One Moment, One Morning

  ‘I wouldn’t usually have brought it up,’ Lou continues. ‘I would have just assumed you knew. But the problem is Aaron has worked it out, and so has Kyra.’

  ‘I see.’ Shirley is still chewing.

  ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you with that either, under normal circumstances. Except that now their behaviour’s become rather intimidating. And obviously that’s not good or healthy, for Aaron or Kyra, or me. So far, obviously, I’ve kept my private life private, and I’m going to continue to do that – with them, at least. But I wanted to bring you in on the loop.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ Shirley gives a kind, supportive smile. ‘In fact, I’m honoured you’ve told me, thank you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lou is surprised, and relieved. So far this is proving easier than she’d feared.

  ‘I don’t want my staff to feel they have to undertake everything single-handed. That’s not what this school is about – the kids are hard enough work as it is. We all need as much backup as we can get.’

  ‘Right.’ It takes Lou a few moments to process this; it’s a warmer response than she’d anticipated.

  ‘So where do you think we should go from here?’ asks Shirley.

  Deciding to be honest with Shirley is as far as Lou has got. She thinks hard. ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell the other members of staff, if you don’t mind.’ She’s not ready for some great public announcement. That would feel overly dramatic, embarrass her.

  Shirley scrapes the last vestiges of couscous from her container. ‘I don’t see why I need to. It’s none of their business. As for Aaron and Kyra, how can I help? Would you like me to talk to them?’

  Lou thinks again. ‘It wasn’t anything specific I wanted; I think it’s better I deal with them personally, in our sessions. It’s just I realized no one here knew about it, and, well—’

  ‘ – you felt bullied,’ nods Shirley.

  ‘Close to it, yes. And I’m always advocating the kids are open and honest about their emotions, and I encourage them to tell someone in authority if they feel intimidated. So I felt I wasn’t practising what I preach.’

  ‘Well, now you are,’ assures Shirley. ‘And please, don’t hesitate to talk to me again if you need to.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ Lou smiles; she feels lighter already. It all seems surprisingly simple.

  ‘Great.’ Shirley rises from her chair. ‘I’d best get on.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lou also gets to her feet. As she closes the door behind Shirley, she wishes coming out to everyone could be that painless.

  *

  Lou is at her parents’ house, in Hitchin; she has her own place, locally, but has returned to the family home because her father is very, very ill. Cancer, which started in his lungs, has spread rapidly. He was only diagnosed six months previously and it has been a horrible time. Though no one has uttered the words, his spectral figure says everything: he has been sent home from hospital to die. Today he has requested that he see his two daughters, in private. Her younger sister, Georgia, is in the kitchen, red-eyed; he has spoken to her already. Now it is Lou’s turn.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she says, entering the room. Her father is propped up, pillows behind his head. A tube drips morphine slowly into a vein in the back of his hand.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he rasps. He has little energy, he has had a tracheotomy; it is tough to speak. His fingers are frail, birdlike, shaky. He reaches to hold the hole in his neck shut. ‘Sit,’ he orders.

  She pulls an armchair close to him.

  ‘My Loulou,’ he says, using her childhood name. It tears her up. Sharing many of the same passions as Lou – sport, the outdoors, making things – he seems to have found her, more than her sister, a kindred spirit as they were growing up. In fact, Lou has often wondered if, secretly, she is his favourite. Certainly she loves him unconditionally, whereas her relationship with her mother is more strained.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘I know you’ve not had it easy,’ he continues.

  She is surprised; this is not what she had expected him to say.

  ‘With your mother, especially.’ He is forcing the words out; they are slow, painful. She almost wishes he wouldn’t, yet she is keen – desperate – to hear him speak. ‘Let’s face it,’ he laughs, but his laughter causes him to start coughing. Lou gets up and bends him over gently, patting his back until he stops. He slips back onto the pillows. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘She is not an easy woman . . . Lord knows, I know.’

  Lou nods. She’s long realized her parents’ relationship is far from smooth: they are very different. Her father is an optimist, humorous, freethinking. Her mother is more suspicious of the world, constantly comparing herself to others, nervy, brittle. Her father has sublimated a lot of himself to stay with her, Lou believes. He is a good man, of a generation imbued with a sense of duty; he’d never leave her, however incompatible they are. Instead he’s bent himself, like the wood of a bow, to accommodate her tautness, the string. One day, Lou has felt for years, something will snap.

  Instead, what has happened is that his body has given way. He is only sixty, but years of smoking – a habit doubtless worsened by the tensions of living with his wife – have come back to haunt him.

  It seems unjust, somehow, that her father should be the one to pay the price of such compromise, especially when her mother is the one to bottle up her feelings. Though then again, her father must have stifled his emotions, too, in order to remain married. Nonetheless, more than once of late Lou has wished they could swap places, that her mother could be the one who was ill; then she has pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, feeling terrible.

  ‘You always seem to rub each other up the wrong way,’ continues her father.

  Lou nods. ‘I know.’

  He takes a deep breath, reaches for her with his one free hand. She places her palm in his. He is colder than usual.

  ‘You may not think so, but she does love you, you know.’

  Again Lou is surprised. She has never believed her mother loves her, fully, but she didn’t think her father guessed how she felt. It has always seemed to Lou as if there were conditions attached to her mother’s affection: conditions she has no idea how to satisfy.

  ‘There are lots of things about you, though, that she’ll never understand.’

  You’re telling me, thinks Lou. But she says nothing.

  ‘You appreciate what I’m talking about.’ He looks at her directly. His eyes are watery and bloodshot, but behind the sickness there is recognition. Immediately, she knows that he knows. How long has he been aware? She is twenty-three and out to her friends, but she has never told him. She hasn’t wanted to put him in that position: to force him to lie to his wife. She is sure her mother couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t handle an erotic chapter in a literary novel Lou’s sister recently lent her, for instance – it incensed her so much she never picked up the book again. She is that not comfortable talking about sex.

  ‘I just wanted to say to you, it’s best not to tell her.’ His eyes are pleading. ‘I know it’s tough for you, I really do. But it would kill her.’

  Lou nods. She is hot, emotions all over the place: anger, grief, relief her father is aware of the truth.

  ‘But I want you to know that I know, and whatever you choose to do, is all right by me.’

  Lou gulps.

  ‘I can’t pretend to understand, and it’s not my way, but honestly, what you do in your bedroom is totally down to you. The main thing I want is for my Loulou to be happy.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Lou starts to weep. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t cry now.’ He pats her hand. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiles. ‘Somewhere out there, there’s someone for everyone, I’m sure.’

  She smiles back at him. Of course, it is not the prospect of being single that has made her cry; it is losing him.

  ‘That’s all I wanted to say,’ he says,
gesturing her to go. ‘I’m tired now. I’m going to go to sleep.’ He closes his eyes.

  She rises to her feet, quietly leaves the room.

  Within twenty-four hours, her father has passed away.

  ‘Gosh, a lady undertaker,’ says Phyllis, looking up at the sign above the window.

  FUNERAL DIRECTOR

  BARBARA REED AND SONS

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen. ‘Frankly, they are the nearest, but I’ve passed here a few times, and thought they look OK. I’ve often wondered what goes on behind those curtains, but I never thought I would find out.’

  The window display, in front of net curtains, is a bizarre assortment. The centrepiece is a large mottled grey marble cross, sombre, ugly. On either side are two matching floral arrangements – Karen has noticed they change them regularly, and this week lilies, ivy and palms burst forth from two giant urn-shaped vases. They are more life-affirming, but nonetheless, so far, so traditional. What made Karen decide to use this particular undertaker is the remainder of the display. Because scattered all around are shells of every shape and size, pebbles smoothed by the sea and giant starfish. And last but certainly not least, on each side of the vases – clearly symmetry is important – there are two miniature replicas: on the left, the Brighton Pavilion, in all its mad baroque glory, and on the right, the Palace Pier, complete with fairground attractions and flashing lights. The overall effect is utterly daft, but better that than grim.

  ‘Ooh, are we going in here?’ asks Luke. He and Molly have stood noses pressed to glass many times.

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen, and pushes open the door. A bell tinkles, and they are in a world of pink pastel chintz and polished mahogany – kitsch is clearly not confined to the exterior. Every table has a doily-like cloth; every chair a lace antimacassar. Even the light shades are frilly, like Victorian bloomers.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Finnegan.’ A woman in apricot blouse and tight black pencil skirt steps forward to greet them. She is tanned, plump and with hair dyed too bright a red for her age, so the overall effect is part pumpkin, part tomato, but it is not entirely unattractive – her face is warm, smiley, and Karen is grateful that she is not ghoulish.

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen.

  ‘I’m Barbara Reed, the Funeral Director. I spoke to your brother-in-law late yesterday.’ Alan had got in touch the night before, just before they closed. ‘He dropped off the clothes for your husband first thing this morning.’

  ‘Call me Karen,’ she says, shaking her hand. ‘And this is Phyllis Finnegan, my mother-in-law.’

  ‘Hello,’ says Barbara. ‘I am very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Phyllis. She is extremely close to tears.

  ‘So these must be the children?’ Barbara smiles at them. ‘What are your names?’

  ‘Luke,’ says Luke.

  Molly doesn’t say anything; instead she edges herself behind the fullness of Karen’s skirt, and puts her thumb in her mouth.

  ‘Sorry, this is Molly. She’s a bit shy sometimes,’ apologizes Karen. ‘You can say hello, Molly.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ says Barbara. ‘I’m sure it’s all a bit overwhelming.’

  ‘Can I go and look at the Pier?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Of course,’ says Barbara. ‘Would you like me to pull back the curtain so you can see it better?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything, though,’ Karen warns him.

  Whilst he is distracted, Barbara continues, ‘Your husband’s body arrived here a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I’ve arranged it so he’s in one of our chapels for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘At some point we do need to discuss the arrangements for the service, but perhaps now is not the time.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if the children weren’t around.’

  ‘Sure. So,’ – Barbara glances at each of them in turn, and leans round Karen’s skirt to catch Molly’s eye – ‘I gather you’ve come to see your Daddy.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Luke, stepping away from the Pier. ‘We’ve brought him a drawing.’

  ‘May I see?’ asks Barbara.

  Karen reaches into her bag and gives Luke his drawing. He brandishes it proudly.

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ says Barbara. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s me, and that’s Mummy, and that’s Daddy, and that’s Molly.’

  ‘I can see that,’ says Barbara. She turns to Karen. ‘He’s very good.’

  Karen smiles. Barbara’s not the first to notice it: Luke has inherited his father’s talent. What’s particularly endearing is that he seems to have a design bent too; his drawings are painstakingly detailed, he fixates on pattern and line. She recognizes exactly which top he has drawn her in, for instance, by its tiny purple flowers, and he has put patches on the knees of Simon’s jeans, just like in reality.

  ‘Have you done one too?’ Barbara asks Molly.

  Molly emerges from behind Karen’s skirt. Karen hands her the other sheet of paper so she can hold it up herself. ‘It’s Toby,’ Molly explains.

  ‘Toby is our kitten,’ adds Karen. In contrast to Luke’s, the roundy-roundy scribble does need clarifying.

  ‘That’s splendid,’ says Barbara. ‘I’m sure your Daddy will love them. So, are you ready?’ She turns to Karen. ‘You have told them a bit of what to expect?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen.

  ‘Right then, follow me.’

  And she leads the way through a door and into the chapel.

  The casket is at the front, on a bier. From where they are standing they can’t yet see inside.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ says Luke. He’s been so fearless until now that Karen is taken by surprise. Nonetheless she knows what to do. ‘Would you like me to carry you?’

  ‘Yes,’ nods Luke.

  Karen puts down her bags, and scoops him into her arms.

  ‘I’m scared as well,’ says Molly.

  ‘Would you like me to carry you?’ offers Phyllis.

  ‘Yes,’ says Molly, so Phyllis picks her up.

  Together the four of them approach the casket. Karen thinks she knows what to expect, yet the combination of floral arrangements and chemicals – presumably embalming fluids – is sickly sweet, cloying. Combined with her anxiety on behalf of the children, the smell is overwhelming, and she has a violent surge of nausea. She swallows to overcome it: she needs to be strong.

  Simon is lying on cream silk-satin, and his face looks greyer than it did before. There’s no sign of the post-mortem at all, yet it is as if the real Simon is further removed from his body, somehow. Though it’s odd, as he still looks like her Simon too. God, how she wishes he could speak! He is wearing the suit, white shirt and tie that she, Phyllis and Alan picked out the night before. It makes him appear very sober and formal; not a look she is used to. The first thing he would do when he got home from work would be to undo his top shirt button and loosen his tie – he couldn’t bear to be constricted. She imagines him longing to do it right now.

  Karen had considered dropping off a different outfit this morning, instead, but what would she have brought? The suit that she, Phyllis and Alan opted for is very respectable, and they chose it together, and though personally she always liked him better in casual clothes, the idea of him being buried in a big chunky jumper or sweatshirt just doesn’t seem right. Anyway, she has his dressing gown now: something of the less formal Simon.

  Next to her, Phyllis gasps, unable to conceal her upset.

  This must be awful for her, thinks Karen. She hoists Luke onto her hip so she can hold him up with just one arm, and reaches over to give Phyllis’s shoulder a squeeze.

  The four of them remain there a moment in silence, taking it in.

  ‘Can I touch him?’ asks Luke.

  Karen looks at Phyllis for advice; she nods.

  ‘OK. Why don’t you just stroke his cheek?’

  She edges forward so Luke can lean over the casket.
/>
  ‘Does he feel cold?’ asks Karen.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘That’s because the blood has stopped flowing through Daddy’s body. You know like when you cut yourself and blood comes out? That’s because your heart is pumping it round. Right along your arms here’ – Karen strokes along his arms, down to the ends of his fingers – ‘to here . . . and all the way back. And all the way down your legs’ – she strokes down to the top of his shoes – ‘and back. But Daddy’s heart stopped working, so it stopped pumping blood and that’s why Daddy feels cold.’

  ‘Can I feel him?’ asks Molly.

  ‘Of course you can,’ says Phyllis. Molly reaches over and touches Simon’s cheek too, tiny plump fingers meeting older male skin.

  ‘So is Daddy dead, then?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Yes. This is just your Daddy’s body. Daddy is up in heaven now.’ She endeavours to be as straight as she can. Surely wishy-washy answers will only confuse and upset them both?

  ‘But how did he get up there if he’s here?’

  Karen tries to make it simple. ‘His body is here, but his spirit is up there.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘So . . . would you like to put your pictures in Daddy’s special box?’

  They nod – each is still clutching their drawing.

  ‘OK. So why don’t we put them in here?’ she suggests, taking Luke’s and tucking it just under the casket lid to secure it. She takes Molly’s, and does the same with that. ‘Now, would you like to get your toys so they can say goodbye? They’re in the big shopping bag by the door if you can manage it, Luke.’

  Luke gets down and fetches it. Karen takes Blue Crocodile and hands him to her son.

  Luke chews his lip, hesitant.

  ‘Me!’ Molly reaches out for Princess Aurora.

  Karen passes her daughter the doll. ‘Why don’t you lean over with Aurora here, so she can give Daddy a little kiss? Daddy likes kisses, you know that.’ Karen knows she’s mixing up the notion of Simon’s body and spirit being separate, but she is making it up as she goes along; nothing has prepared her for this.