Chapter 48
On what was the third day of my summer I cycled to Feeney’s Funeral Home.
Even though I could drive now the bike ride was routine.
It almost felt like just another day on my way to Feeney’s but there were telltale signs that things weren’t right.
I couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun on my skin or the breeze flapping my T-shirt sleeves.
I couldn’t smell the early morning air which, in summer, smelt fresher.
I was having memory blanks too as I cycled, getting surprised that I was further along in my journey than I’d thought or, at points, not far enough.
I couldn’t remember if I had passed McGleenan’s farm or not, it was the halfway mark and meant another ten minutes to Feeney’s.
I couldn’t remember even if I had had breakfast that morning or if I had washed; but there was a hazy memory of standing under the shower that felt semi-real, so perhaps I had at least done that.
Things were happening in segments with no in between to link them up, so when I found myself standing in Feeney’s yard hosing down the hearse I was surprised to see suds pooling at my feet and around the bucket that I couldn’t remember filling.
‘Brendan, what are you doin’?’ came Mr Feeney’s voice from behind. ‘When I said you could come in today I thought you meant for a talk, not to work. Come on, young fella, put that hose down and come inside.’
‘No, Mr Feeney,’ I said, without turning to look at him. ‘I want the hearse to be right for tomorrow.’
I heard the flap of his slippers on the tarmac stop.
‘Ah right,’ he said. ‘Understood. I understand.’
‘But I did also want to talk to you, Mr Feeney.’
‘Alright,’ he said, his hand coming round to take the hose from me. ‘Will we head inside for a cup ’a’ tea?’
I switched the hose to my other hand.
‘I’ll keep on here, Mr Feeney, if that’s OK.’
‘Understood,’ he said again.
‘I passed my driving test,’ I said. ‘The day before yesterday.’
‘You did? Jeez, Brendan, well done. I didn’t know if you’d gone ahead with it or not, but well done.’
‘Thanks, Mr Feeney.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘well done.’
I twisted the hose to a trickle and let it drop by my side.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Can I drive the hearse?’
I watched the trickles from the hose form an expanding pool on the ground.
‘For Ronan?’ I said.
The pool was edging towards my feet; I stepped away from it and looked up at Mr Feeney.
‘I always thought Ronan would be the first person I took for a drive when I passed my test and tomorrow’s the only chance we’ll get. Our first drive together and …’ I didn’t need to say it, because I knew Mr Feeney would understand, but I did anyway. ‘… And our last.’
Mr Feeney’s head was doing quick little nods, trying to process something.
‘Do you know your measurements?’ he said eventually.
‘For what?’
‘Well if you’re goin’ to drive the hearse you’re goin’ to have to look the part and I’ve no suits in your size.’
‘McMillan’s have my measurements.’
‘Right well come on here and I’ll take you to McMillan’s and we’ll get you sorted. Have you told your parents about this? Or Ronan’s parents?’
‘Not yet, Mr Feeney, no.’
‘Well maybe you should just …’
‘Aye, maybe I should …’
‘Aye maybe you should just … keep it between ourselves for the minute.’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘That’s what I was thinking, Mr Feeney.’
‘Aye, we’ll get you suited, we’ll get you practising a bit in the hearse and get you schooled up on everything. We’ll look after you.’
‘Thanks, Mr Feeney.’
‘Aye young fella,’ he said, ‘we’ll look after you.’
At McMillan’s it was the same tailor that had fitted me for my tuxedo in February.
‘Let me see,’ he said, flicking through his book. ‘Ah, here we go, got all your measurements here, oh yes …’ He glanced up at me. ‘You’re the one I gave the extra dickie bow to. Which did you wear in the end?’
I had let Mr Feeney do all the talking up to that point and hadn’t expected the tailor to remember me, or for me to have the memory of a happier time come back so strongly.
‘I went for the “more than just the black” one,’ I said.
He chuckled.
‘And no regrets?’
I thought for a moment.
‘No. No regrets.’
‘Good,’ he said.
‘Today, though,’ I said, ‘today it’s just the black.’
‘Right,’ said the tailor, his face losing a little bit of its glow. He looked to Mr Feeney. ‘The usual Feeney attire for the young gentleman is it, Gerry?’
‘It is indeed, Alister.’
‘Let me put that together for you, won’t be a moment.’
After we got back from McMillan’s with the new suit, Mr Feeney took me for a test drive in the hearse.
‘Easier than you thought?’ he said as we completed another loop of the perimeter of the funeral home.
‘Definitely, I’ve never driven an automatic before.’
‘Now don’t you worry on the day, Matty’s helping out and he’ll be in the front here beside you, he’ll keep you right.
I’ll be out front leading the cortege. Now, as you know, the mourners will be following you from behind, you want to keep roughly a four-foot gap between them and the hearse.
Matty and me will keep you right with the distance but if you see their noses touchin’ the back windscreen then you know you’ll need to speed up a bit,’ he said with a smile and a wink.
‘Right,’ I said, trying to take it all in.
‘Timing is everything for funerals, the service at St Matthew’s is at ten o’clock but we’ll need to be there for ten to ten, which means we’d need to be leaving here by quarter past nine.
Ronan will be in the chapel of rest here from the night before and people are welcome to gather from eight o’clock in the morning onwards.
Had you and your parents settled on a time for arriving? ’
‘Um …’
It felt like my throat had closed up and my lungs had suddenly shrunk, I couldn’t breathe. I felt trapped. The seatbelt across my chest felt like a straitjacket. I started fumbling with it to try to get it off but I didn’t have power in my fingers to press the button to release it.
‘Brendan, what’s wrong? Here …’ Mr Feeney said, pressing the seatbelt button.
The belt whipped across my chest and I tried for the door handle but couldn’t get it open. Mr Feeney reached across and pulled it for me and I tumbled out onto the ground.
‘Brendan, take it easy, young fella,’ said Mr Feeney, getting out and coming round to me on all fours trying to suck in air.
‘Brendan, what’s wrong? Take it easy there, take some breaths,’ Mr Feeney said, coming down onto his knees with his hand on my back. ‘That’s it, slow yourself down.’
My throat began to open again; air flowed down into me and slowly began to return my lungs to their normal size.
‘Are you alright?’ said Mr Feeney. ‘What happened?’
I felt like I had just done a cross-country PE class, the ones where I ran to try to keep up with Ronan. He’d be able to talk no problem afterwards and I always struggled to string a sentence together with the exhaustion.
‘I don’t know, Mr Feeney. I don’t know what that was.’
‘No,’ he said, still on the ground with me. ‘No, it was a funny turn you had there, was indeed.’
‘I think maybe,’ I said, ‘I think maybe it was all the details or something. The timings. Just thinking … this time tomorrow … it’ll all be …’
‘Aye,’ said Mr Feeney.
‘I’m alright now,’ I said, getting to my feet even though my legs felt weak. ‘Can we do another few laps?’
‘Maybe you should take a wee break there, Brendan,’ he said, getting up, ‘the wife has some scones there, sure why don’t we …’
‘I’d like to keep at it, Mr Feeney, if that’s OK.’
He put his hands on his hips, looked back at the house and then back to me.
‘Are you sure this is OK for the’mara, Brendan? Would it maybe not be better for you to be with the family and be a part of the funeral in that way?’
‘I think … I think I might find it easier to do this, Mr Feeney. I think I might have to … I think I just … have to.’
‘You’re some man,’ said Mr Feeney. ‘Right.’ He walked round to the passenger side and I got back into the driver’s seat, closed the door, put my seatbelt on, started up the engine and did another lap of the funeral home.
‘Nicely done,’ said Mr Feeney. ‘Happy enough? Would you want to come a bit earlier in the morning for a wee reminder or will you just be comin’ along as planned with your parents?’
It dawned on me that I hadn’t talked to Mum and Dad about anything to do with the funeral, or if I had it was in one of my memory blanks and I had no recollection of it.
‘I think I’m happy enough, Mr Feeney, for arriving with my parents. What time?’
‘Well, up to you. Did you want to see Ronan at all in the morning – before?’
‘I thought it was … the McCoys said it wouldn’t be an open casket?’
‘No, that’s right, but they’ll be having a private moment with Ronan in the chapel of rest first thing. I’d say you’d … well, maybe you’d want that too? Sometimes it’s a nice thing for a friend to do a wee somethin’, maybe style the hair for him or something like that?’
‘Have you seen the state of my hair, Mr Feeney?’ I said with a half laugh.
‘Aye, fair point,’ he said and nudged me. ‘Sure look at my own! We’ll leave that to the experts, what do you say?’
‘I say that’s a good idea.’
‘Well, maybe there’s a wee somethin’ else you’d like to do or if you’d rather not that’s not a bother. Either way, we’ll be allowing Ronan’s mum and dad all the time they need up until quarter past nine and then we’ll get going.’
A van pulled up into the yard, entirely black, no windows. It was a vehicle I never cleaned. It was the one used to pick bodies up from the homes they died in or from hospital after post-mortem.
‘Is … Ronan here already?’ I asked.
Mr Feeney looked forward through the glass at the arriving vehicle.
‘He is, Brendan.’
The driver of the van, Vinnie, got out and spotted Mr Feeney and me sitting in the hearse.
He raised a hand. He was one of Mr Feeney’s oldest employees; kind, quiet, well past retirement age but still did collections and embalmings because Mr Feeney said there was no one like him and that his manner for the job was one in a million.
When Mr Feeney said Ronan was there already I didn’t know if he meant in the back of that van or in the funeral home; either way, I didn’t want to stay.
‘I think I’ll go home now, Mr Feeney. I feel confident enough with the hearse.’
‘Feels alright, does it?’
‘Yes. Just hope I don’t …’
‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry. I’m on the other end of the phone here all night, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mr Feeney.’
‘Brendan, when are you going to stop with this Mister business and start callin’ me Gerry?’
‘Probably never, Mr Feeney.’
‘Aye well maybe we’ll have to address that down the line.’
‘Aye, I’ve a feeling we probably will – down the line,’ I said.
‘One more thing, Brendan,’ he said, before I got out.
‘Somethin’ a wise man once said to me, “promise less, give more”.
Somethin’ I’ve lived by in this business, the “more” part is the bit that families need on the day to help get them through, it’s that wee thing you hold back and keep secret that can just be the bit of strength they need on the day.
Sometimes it’s a bouquet of flowers they didn’t know would be in the hearse, other times it’s a beautiful picture of their loved one they weren’t expecting to be at the graveside.
But tomorrow, you, Brendan, driving this hearse, you are the “more”, and wait till you see how much that helps everyone on the day. ’
I smiled as best I could.
‘Right, get yourself home there and get some food into you, you’re lookin’ very pale. Maybe I should drive you, them legs ’a’ yours are lookin’ a bit shaky.’
‘No, I’ll be grand, Mr Feeney, honestly.’
‘Right, well.’
I got out, keeping my head down, avoiding looking at the dark van, but gave Vinnie a quick nod and he nodded back.
I hooked the McMillan’s bag over the handlebars of my bike and cycled home. Mum was in the hallway when I stepped through the front door.
‘Brendan, where have you been?’
‘At Feeney’s.’
‘Not … not working? Or …’
‘Well, I did wash the hearse for tomorrow. Ronan … Ronan is there but I didn’t see him.’
‘Oh right,’ she said. ‘Getting the hearse ready for tomorrow … that was a lovely thing to do.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s ready.’
‘Did you get breakfast this morning? You were away before we were up.’
‘No, I don’t think I did, but I think I could eat something now.’
‘Right,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘I’ve some fresh poppy seed rolls from the bakery, cracker barrel cheese and some of the wafer ham.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘What’s in the bag?’ she said, pointing to the McMillan’s bag at my side.
‘I’ll show you in the morning,’ I said, making my way towards the stairs. ‘I’ll be down in a minute to help you with the rolls.’
I went upstairs to hang the suit in my cupboard. A flash of my reflection in the mirror on the inside of the door as I opened it; a glimpse of the ghostly whiteness in me. I swung it shut and went straight back down to the kitchen.
‘Will I grate the cheese?’ I said, as Mum buttered the rolls.
We invested all our energy in those rolls. We didn’t talk. We grated, buttered, cut, filled and sliced. When we sat down together at the table we ate loudly and messily and didn’t care. After the final bite, Dad arrived home to see us with our poppy-seed-sprinkled plates and butter-smeared lips.
‘Oh, he’s home,’ he said, coming into the dining room and then spotting our plates. ‘Yous are after having a feed, did you save some for me?’
Mum and me looked at each other and smiled. Her teeth were filled with black poppy seeds and as I went to point at her mouth she lifted her hand to point at mine.
‘You’ve poppy seeds in your teeth,’ we both said at exactly the same time and then burst out laughing.
We stopped, breathed, sighed out together and then burst into another peal of laughter.
Dad watched us and then came and sat down at the table as our laughter faded out.
We sat together for a moment, not speaking, staring down at the scattered crumbs and seeds on our plates and then down to our hands; Dad’s were in a tight horizontal prayer position on top of the table.
Mum’s were underneath but her arms had a twisting motion as if her hands were being wrung.
I looked down to my own, resting on each thigh, not tight, not tense, but trembling.