Boundaries

You said ‘Look, it’s in this one.’ Sticky page, dusty album. ‘That’s Flaherty’s, the sweet shop, is that you?’ Mophaired, short trousers, long socks, silent Sunday shoes. ‘The funeral directors was next to that’. You said, ‘No, the butchers is there. On the other side’. I said ‘I know I know, of course I know.’ Next to the butchers, a square on the Monopoly board of childhood nobody ever bought: the village Funeral Directors. Children walking past to the bakers for yeast, warm in the hand to bake bread, the bottom half of the window frosted for eternity and the top half too high for ten year olds to see through. Inscribed in gold gothic, Death’s company name. Death. Stuffed under the cushions of parables. Colder than gravestones’ inscriptions in the church at the end of the lane. Death, a photograph of an ivy leaf propped on an empty silver flower holder. Death. Is for little boys in school caps who do not believe. They get left behind. Death is a threat. Godalmings and Sons never made any effort to decorate the window. On rainy days it reflected the flashes of the crossing beacons. 3 seconds left. Made it. See? And now, a lifetime later, after holding the shell in hospital sheets, leaving the ward one last time, walking across that same road, to make an appointment for Dad. 1130: Meet Your Funeral Director. You had not wanted to go, though you said you would, if I wanted. I said no, don’t: the Easter parade is important for her. You said ‘What about Peter? Would he go?’ Peter Peter Simon Peter bread and two fishes on the colour plate. Bible for Children. I’m alright. Meet the other brothers.

Each get out of separate cars, each holding Costa cups of separate silence. Beacons flash seconds. Pause outside. Check watches - 15 minutes early. The reflections of the beacons in the window. Together push the door. Jangle. The door we had never thought we would open.

I wipe childhood on the brushed mat and smell … a small exhalation of life. There’s three chairs, a desk, a vacuum cleaner propped as a dead spectator. Are we grieving correctly? A brochure “The funeral you’ve always wanted”. Woman at the desk, doesn’t look up. Purple hair, curling her fingers around the rotary phone cord. She converses in a stage whisper: she would go but it’s so expensive, Sophs, and a year away anyway. OK. Yeah. Later. She pulls at the crust and fingers a crumb back into the Pizza Hut box. Wipe the mozzarella. Chew swallow. Three chairs. Politeness moves up the walls. A photograph of a black carriage, large wheels, Victorian curlicues, white horses and a fuzzy detail of a white wreath pinned … in the shape of … ah, sideways! Dad. She opens a ledger.

There’s doves she says. From a basket. Released. It’s £49 per bird or £500 all in. For peace. They stand for peace. It’s a nice cheap touch. People like it. Or as a package with the Express. Did we want the Express? A biro tip points out the tariff. Oak or willow? Her fingers play with the crust. Flick. Sorry. How many people will be coming? Large hall, or small? Music? Did he have a Spotify playlist? A bagpiper? Did he like the bagpipes? No he wanted the State Basic. Silence. A sucking and a picking of pepperoni from teeth. Fine. Weeks of hospital Pay and Display tickets still on the passenger seat. Who went the most? Held the plastic spoon to dry lips? Had the barber cut his hair? No, I’m not Peter Peter was yesterday. Yes, may come today. That’s right. The Primark pullover is still hanging new and gray in the provided cupboard. No we can’t walk in the garden. Too cold yes. Not Peter, no. Egg stains and a little orange juice carton. Smudged white board: My name is. Frederick. My doctor is. Dr Muhassed. I am. Christian. I like. The Bible. I like to be called ... this part is blurred out. Quite the wit isn’t he, your Dad? We all like him. I don’t think he can understand. Is it the accent? Pay and Display pings a message. Time about to expire.

And I had said I would write the Order of Service. Do you have any photos? Are his family still alive? Climb the stairs to the empty flat. An address book in a drawer. Old tea bags and worn slippers. Stains on the toilet U-bend. Still by the armchair, the Bible with big print. Gold initials emboss the black. The cover sticks to the table and Paul’s Letters to the Corinthians fall. Post-It notes, his handwriting, mark passages. Remember. Gas bills and water supply. Estimated date of expiry. In the attic an RAF pay book. Letter of Discharge 1948. Goodbye card. Two family photographs in acid free paper.

The Order of Service arrives from the printer in colour. Tea on we turn the pages in silence. You say is that the beach? Don’t tell me that’s you in the striped trunks? Is that the wood? Remember, every summer, the midnight walk to the lighthouse? Oh, you made a page 2 as well. Who’s this? What? Lancaster bombers? He did?

And on the day of committal, rhododendrons, blue sky and the family embrace without touching. Meet in the yellow sun of daffodils. Where did you park? Toilet? Yes, go now. Carrying the coffin is heavier than I thought. Now we’ll hear from the eldest son. Forgot my glasses. These are my father’s. Goodbye. We’ll miss you. In the blue of the sky, embrace for the first time in the salty grit of squash in children’s cups in the warm dunes and sand dams made frantic against the tide, and now our own children turning to Magic on cold car rides to school texting to the world on dad’s taxi rides, far from social services appointments and doing the support forms. Power of Attorney. After the committal the blue and the daffodils, Easter sun and the path soft with lifted laughter and lightness. Our children grouped under the trees laughing happy in a free future and ready to run down the dunes and onto the empty sand. Come on, Dad! Cross the beach streams barefoot. Cold! Cartwheels in front of the receding tide. Walk on. A wave’s ripple and foam of realising those gone are just as with us as ever. With the moment of a smile. Suddenly it is not an ending. No-one dies until we die. Sitting on the fallen trunk, Dad, let’s make it our Thinking Spot and puff dandelion clocks to the wind.

Driving out from the crematorium gardens. The brothers tap on the window: Are you listening? What? Wind the window down, you clown. Yes, I know. It was. Well done, mate. You spoke well. Not easy. Pub? The one we always passed? Yeah yeah I know the way. See you there. We’ll meet there. Together.

And along the August evening path, a father and boys, ten pm. Midnight! clutching phosphorescence of twisted paper bags of rhubarb and custard chews five for a penny, flying saucers and sherbert fountains of glowworms in the dark deep winding lane and primroses in the hedges and the warm steam of cows asleep in the folds of valley grass, evanescence and the once a year trip to the lighthouse down lanes where no cars were and the light refracting through the years across the Bristol Channel and out to sea from which there can be no return we walk together in the presence of.

S Gifford, Head of English