Chapter 1 #2
My dress got caught in the door as I climbed out of the car, and I made that frustrated noise again.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
I ran into the little room at the front of the church where Mum and Graham were waiting for me, relief crossing their faces.
‘All okay?’ Mum asked.
You can’t say she doesn’t have a strong brand.
‘All good. I got them.’
‘Then chop, chop.’ Her face was drawn and tense. ‘Your uncle saved us a spot at the front of the church. We held off as long as possible, but the vicar has to start soon. Really, Katherine. Of all days to be forgetful.’
I squeezed my eyes shut as self-hatred flooded my system. My mother hated nothing more than being late or being perceived as a nuisance. Funnily enough, I was often both.
I pushed open the arched door, and my mouth fell open.
The church was full. And it wasn’t a small church.
Every single pew was full of people, most I didn’t recognise.
I halted, but Mum bumped into me, pushing me forward.
As I shuffled towards the front of the church, my gaze snagged to the front row, locking eyes with my cousin, Lydia, who wore a form-fitting black dress and smart black trainers.
Even for formal events, you couldn’t get Lydia out of trainers.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she had been born with them bonded to her feet.
‘Hey,’ I said, relieved to see my cousin’s smiling face. We didn’t see each other often, but you didn’t need much time to like Lydia. She has this infectious positivity that hangs around her like a halo. I lowered myself into the pew next to her.
‘You okay, Cuz?’ Lydia smiled, giving my hand a quick squeeze. That was all I needed for the tears to well. Christ, we were so repressed in this country.
I replied with a watery smile. ‘Yep.’
‘You’ll do amazing,’ She whispered, squeezing my hand again.
The priest started, and I was handed an order of service with a picture of my dad on the front.
Jim Williams
13 February 1958 – 12 June 2022
Holding it was surreal. It was confirmation that he was really gone. In the picture, he had the same curly red hair and the same heart-shaped face as me, but it had gone round as he’d put on a bit of weight in his older age.
The echoey silence of the church made my heart beat faster.
The sound of the priest’s shoes hitting the stone floors filled my ears, much too loud.
My head spun as the priest took his space at the pulpit and, in a deep booming voice, gave an overview of Dad’s life and upbringing, touching on his ties up north in Everly Heath before he moved south to Reading to live with Mum and me.
The priest artfully navigated my parent’s divorce.
‘… And despite Jim and Paula parting ways, they always remained friends and continued co-parenting their daughter Kat.’
I gave out an uncontrollable bark of laughter that echoed through the church. My mum shifted forward, her eyes wide. Fuck, that had been loud.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered to no one in particular but everyone in the church at the same time.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Lydia whispered back, covering her palm over mine and giving me a reassuring squeeze.
‘… And I’d like to ask Kat up here to say a few words about her father.’
My head whipped around to see the priest looking expectantly at me.
Fuck. With all the stress of the speech notes and the dickhead parking spot thief, I hadn’t had time to mentally prepare myself for this.
I stood up, shaking slightly and approached the pulpit. I looked out at the sea of black and felt the church spin. I exhaled, realising I was holding my breath, and began.
‘My dad – where do I start?’ I forced a laugh, glancing at my family sitting in the first pew.
My uncle and auntie looked up at me, smiling. My uncle Brian, a doppelg?nger for my dad, gave me a small, encouraging nod. I couldn’t find any source of embarrassment in their features. This was their town, after all. They knew most of the guests invited, unlike me.
I cleared my throat, shifting my gaze away.
Focus on something else.
‘We, ah – we weren’t close before he passed. I think I’m allowed to say that.’ I frowned. ‘But I have fond memories of him growing up. Taking me to the park on my bike. I had stabilisers until I was like twelve. But he never made me feel bad about that. Sorry, I’m rambling.’
I took a deep breath.
‘I have fond memories of my dad growing up. Every summer, he used to take Mum and me camping in Devon. Even though Mum and I hated it, he was the best at camping.’
The crowd chuckled.
‘Because we hated it so much, he’d let us bring anything we liked to keep us comfortable and happy. One year, he packed an entire box of my Polly Pockets. And I had the house, the car, everything. He didn’t even blink an eye; he just picked the box up and put it in the boot.’
My heart was beating in my ears.
‘When I was about eight, my hamster, Gerald, died. Mum was out, and I was distraught, crying… really quite hysterical. Dad, being Dad, panicked and had no idea what to do or how to make it better. So naturally, he built a Viking-style funeral pyre for the hamster in the back garden.’
Louder laughs erupted.
‘We stood side by side. Solemn. I said a few words, and so did he.’ I burst into deep, hearty laughter that shocked me.
‘When he went to light the fire, it wouldn’t light.
So he got some brandy from the drinks trolley…
and poured it on the pyre… then it lit up so much that it almost singed Dad’s eyebrows.
Mum came home to the smell of burning, only to find us laughing in front of a hamster funeral pyre like we’d lost the plot. ’
I smiled. ‘He was a great dad in those moments. Supportive. Even at school, when I struggled, he never pushed me. He told me to do my best. “All you can do is your best, Kat,” he used to say. I just wish –’ My knuckles went white on my speech notes.
All my long-suppressed resentments came surging forward. I couldn’t help but think about how these nice, warm memories were mixed in with missed recitals and birthdays.
I scrunched my eyes closed, thinking of all those milestones he’d missed…
‘How do you grieve someone who was a great dad until I was ten years old, then invisible for the other seventeen?’ I whispered, glancing down at my notes.
A drop of liquid had landed on the page, smudging some of the black ink. I wanted to glance up to see what was leaking until I realised it was coming from my eyes. I touched my wet cheek.
The church was silent, eerily silent.
‘Sorry, that was an inside thought,’ I tried to joke, but my voice broke.
I looked down at the front pew. Uncle Brian and Auntie Sandra had their hands clasped and brows furrowed.
My cousin’s mouth was in a thin, straight line, uncharacteristically grave.
My mum and Graham were trying to communicate with me through their eyes, their expressions saying wildly different things.
I tried again to make words come out, but my chest was painful and my breath shallow.
One other recognisable face was a few rows back.
Dark hair, eyes to match. The man from the car park, his quiet amusement replaced with pity.
His eyebrows pinched together, his mouth downturned.
He had a deeply pained expression like he was looking at a gravely injured animal without being able to save it.
And that was it.
The last straw.
‘I’m sorry. I-I can’t do this,’ I blurted out, stepping off the pulpit, walk-slash-running to the back room of the church, locking it behind me and sliding down the door. I gasped deep breaths, like I’d been underwater for centuries, and tears rolled down my cheeks.
The same phrase was repeating in my head:
I’m such a fuck up.
I’m such a fuck up.
I’m such a fuck up.