Chapter 49
It was the fourth day of my summer.
It was the day of Ronan’s funeral.
I was standing in front of the cupboard mirror in my bedroom when Mum’s voice came along the landing.
‘Brendan, we’re nearly ready to leave … Goodness,’ she said, stopping in the doorway. ‘Brendan, you look … you really do … Where’d you get that suit?’
‘Mr Feeney took me to McMillan’s yesterday, I was going to wear the suit I wore for Granny’s funeral but … well, since I’m going to be more involved Mr Feeney thought I should look the part.’
‘More involved?’
‘It’s something I’ve sorted with Mr Feeney, Mum, between him and me.’
‘Alright,’ she said with a tilt of her head, ‘we’re ready downstairs when you are.’
Alone again, I gave myself a head-to-toe scan. Everything looked as right as it could, so I closed the cupboard door.
I walked to my desk and picked up the framed photo that Jennifer had given me at Christmas; the black-and-white image of Ronan ‘the champion’ held up high by a swarm of students from our year, with me off to the side looking up at him, smiling. I took it with me.
We pulled up outside Feeney’s Funeral Home.
Other cars were there and small groups of people were standing around.
I had spoken to Mr and Mrs McCoy on the phone the night before; they’d said the gathering at the funeral home would be small, only close family.
I didn’t recognise anyone. The McCoys said I could see Ronan if I wanted to but understood if it felt too much on the day.
I got out of the back of the car and straightened out the creases in my trousers and jacket just as Mr Feeney strode over.
‘Morning, Brendan.’
‘Morning, Mr Feeney.’
‘He’s looking powerful well, isn’t he?’ he said to my parents, putting a hand on my shoulder.
‘He is indeed, Gerry,’ said Dad, ‘but, honestly, we’ll have to sort you out with the cash for that suit.’
‘You will not indeed, business expense,’ he said with a knowing smile towards me. ‘Mr and Mrs McCoy are in the chapel of rest at the moment. Brendan, did you have a wee think about that? It’s only what feels right for you today.’
‘I would like to see Ronan,’ I said. ‘I have a wee picture here I’d like to give him, or put in with him.’ I showed it and he took it for a closer look.
‘Ah, that’s a class picture, look at him,’ he said and then pointed, ‘and there’s you in the corner. Class picture, Brendan.’
As he handed the photo back I saw Mrs McCoy appear in the doorway of the chapel of rest. Her face looked red, her hand in a fist pressed to her chest. She seemed lost as she looked around at the gathering and then her eyes met mine and she smiled, beckoning me over.
‘How are you, Emma?’ Mum said as we came over and hugged her.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’re all together, we’ll get through. Thank you so much for coming.’
Dad hugged her, too, and offered condolences.
‘Brendan, look at you,’ said Mrs McCoy, breaking from Dad’s embrace, ‘doesn’t he just look so …’
She shook her head trying to find the word, just like Mum had done.
‘He does indeed,’ said Mr Feeney.
‘Thank you, Mrs McCoy,’ I said.
Words held no power that morning, the looks we gave each other were enough, not just the look in our eyes but what was behind them; unseen but felt.
‘Did you want to see Ronan?’ she asked me. ‘He’s looking very peaceful, he really is.’
‘I would like to see him, Mrs McCoy. I have this, a wee picture, I’d like to give him if that’s OK?’
‘Of course it is, Brendan.’ She took the photo, her other hand still pressed tight to her chest. ‘Oh, look, oh, I just love this picture of him, Brendan. I’ve never seen this before.’
‘Sports day last year,’ I said.
‘Sports day last year,’ she said vaguely, handing it back to me. ‘Goodness. It’s lovely. It’s perfect.’
She stepped back into the doorway and the hand that had been at her chest reached out and opened for me to hold. Her frail grasp was freezing. She led me inside.
At the opposite end of the chapel of rest was Ronan’s wooden coffin. Oak. Mr McCoy was gently combing his son’s hair. He looked up.
‘Brendan,’ he said.
Mrs McCoy released my hand and I walked forward.
Ronan was wearing a Liverpool jersey. He was surrounded by cross-country medals, mini trophies, photos of him with family and several sealed envelopes with his name written on them. I looked at his face. He did look peaceful.
‘I have this,’ I said to Mr McCoy, showing him the photo I’d brought.
‘Ah, look,’ he said, taking it and looking into it longingly. ‘See if you can find room,’ he said with a tinge of his usual humour. ‘We had to ration ourselves, he’s got so many medals, there’s a load more in his bedroom. I just love that picture, and there’s you,’ he said, pointing me out in it.
‘Sports day last year,’ Mrs McCoy said, joining us.
‘Sports day last year,’ Mr McCoy said, passing the photo back to me.
I placed it by Ronan’s right elbow. Mrs McCoy stood between us and put one arm around me and the other around her husband; the three of us held together looking down at Ronan.
We remained like that, wordless, until a shuffle came from behind us. Mr Feeney nodded when we turned, as one, to look at him.
As one we nodded back, knowing it was time.
Mr Feeney always told me that the most difficult thing for families was the moment just before the lid was put on the coffin, those final seconds of sight the family would ever have of their loved one.
He said that those who chose to be present at that moment experienced both a blessing and a curse; it was a healing privilege but a terrible pain with that last glimpse being sealed beneath wood forever.
It was a moment, he said, that he hated having to call the time for but Mr Feeney was a man who knew all about time.
We stepped back as Mr Feeney came forward. Vinnie was standing quietly in the doorway with Matty beside him. I’d never seen Matty wearing a suit before or with his hair combed; he didn’t normally assist in the funerals. Both men came forward to help Mr Feeney lift the coffin lid.
The shadow of it passed over Ronan.
Hovering.
Then down.
Slow.
And the last thread of vision snapped out of sight.
Mr and Mrs McCoy shook, holding each other up.
I shook too but bolted my body rigid.
I needed to not break for what I had to do that day.
The coffin lid was screwed tight.
Mr Feeney became the quiet conductor, softly telling Matty to gather the pallbearers and bring them inside. Six men came in and Mr Feeney positioned them for the coffin to be hoisted up and onto their shoulders.
‘Brendan,’ he whispered, ‘come up beside me.’
I left Mr and Mrs McCoy and joined Mr Feeney to walk side by side out into the light.
We led the procession through the gathering in the yard, towards the hearse.
Mr Feeney used his hands, from his shoulders to his waist, to direct the pallbearers to lower the coffin down.
He, Matty and Vinnie slid it inside. Mr Feeney reached up and closed the door.
I remained standing there, looking through the glass I had cleaned the day before, a crystal-clear view of the coffin inside, of the flowers around it.
‘Alright, young fella,’ came Mr Feeney’s voice with his hand on my shoulder. I looked up to him, nodded and followed him to the driver’s side door as Matty went to the passenger side.
‘The keys are in her already,’ said Matty over the roof of the hearse.
Mr Feeney opened the door for me.
‘Take a wee look back, Brendan,’ he said.
The first faces I saw were Mr and Mrs McCoys’; it was dawning on them that I would be driving.
Smiles beamed through their tears. Standing just behind them my parents were realising too.
Dad, the one who taught me to drive, slowly put one thumb up at me, his lips pressed tight together and his eyes squinting; it was an expression that looked like he was feeling something inside that his face didn’t know how to show, an expression I’d never seen before.
My mum’s eyes were filled with tears and she was smiling.
‘What’d I tell you?’ said Mr Feeney. ‘Promise less, give more.’ He put the black top hat on his head. ‘In you get.’
I got inside and closed the door. Matty sat in too.
‘We’ll keep you right, Brendan,’ he said.
I looked at Mr Feeney through the windscreen standing with his back to us.
‘Start up the engine there,’ said Matty.
I turned the key.
The hearse hummed into life.
I took a side glance back to the end of the coffin, Ronan’s head just behind mine.
My passenger.
I took a deep breath, let it out and turned back to look through the windscreen again.
Mr Feeney was facing me.
He lifted his hand and made a slow beckoning motion.
I moved forward.
Everyone followed.
Through the centre of our town, on the way to St Matthew’s, I tried to keep my eyes on Mr Feeney, but couldn’t help glancing to the sides of the road; an almost unbroken fence of people on both pavements.
Faces known and unknown. I saw Mrs O’Neill.
I’d never seen her wearing black before, I only knew her as a woman of colour and light.
Principal Pickereen was beside her and Mr Dickson, the PE teacher.
I recognised some of the dinner ladies and cleaners too.
I saw Ms Toner and thought how she would be forever mentioned in the story of how Ronan and me became friends on the day of my nosebleed.
It seemed like most of the students from my year were there too; it was strange seeing everyone not in their school uniform but still dressed the same.
All eyes were on Ronan in the back, but sometimes a surprised face of a student saw me and took a second glance to make sure they weren’t imagining things.
One student tapped Mrs O’Neill and pointed; we met eyes, her hand to her cheek; she smiled.