“Howya.” I looked up. Her again.
“Oh... hello... Maura...?”
“Marisa.”
“How are you?” She was staring at the empty glasses.
“Keep passing the empty glasses.”
“What?”
“Do you want a coffee... a drink... a sandwich... a slap...” she asked.
“A coffee.”
I nearly left then as she brought back two coffees.
“So... are you well?”
“Mar... i... sa, yea, what do you want?”
She was caught. I wasn’t into confrontation those days, only drink. It spoke loudly. You can put anything to the Irish except direct questions. The devil mend you, I thought... in your grief it might help you to talk.
“You’re a counsellor, are you?”
She could have given me a hiding there.
“I’ll go...” I wanted that so I said, “No... would you read this... please?”
I passed the first part of “Funeral” to her. The title got a jump from her. I had written:
“Funeral”
“England”
Funeral...
was the face — constrict
it took me years
to put together — crazed
a mix
of tragedy small played
upon a smaller stage
blend with
the farcial events
a random fate
believed not random
pushed my way
in England
all the years I
wandered thru
I never heard
not once
a funeral took place
with advertising
“Ireland”
But Ireland — always
we go the route
for melodrama
hoarding death
to mingle with
the welcome — back
your business first
to ask
the why
— mere information
they’ll with the deadliest
of smiles — free-set
remark
“Response”
Your funeral
it is
a race that mocks it
to its very face
yet lives on dread
of what
it might not hold
three days
on walking slow
I feel the fear
beneath my very feet
recede.
It was early days. She laughed out loud.
“This is hilarious... oh, I love that... the notion of funerals with advertising.”
I had expected scorn. Was I hoping for it? Her reaction meant we might have a chance.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit insane?” I asked.
“But of course I do... that’s why I love it. Can I have a copy?” Magic words.
I told her about my cousin then. He was twelve years in London. He never heard hint nor hide of funerals. He returned home and in his first month, went to eleven.
“Do the English not die?” she asked... laughing.
“Well,” I said, “like everything else they do it with the minimum of fuss. The Irish roar at it. They thrash it, shout at it, try to strangle it. It’s as if by keeping it loud and brash, they can keep it controlled. Death has a fierce job of sneaking up on us.” She was hooked. I continued. “The Irish greeting is ‘how-yah, do you know who’s dead.’ I often feel like asking people if they’ve been to any good funerals lately. I hear people remark of funerals, like football matches — there was a good turn out.”
Marisa was nodding furiously. On I went, cruising now, the drink nearly forgotten.
“Watch any Irish mother. They’re full of chat, tea, and vitality. They get to the daily newspaper and straight to the obituaries. Never mind what’s huggin’ the headlines. They zero in and want to know who’s dead. You get asked in complete seriousness, ‘Is anybody I know — dead!’ Then, ‘Been to any good funerals lately?’ A bit like going to the cinema. How long before they start reviewing them. I’m not coddin’ you [which is the Irish preface to a lie], but I heard a woman say that a friend of hers died. Her companion asked the cause... ‘Oh, nothing serious’...”
Marisa said, “Death, where is thy sting.”
I had a bad moment when she did. Lord, I tried to blot it out. Our fragile communication was near beached on that. Roll with it. She hadn’t yet mentioned Dylan Thomas’s hackneyed poem... hope lived, if you’ll excuse the irony. I continued.
“I heard an American ask where he could find a real ‘wake.’ I think it was probably listed under the ‘not to be missed section’ of his guidebook. I dunno of any other country where the corpse gets to be the guest of honour... the final entertainment. Our whole vocabulary hinges on the closeness of death. Sick aren’t just sick, they’re at death’s door. To describe the pits, you only mention you felt like death warmed up.”