She was outraged when she saw what appeared to be a cardboard box up on a trestle near the altar. She whispered to Brian, Who left that in the church? Where’s Yvonne’s coffin?’
‘That is her coffin,’ Brian whispered back. ‘It’s ecologically sound.’
What’s that when it’s at home?’
The vicar began to tell the small congregation that Yvonne had been born into sin and had died in sin.
Ruby whispered to Brian, ‘She wanted a walnut coffin with brass handles and a puce satin lining. We looked through a catalogue together.’
Out of the side of his mouth, Brian said, ‘Her funeral policy didn’t stretch to walnut.’
The vicar looked like a badger in a surplice. He said, in his fruity voice, ‘We are gathered here today on this dreadful wet and windy morning to celebrate the life of our sister, Rita Coddington.’
There was angry muttering and stifled laughter as the congregation registered his mistake.
He carried on, ‘Rita was born in 1939, the daughter of Edward and Ivy Coddington. It was a difficult forceps birth, which left Rita with an elongated head. She was teased at school but -’
Ruby stood up and interrupted. ‘Excuse me, but what you just said is rubbish. The woman in that cardboard box is Yvonne Beaver. Her main and dad were Arthur and Pearl, and she had a perfectly normal head.’
The vicar sorted through the notes on his lectern, and saw at once that he had mixed up Yvonne Beaver’s notes with those of the next service. He readdressed the congregation, saying, ‘I can only work with the information I’m given. Before I proceed, could I check a few facts with you? First, hymns. Did you request “All Things Bright And Beautiful”?’
Brian said, ‘Yes.’
‘And “Onward Christian Soldiers”?’
Brian nodded.
‘And now popular music. Did she request “Yellow Submarine” by The Beatles, and “Rawhide”, sung by Mr Frankie Laine?’
Brian mumbled, ‘Yes.’
‘Was she a punch card operator until her marriage?’
Brian nodded again.
Brianne said loudly, ‘Look, can you just get on with it?’
The vicar announced, ‘The eulogy will be read by Yvonne’s grandson, Brian Junior.’
Those acquainted with Brian Junior watched apprehensively as he walked to the lectern.
Alexander groaned, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, no,’ and crossed his fingers.
Brian Junior’s eulogy was the first time he had spoken in public at a formal occasion. He started well, guided by a website called funeraleulogies.com. When he had used up his conventional script, he improvised.
He spoke of the twins’ early memories of Yvonne.
‘She was hyper hygienic, and when we stayed with her overnight she would take my teddy and Brianne’s monkey and put them in the washing machine so they’d be nice and fresh for us in the morning.’
He looked around the church at the carved pillars and the signs and symbols that he could not decipher. The light outside was low but the stained glass glowed, giving a half-life to the familiar biblical figures in stained glass.
‘She took Teddy’s smell away,’ he said.
Brianne said, from a front pew, ‘And Monkey’s.’ Brian Junior wiped his eyes using the sleeve of his jacket, and continued, ‘I know some of you are worried about the apparent flimsiness of Gran’s coffin, so I researched the decomposition cycle of the human body. Given her height and approximate weight, and allowing for the variables of climate and temperature, I reckon that her coffin and corpse will last for -’
Brian called out, ‘Thank you, Brian Junior! Step down now, son.’
The vicar hastily took possession of the lectern and, before Brian Junior had reached his place in the pew, had signalled to the organist for the first hymn to be sung: We plough the fields and scatter’
Stanley and Ruby sang lustily, neither of them needed a hymn book.
Ruby glanced at Stanley’s face and thought, ‘It’s amazing what you can get used to, given time.’
Eva was luxuriating in the silent house. It had stopped raining and she could tell by the light on the white walls that it was approximately eleven o’clock.
It was quiet outside. The downpour had sent most of the crowd looking for shelter.
She thought about Yvonne, who she had seen at least twice a week for twenty-five years. She dredged out memories.
Yvonne at the seaside, shaking sandy towels into the wind.
Yvonne with a child’s fishing net, trying to catch tadpoles with the twins.
Yvonne in bed, crying with arthritic pain. Yvonne helpless with laughter at Norman Wisdom on television.
Yvonne’s teeth clicking as she ate her Sunday dinner.
Yvonne arguing with Brian about creationism.
Yvonne dropping cigarette ash into a casserole she was serving.
Yvonne’s horror in a restaurant in France, when her steak tartare turned out to be raw meat.
Eva was surprised to find that she mourned Yvonne’s death.
Back in church, the vicar, who was trying to be relevant to the community, led the congregation on the last verse of ‘Yellow Submarine’.
When it was finally over, he said, ‘You know, life is like a banana. The fruit is inside, but the skin is green, so you leave it to ripen…’ He paused. ‘But sometimes you leave it too long, and when you remember it again, the skin has turned black, and when you finally remove it, what has happened to the good fruit?’
Brian Junior said, from the front pew, ‘The banana has produced ethylene, and will eventually oxidize and break down into a new gaseous compound of equivalent mass.’
The vicar said, ‘Thank you for your contribution,’ and carried on. ‘Eventually, Yvonne’s body will decompose, but her soul will attain everlasting life in God’s Kingdom, and will forever remain in your memory.’
Brian Junior laughed.
The vicar asked the congregation to kneel again while he read them a passage on resurrection from the King James Bible. Only Ruby remained standing. She pointed to her knees, mouthed the word, ‘Knees!’ to the vicar, and shook her head.
When he’d finished the passage, the vicar looked at the congregation. They were shifting from foot to foot, glancing at their watches and yawning. He thought it was time for the Commendation and Farewell. He cleared his throat, turned to the coffin and said, ‘Let us commend Yvonne Primrose Beaver to the mercy of God, our Maker and Redeemer.’
Brian Junior said, very loudly, ‘Maker? I think not.’ He added, as if he were in an advanced tutorial, ‘Variation plus differential reproduction plus heredity equals natural selection. Darwin one, God nil.’
The vicar looked at Brian Junior, and thought, ‘Poor chap, Tourette’s is a cruel affliction.’
Alexander thought, ‘When will this end? When will this dreary tight-arsed ceremony be over?’
At the last funeral he’d been to, there was a gospel choir, steel drums and dancing. People had swayed their hips and raised their arms above their heads, as though they were truly joyful that the departed one would soon be in the arms of Jesus.
When the vicar said the words, ‘We entrust Yvonne to your mercy, in the name of Jesus our Lord, who died and is alive, and reigns with you, now and for ever,’ the congregation said, ‘Amen,’ as though they were truly thankful that the ceremony had finally ended.
Four undertakers walked solemnly up the aisle, lifted the eco-box coffin on to their shoulders and, to the accompanying sound of ‘Rawhide’, walked back down the aisle, out of the church and towards the poorly dug fresh grave.
The mourners followed.
Brian sang along quietly with Frankie Laine. He cracked an imaginary whip and envisioned himself herding stampeding cattle across the Texan plains.