Chapter Eight
Entrusting our sister to God’s mercy
I’m writing an article called Ten Lip Masks To Treat Your Smackers, for the beauty section of a supermarket magazine called Fresh Living, and as usual, I’m distracted.
Why do certain words look so odd when you stare at them for a while – in this case: ‘smackers’?
It’s not a great headline, admittedly, but magazines like this would never let me freestyle.
If I had my way, it would be Lip Lip, Hooray!
But maybe I should stop trying to make the headline funny and concentrate on the article itself, the part I’m not so good at.
Cassia Carver would make light work of this…
sometimes I wonder if I’m even cut out for this kind of writing, which is a depressing thought as it’s been the basis of my entire career.
A message from Mother Pells brings me back to earth.
Erica, could you collect me on the way to the crematorium, I can’t remember the way. Probably The Inevitable. x
OK Mum. I’ll be at yours at 11.30. x
Thanks. Been thinking about poor Carol this morning, wonder what she’d be doing now. x
Before I can reply, another message lands, this time from Nandy.
How’s your vag?
I smile and, thinking of Gabe and the fizzy chest feeling, reply quickly.
Unexpectedly coming back to life haha
‘Erica, you look like a clown,’ are Mother Pells’ first words as she gets into the car.
‘Erm… thanks Mum. Lovely to see you too,’ I say as I manhandle Josie’s Kia out of her driveway.
The atmosphere is tense on the fifteen-minute drive, and I can tell it isn’t just about my blatant disregard for the twenty mph speed restriction zone near the primary school.
‘You’re wearing a lot of make-up, Erica. You look like one of the Kardashables.’
‘Oh my god, Mum. I thought you’d want me to look nice for Carol’s funeral. Out of respect.’
Mother Pells harrumphs. ‘Respect for Carol went out the window when you sent that horrible message about her coming back to life. It wasn’t funny in the slightest, as you seemed to think.’
Ah. The message for Nandy about my vagina. Probably not worth explaining that.
‘Sorry Mum. That wasn’t meant for you.’
‘Who else are you texting about poor Carol? For goodness’ sake, Erica. Anyway, Simen is now coming today too. At least he’ll show some respect.’
‘Sorry… Did you just say SEMEN?’ I nearly veer off the road.
‘Simen. S-I-M-E-N. But yes, it’s pronounced “Semen”.
It’s the Norwegian version of Simon. Didn’t Simon tell you that’s what he wants to be known as now?
It’s because he did his ethnicity DNA test. He’s four per cent Scandinavian!
I think it’s on my side, not your dad’s.
’ She arranges her bosom proudly with her forearm.
‘So, to be clear, he’s ninety-six per cent NOT Scandinavian and he’s changed his name? Jesus wept.’
‘Please don’t talk about Jesus on the way to a funeral, Erica.’
I grit my teeth and focus on not getting snapped by a speed camera in somebody else’s car.
I used to like the autumn, watching the trees change colour in Regent’s Park and poring over Marie Claire’s 101 Ideas to find the perfect plum-coloured jumper and brown coat for the new season.
Now this time of year just says rising energy bills and flu jabs, with some vitamin D deficiency thrown in for good measure.
There’s also the fact that I hate it when people use the word ‘brisk’ to describe the temperature, and autumn sees the beginning of this season, which lasts until around April the following year.
The other reason I’m not keen on autumn is because that’s when Father Pells died.
They said that he would have ‘a good few years in him yet’ if he hadn’t been exposed to those chemicals at work.
Apparently, they were experimenting with ways to make aircraft invisible to radar – I didn’t understand it then any more than I understand it now.
But it happened, and to start with it was just skin rashes, and a fatigue he couldn’t shake.
After retirement didn’t give him his energy back, he had more and more tests.
Mother Pells retired too, earlier than planned, to look after him.
He would sleep a lot, and nothing seemed to ease his itching.
His face hollowed and the light behind his eyes dimmed.
Test after test, then finally a diagnosis: a rare form of cancer.
They would do ‘all they could’, but the reality was, he’d been poisoned.
People at work were talking about lawsuits – a few other members of his team had health problems too.
A cloud settled over the house, and even Oli and Sam – fighting, laughing, breaking the silences – couldn’t blow it away.
Hospital trips became hospital stays, and Mother Pells picked at her lips until they were raw, which had always been her nervous habit.
I gave her expensive lip balms that I got free from PRs, but they were never going to help.
He died at home. I wasn’t there, but I’d said goodbye the day before.
‘Make us proud, my funny little Erry,’ he’d told me.
It’s cold and windy when we get out of the car at the crematorium and my dress keeps blowing up, despite the long coat I put over it.
The car park is covered in dead leaves, transformed by the rain into what look like soggy cornflakes, which I pick my way around for fear of slipping in my heels.
By contrast, Mother Pells is dressed sensibly in smart ‘slacks’ and a black jacket.
She’s tall and elegant, with a silver bob, more like Simon than me; I inherited my father’s short legs and heart-shaped face.
Simon gets out of his car where he’s been sitting waiting for us to arrive.
He’s wearing a cable-knit patterned jumper with a roll neck and looks like a member of the cast of Fisherman’s Friends, which I haven’t seen, but I thought it looked funny in the trailer.
Simon, on the other hand, does not look funny at all, but quite murderous.
‘Erica, is that an appropriate amount of make-up for a funeral?’ he says as he walks towards us.
‘Hello, Semen. Is that an appropriate amount of knitwear? Why are you dressed like you’re off to trawl a fjord for salmon?’
We glare at each other until Mother Pells ushers us towards the crematorium entrance making that clicking sound with her tongue that people use when toddlers try to eat houseplants. I can tell it’s mainly directed at me.
Inside, I see Carol’s children, Kristin and David, who are also in their forties, in the front row. They smile at Simon (why, in that jumper?) and shoot daggers at me, as they have done ever since the rabbit incident. Move on – it would be dead by now anyway, decking or no decking.
The three of us sit a couple of rows behind them and wait in silence as the room fills up.
‘Sally?’ A bald man sitting in the row in front turns his head. Mother Pells smiles politely but clearly doesn’t know who this is.
‘Clive. Carol’s cousin. We met a few times,’ says the man.
‘Of course,’ says Mother Pells. ‘Do you remember my daughter, Erica, and my son, Simen?’
She’s actually introducing him as seminal fluid. This is a new low. Fortunately, at that point, the pallbearers enter with the coffin, followed by Carol’s husband, Mike, and the service starts, so Clive turns to face the front.
It’s a long service. After half an hour (Kristin’s poem, David’s reading, two hymns and a blessing) I’m bored.
I manage to use the order of service, tilted at an angle, to hide the fact I’m watching Cassia Carver’s Teeth Whitening Treatment Reveal (#smilemakeover).
All her followers have been excited about this one, she’s even been wearing a surgical mask on her Stories for the last week so she doesn’t give away the surprise.
Someone is saying something about ‘entrusting our sister to God’s mercy’, and I decide now is as good a time as any to press play on the reel.
I’m sure I checked it’s on silent mode, so what could go wrong?
Taylor Swift, singing ‘Are you ready for it?’ – that’s what could go wrong.
And timed perfectly with the coffin disappearing behind the curtains too.
Scrabbling to turn it off, with Mother Pells and Simon glowering at me, it dawns on me that at least there’s a new reason for Kristin and David to hate me. Bloody Cassia Carver. It’s quite unnecessary to have such dramatic music for a teeth-whitening reveal, in my opinion.
After the service, I dodge the line-up for obvious reasons and go outside to lean on the Kia and reply to a message from Gabe asking me if I like apple chutney.
A few minutes later, Simon appears, marching across the car park towards me like he’s in a long queue at the supermarket and just spotted another check-out opening.
‘Hi, Semen.’
He scowls at me. ‘It’s SIM-en, not SEE-men.’
I pull a face that I hope expresses the fact that there’s very little difference.
‘I know you think everything is very funny Erica, but that’s because you don’t really have any responsibilities.’
‘What responsibilities do you have? I mean… apart from, well, the kids. And Alannah, and I mean, your job and…’ I really wish I hadn’t started this list.
‘And Mum, Erica. Mum. She’s our responsibility. And she’s not getting any younger. So, stop messing about with all your make-up and your memes or whatever that was in there’ – he waves his hand towards the crematorium – ‘and grow up. You’re nearly fifty.’
Nothing winds me up more than hearing ‘nearly fifty’. I roll my eyes. ‘Stop telling me how to live my life, Semen. And Mum’s fine. I don’t know why you keep going on about it.’ I get into the Kia and slam the door, then roll down the window. ‘Sod off back to your sauna.’