1986 – aged 31
Lilly hated funerals. The thought made her snort a brief, sarcastic laugh.
I mean, did anyone like them? She pulled the black shift dress from the hanger and slipped it over her head.
With thick black tights underneath and her long hair scooped into a loose knot at the base of her neck, fastened with a wide scrunchie, she figured she’d do.
‘We’ll see you there, Lilly-Bob.’ Mr Chaplin and his wife, Alma, who lived on the first floor, waved as they passed her in the hallway. ‘Our Judy is driving us.’
‘Yep, see you there.’
It was interesting how these people, her neighbours, were a big part of her life and yet were strangers too, thrown together, connected by no more than the allocation of their flat by the council some years ago now.
She was glad they were spruced up and coming along, knowing her dad would have appreciated it.
It was entirely ridiculous, comical even, the thought that he had died.
Her dad. Dead! Nope, it made no sense and just wouldn’t sink in, no matter how much she tried to make sense of it.
Far easier to think he was at work, rehearsing with the orchestra, playing a concert, hiking somewhere green and muddy with his canvas knapsack on his back.
She’d had the radio playing since he died, nearly two weeks ago now.
The most popular song, The Communards’ ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ .
. . it seemed to be on repeat on nearly every station, and the irony wasn’t lost on her, even now as the lyrics rattled round and around in her head.
It felt fitting. He loved music, had always loved music, his taste eclectic and fluid.
He’d like this little tribute from Jimmy Somerville, she was sure.
Again she fought the desire to giggle, waiting for him to appear, ‘Ta-dah!’, not dead at all, probably hiding or lost on a ramble, or asleep, or whistling somewhere, enjoying his packed lunch, having simply lost track of time.
How they would laugh when she told him of the mayhem he had caused.
. . . and then the doctor said, ‘He came in complaining of chest pains,’ and the next thing I knew, we were in a lift, and they were taking me down to the bowels of the building to show me a body that looked very much like you. Can you believe it, Dad? Now, what are we having for tea?
The service was simple, fitting, with a lovely eulogy given by Mrs Devlin, who had played in the orchestra with her dad for decades and of whom he was very fond.
As the velvet fringed curtains closed and the coffin was lowered to somewhere Lilly would rather not envisage, the sound of Albinoni’s ‘Adagio in G Minor’ rang out around the crematorium, musical perfection for such a moment.
Still, despite the sound of muffled sobbing all around her, Lilly was yet to shed a tear.
Because it didn’t feel real, any of it, and therefore her body couldn’t cry, as her mind wouldn’t let her.
The wake was busier than she had anticipated.
‘A good turnout’ seemed to be the appropriate phrase.
The entire orchestra, his work friends from the music shop, members of the Ramblers’ Association, neighbours, even the odd army friend or two.
He would have been chuffed and embarrassed in equal measure to see such a gathering.
There was an air of reverence in the Builder’s Arms pub, where platters of cheese and pickle, and ham and tomato sandwiches, trays of Scotch eggs and bowls of ready-salted crisps had been placed on the bar, alongside a stack of paper napkins to aid with food residue on the fingers.
People she knew, and some she didn’t, came to shake her hand, share a lovely anecdote, usually detailing something funny or kind her dad had said or done, and all with a genuine sadness about them that they wouldn’t see him again.
Her mum came to the funeral; of course she did.
What Lilly hadn’t expected was that Derek Manners would be there too.
It was obvious, really, that her mum wasn’t going to pitch up without her husband of fifteen years, and in fairness to Derek Manners he had never done anything to directly hurt or injure Lilly, it was more what he represented.
He was the man who had provided the open window through which her mother had climbed, keen to escape her unsatisfactory life in Waide House.
More than that, he’d put up a rope ladder and placed a safety mat on the ground, promising to catch her if she fell.
A neat exit from their flat, where not even that wide window and the view of the river was enough to tempt her to stay.
Lilly approached her mother with caution, still wary of rejection, still nervous to place her hand on her, to touch her in any way, never to tell her that she loved her, worried by not receiving the same in return.
And even now, wanting to punish the woman who had promised so much with her regular dinners, laundering skills and bedtime stories, making the withdrawal of it all that much harder to bear.
‘Thank you for coming.’ She spoke with a certain formality, nodding at her mum, who looked older than she did in Lilly’s mind, and sad, of course.
It was a requirement for the occasion, even if it was a look that Lilly was struggling to achieve.
Her mum narrowed her eyes at her. ‘Of course. Of course we were going to come!’
We . . . We . . . We . . .
‘It’s surreal to me.’ Jeannie drew breath. ‘Robert was one of those people who was just always going to be around.’ Unlike you . . . Lilly swallowed the thought. ‘I can’t imagine what you are going through, Lilly.’
‘I’m fine!’ She gave a brief, contained smile: proof. ‘People keep telling me it’s a blessing for him to have experienced such a swift and straightforward ending. I guess that’s true.’
‘I believe that. Derek’s brother had cancer’ – her mum shook her head and simultaneously exhaled – ‘and there was nothing straightforward about that.’
‘Right.’ Lilly widened her eyes, in no humour to hear about the suffering of someone she had never met or heard of.
‘How have you been?’ Her mother toyed with the handle of her handbag, bitten nails nervously flicking the frayed edge of faux leather.
‘Well, there’s a question.’ Lilly considered it.
‘I’ve been . . . preoccupied, I suppose.
Busy. No one tells you that, do they, about all the admin involved when someone dies.
It’s not actually the emotional stuff that gets you at the end of every day, not the longing for one more minute or the revisiting of moments and memories that reduce you to tears.
At least it hasn’t been for me.’ She gave a small, awkward laugh.
‘For me it’s more about being physically exhausted, entirely unenamoured by the filling out of the forms in triplicate, the sending off of certificates, the numerous phone calls, arguing with the bank, cancelling policies and standing orders, closing accounts, all that rubbish. ’
An image of her wonderful Bertie filled Lilly’s mind, knowing his family had been exhausted by the long and laborious nature of his passing.
The wasting away of the once vibrant man, watching him over a series of months reduce and reduce until he barely resembled the person they all adored.
A living ghost. As if he had died long before he died.
Applying lotions and potions and trying to find new and inventive ways to present the kaleidoscope of colossal pills that seemed both endless and pointless.
The sleepless nights, understanding that at that stage, the end, the nasty disease paid no heed to the clock.
And neither did her darling Bertie Barnes, who at the most irregular of times needed to use the bathroom, take morphine, or simply felt the need to make sure for the umpteenth time that she fully understood the workings of the safe in the gallery.
The gallery he had left to her, this the one thing he had wanted to say before he died.
It was hers because she was the closest to a daughter he would ever have, and he loved her so.
Lilly looked up and coughed, refocusing, as if remembering who she was talking to and what she was talking about. ‘So yes, I’ve been preoccupied.’
‘I guess it’s one good thing, that he didn’t suffer.’
‘Oh yes,’ she offered brightly, falsely. ‘That is one good thing.’
‘You sound’ – her mum licked her lips, nervously – ‘a bit bitter. Angry, actually. Angry with me.’
Lilly smacked her hand on her forehead. ‘Now why on earth would I be angry with you?’
‘I don’t know, Lilly, because maybe you think if I hadn’t left, your dad might still be alive, as if you think it was somehow my job to stay and look after him. Is that what you think?’
This time her mother didn’t waste time agitating the handle of her handbag. Instead she placed her thumbnail directly between her teeth and ripped.
‘I don’t know what I think, Mum.’ The sound of the word was still alien on her tongue.
But that was a lie; Lilly did know. And what she thought was that, had her mother not abandoned her marriage, her husband, her life, then maybe, just maybe, her dad might not have kept his heart condition secret, might not have had a bad heart at all!
As if one that wasn’t broken had a better chance of survival than his, which his wife had taken and smashed into a million fragments.
I think that if we assume it’s for ever then we won’t be disappointed. And if it turns out not to be the case, then we’ll be extra happy if she comes home . . .
It was a ludicrous notion, of course.
‘Ignore me, I’m tired’ – she rubbed her sore eyes – ‘and my dad’s just died and I’m trying to get my head straight.’
‘That day, that day you called me to tell me about the boy you’d met’ – her mum met her gaze and, just like that, Lilly felt the throb along her scar – ‘I think about it a lot. It was like . . .’