‘Through the years, I came to value her friendship and to respect her as someone who served others in a manner to which we should all aspire.
‘Minnie … was a rebel.’
There was a sputtering of teary laughter. Daniel frowned. His breaths were shallow in his chest.
‘She didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She wore what she wanted, she did what she wanted and she said what she wanted and you could like it … or just lump it.’ Again laughter like a carpet being beaten. ‘But she was honest and kind, and it was those qualities that led her to be a foster mother to dozens of damaged children and to become a mother again, in the eighties, when she adopted her dear son, Danny, who thankfully is able to join us here today … ’
The women seated to Daniel’s right turned to him. He felt the colour rising on his cheek. He leaned forward on his elbows.
‘Most of us here today know Minnie as a small holding farmer – we’ve either worked alongside her or bought her produce. Here again, she showed her care and attention in the way she looked after her livestock. The small farm wasn’t just a living, the animals were her children too and she nurtured them as she nurtured all others who needed her.
‘As a friend, that is my final impression of her. She was independent, she was rebellious, she was her own woman, but more than all of that she was a caring person and the world is so much poorer for the loss of her. God love you, Minnie Flynn, may you rest in peace.’
Daniel watched as the women who sat beside him bowed their heads. He did the same, still feeling the burn in his cheeks. One of the women began to cry.
Cunningham sat down and was patted on the shoulder by the woman who sat to his right. The minister leaned on the podium with two hands.
‘As we come to the committal, Minnie has asked that we listen to this piece of music which was special to her. The earthly life of Minnie has come to an end, and we now commit her body to the elements. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, trusting in the infinite mercy of God … ’
Daniel held his breath. He looked around, wondering where the sound would come from. He knew before he heard the piano chords what piece she would have chosen.
Despite himself, when the music started, he felt the tension that his body held, release. The lilting, insistent steps of the music took him forward as he watched the curtains draw slowly over her coffin. Time seemed to linger and lag, and sitting there with strangers listening to the music that was so intimate to her and so intimate to him, he began to remember.
Moments in his life were pressed into being and vanished again, like the notes themselves. The A# note, and then the B note: he opened his mouth in shock as he felt his cheeks flush. His throat hurt.
How long it had been since he had heard the full concerto. He must have been a teenager when he heard it last: in his memory it was more painful, the discord sharper. Now he was surprised by the serenity of the piece, and how – in its entirety, finished, complete – both its harmony and its dissonance seemed exactly right.
The feelings that the music ushered were strange to him. He pressed his teeth hard together, right to the end, not wanting to admit to his grief. He remembered her warm strong fingers and her soft grey curls. His skin remembered the roughness of her hands. It was this that brought the tension to his body and the flush to his cheek. He wouldn’t cry; she didn’t deserve it, but some small part of him was yielding and asking to mourn for her.
In the car park, the sun had come out. Daniel took off his jacket as he walked to his car. He felt exhausted suddenly, no longer fit for the seven-hour drive back to London. He felt a hand on his arm and turned. It was an old woman, her face pinched and sunken. It took Daniel a moment, but finally he recognised her as Minnie’s sister, Harriet.
‘Do you know who I am?’ she said, her lips turning down, contorting her whole face.
‘Of course. How are you?’
‘Who am I then? Say my name, who am I?’
Daniel took a breath and then said, ‘You’re Harriet, Aunt Harriet.’
‘Made it up, did you? Found the bloody time, now that she’s dead?’
‘I … I didn’t … ’
‘I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, lad. I hope that’s why you’re here. God forgive you.’
Harriet walked away, stabbing her way across the car park with her stick. Daniel turned towards his car and leaned on the roof. The leaves and the funeral and the quiet countryside had set his head spinning. He exhaled, rubbing the moistness of his fingertips. He heard Cunningham calling him and turned.
‘Danny – we’ve not had a chance. Would you have time for lunch then, or a cup of tea?’
He would have liked to refuse Cunningham, to be on his way, but all he wanted to do was lie down, and so he agreed.
In the café, Daniel hung his head and put a hand across his face. Cunningham had ordered a pot of tea for them both and a bowl of soup for himself. Daniel was not eating.
‘It must be hard for you,’ said Cunningham, folding his arms.
Daniel cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed by his own confused feelings for Minnie and chastened by Harriet’s harsh words. He was not sure why he felt so emotional. He had said goodbye to Minnie long ago.
‘She was a gem. A pure gem. She touched so many people.’
‘She was a tough old boot,’ said Daniel. ‘I think she made as many enemies as she did friends … ’
‘We’d’ve had it at the chapel, but she specifically requested a non-religious committal and a cremation. A cremation, would you ever believe it?’
‘She gave up on God,’ said Daniel.
‘I know she didn’t practise for many years. I don’t have the time myself, if truth be told, but I always thought that her faith was still important to her.’
‘She told me once that the rituals and the charms were the hardest to let go of – she didn’t hold store in them, but she couldn’t stop. She told me once that Christianity was just another of her bad habits. If you knew her, she said a rosary when she was drunk. Bad habits go together … Your speech was good. It was right. She was a rebel.’
‘I think she should have gone back to Cork after Norman died. Her sister said as much, did you speak to her? She was the one at the end of the row.’
‘I know her sister. She used to visit us. I said a few words.’ Again Daniel looked away, but Cunningham did not notice and continued talking.
‘She was a woman before her time, she was, Minnie. She needed to be in a city, somewhere cosmopolitan … ’
‘Nah, she loved the country. That’s what she lived for.’
‘But her ideas were all city ideas, she’d’ve been better off.’
‘Maybe. It was her choice. Like you said, she loved her animals.’
Cunningham’s soup came and there were a few moments when he busied himself with napkin and buttered roll. Daniel sipped his tea and watched, still unsure what Cunningham needed to talk about so urgently. He was content to be quiet.
‘It’ll be some time before the estate is settled. I need to get a firm to clear the house and then put it on the market. In its condition, I’m not expecting a quick sale, but you never know. I just want you to be prepared for it being a few months before we can settle up, as it were.’
‘Like I said on the phone, I don’t want anything.’
Cunningham took a wary mouthful of soup. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then said, ‘I thought you might have changed your mind, coming to the funeral and all.’
‘I don’t know why I came. I suppose I had to … ’ Daniel rubbed his hands over his face. ‘… see for myself she was really dead. We’ve not been in touch for a while.’