‘I shouldn’t have tried to burn him. That was a misunderstanding.’
He said nothing more and got into his van and drove away.
11
Tuesday 19th December was the funeral service. I drove myself to the church despite Angela’s offer. She said it was normal to travel in a cortège behind the hearse, but I couldn’t see the point. Two guards stood at the gates and kept the photographers at bay. Contrary to what Angela had predicted, I was still news. I noticed people with mobile phones holding them up towards me as I approached the church. The whole village must have shut down because everyone was there. I didn’t know most of their names, but I recognized all the faces.
I wore the black coat that Mum had worn for funerals. I had a green dress on under that (also Mum’s) because she’d been buried in her black dress. I also wore my black boots and a red sequinned beret that Dad said was for special occasions. I’d worn it once when we went to Fota Island Wildlife Park when Mum was alive. That was a good weekend. But this was a special occasion too.
The faces I recognized all wanted to take my hand and shake it. I snatched it back each time, but then Angela was by my side. ‘Shaking hands is a way of them sympathizing with your loss. Please try and let them. Nice hat, by the way. I think your dad would have approved.’ I had seen funerals on television. I knew shaking hands and crying and blowing your nose were expected. I asked Angela for one of her pills.
I let my hand be shaken by about forty people then. In the middle of it, Angela hissed at me, ‘You’re supposed to shake their hands too.’
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like all these people being there. I’m sure some of them barely knew my dad, but they all had something to say about him.
‘He was good to us when Mammy had her breakdown, God rest her soul.’
‘He always had his eye out for a bargain.’
‘If it wasn’t for your dad, I’d be in the river,’ said one rheumy-eyed old man. I knew that Dad had very occasionally seen patients of Mum’s when she begged him back in the day.
Nadine led me away by the elbow. I don’t mind people touching my elbow. ‘Some friends of yours have come,’ she said and I didn’t know who she was talking about, but behind the mob of locals, I spotted Abebi and Maduka and their mother and, I assume, their father.
I ignored the other mourners and went straight over to them. Mr Adebayo said, ‘My name is Udo and you’ve seen my wife, Martha. I want to offer my condolences and to apologize for my children trespassing on your property on Saturday. Maduka admitted on the way here that his friends broke your window. Please let us reimburse you for your costs.’ He spoke fast. I think his accent was Nigerian. So, the children were not adopted like me. Maduka’s face was tear-stained.
Martha spoke then. ‘We have warned them never to bother you again.’
‘You don’t have to pay me for the window. It’s already fixed and paid for. The glazier was scared of me. I think the boys were worried that I’d put Abebi into the incinerator. Not their fault.’
Here I was, talking too much. And then I did something else unusual. I put my hand out and rubbed Maduka’s face. ‘They are good children. I don’t think their friends were. Sean and Fergus.’ I have an excellent memory.
‘I’m not allowed to play with them any more,’ said Maduka. Martha muttered about them being a bad influence.
‘I thought the least ours could do is come here to show how sorry they are about everything,’ Martha said. Abebi let go of her mother’s hand and looked up at me. ‘We are doing the nativity play on Thursday. I’m playing the Virgin Mary. Will you come and see us?’ I was considering the invitation when we were distracted by the arrival of the hearse.
I tried to think what kind of mess was in the coffin. Poor Dad. I should have called Angela that day. But he should have written ‘Open on the Day I Die’ on the envelope. In capital letters. Underlined.
Everyone in the churchyard went quiet and Angela guided me to the back of the hearse where they were unloading the coffin on to a clever fold-up trolley. We walked behind the undertakers and followed them into the small, pretty church. Nadine told me she had organized flowers. I thought it was a waste to buy flowers for a dead man but I also knew not to voice all my thoughts. The ruddy-cheeked vicar came to shake my hand. I put them both in my pockets.
He had asked me to visit him the night before, but I told him over the phone that I didn’t like meeting strange men. He reminded me that he had met me several times when I was a young girl when I used to go to church with Mum. I told him he still qualified as a strange man, so he agreed to discuss the arrangements over the phone. He asked some questions about Dad and I told him the answers.
‘Our numbers are dwindling every year. I don’t suppose you would consider attending, even on an irregular basis?’
‘No,’ I’d said, ‘it’s very boring.’
The church was stiflingly warm. I don’t think it had ever seen so many Catholics in it. I was an Anglican technically, but Dad and I agreed some years ago that we were atheists.
We took our seats at the front pew, Nadine and Angela on either side of me. Mrs Sullivan, the postmistress, and Maureen Kenny and her husband, the butcher, stood behind us. Ger McCarthy stood in the pew opposite ours. I had never seen him in a suit before. And he was clean-shaven. I looked for Maduka and Abebi but they must have been down the back.
It was the usual boring stuff except that the coffin was in front of us. The vicar made a sermon about how my father had been such a big part of the community, which was a surprise because Dad avoided the community as much as I did. Angela made a speech in which she remembered my mother and said that no matter what mistakes had been made after my father’s death, he would be proud of me today. There was a smattering of applause after that, and I knew Angela was right, because Dad often said how proud he was of me. I grinned at Angela.
After the ceremony, we went out to the graveyard where we used to picnic, and a hole had been dug for my dad’s coffin. Half of the people left then. Ger McCarthy shook my hand and said he was sorry for my trouble. Quite a lot of people said those same words before they drifted away. But I spotted the Adebayo family and I was glad they’d stayed. It started to rain heavily like it does at funerals on TV. The coffin was lowered into the hole and finally we could leave.
Angela had said those who attended the funeral might expect to have been invited back to the house. Some neighbours had given her food, sandwiches, pies and cakes. It was traditional, apparently. But I didn’t know them. Why would I invite them to my house? I was told the villagers were now going to the pub. Nadine and Angela invited me to their house, but I was tired and wanted to go home to bed.
As I approached the car, Abebi came up beside me and said, ‘We’re sorry about your daddy and we’re sorry about trespassing.’
Her family were behind her. Udo said, ‘If there is anything you need doing around the house, I’m sure Maduka would be happy to attend to it, or I can if it’s too difficult for him.’
‘Just … please …’ said Martha, ‘don’t tell them not to go to school. They like it.’
I said nothing for a moment and then I asked, ‘Could they come for afternoon tea one day after school?’
Martha looked at Udo. Abebi put her soft little hand in mine and I didn’t pull away.
‘I’m not sure. They have homework …’ said Martha.
‘I was excellent at homework. Maybe I could help them?’
‘We’ll see, after the holidays?’
‘How are you spending Christmas?’ It seemed like the question I heard most people asking. I wanted to keep the conversation going. Most unusual for me.