Adam was a little taken aback, his memory of Neil compromised by mine.
‘I hope you held out against a tie,’ I said. ‘Ties he really did hate.’
‘Yeah. No tie.’
Another visit and Adam was bubbling with resentment. ‘They’re going to do a mass,’ he blurted out. ‘At St Theresa’s.’
I resisted the prick of anger. Neil had specified nothing in his will about the arrangements. He’d had clear desires about the manner of his leaving but not about what came after.
I played peacemaker. ‘The service is for the people left behind more than anything. Grandma and Grandpa – it’ll mean so much to them.’
‘It’s hypocritical,’ Adam said. ‘Don’t you mind?’
‘No, not really.’ Choose your battles. Allowing Neil’s parents the comfort of a mass, the support of their congregation, in the same place where they had christened him seemed the decent thing to do. And, after all, what choice did I have? I could hardly mastermind a coup from my prison cell, snatch the coffin and sneak everyone off to some atheistic woodland burial.
‘When I come home,’ I said to Adam, the words dangerous, preposterous in my mouth, ‘we can have our own ceremony if we want to, to celebrate Dad.’
‘Do you want cremating?’
His question startled me. ‘I couldn’t decide,’ I said, with a shrug, ‘so I’m leaving my body to science.’
‘Are you?’ He looked worried.
‘Yes.’
‘What if they use it for something you don’t agree with? Like cloning or something?’
This was the sort of discussion I might have with Sophie. Adam had never been given to ethical debate.
‘You don’t get to cherry-pick.’
He blew out a breath, a noisy sigh, a youngster again, tired by it all.
‘So, have they bought you a suit, yet?’ I teased him.
‘No,’ he growled.
‘What will you wear?’
‘I’ve got a shirt, my black trousers.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I told him. ‘We’ll just go with the flow.’
With Neil being an only child, lapsed from his faith, I hadn’t been to many Catholic services; there were no brothers and sisters asking us to their ceremonies. I’d probably been to wedding or two, a christening. What struck me most at Neil’s funeral mass was the theatricality of it all – the vivid language, the dramatic gestures, like the throwing of holy water and the swinging of the incense lamps, the way the pungent reek filled the space.
We all sat in the front right-hand pew: Michael, Veronica, Sophie, then Adam, me, cuffed to the guard, and Jane. It felt bizarre, the proximity of this burly stranger. Perhaps I should have demurred and sat at the back in purdah, but I wanted to be there with my children even if it did scandalize people. The church was almost full, though I recognized few faces. Some of Neil’s colleagues were there but I think most of those attending were friends of his parents.
My temperature was all over the place, chilled inside but hot and moist on the surface of my skin. Locking my eyes on the coffin, I imagined Neil inside: long and slim and still in his suit and shirt. He was a manikin. No heart, no pulse. He had gone four months before so why did I find my spine tightening and feel burning behind my eyes?
Among the prayers and responses, the chants, kneeling and rising, there were hymns, each chosen for their sentimental heart-wrenching qualities; three-hankie numbers. The singing was buoyed up by a group of two women and a man who stood by the altar and led us with robust voices. They helped compensate for the people who fell by the wayside, sniffling and gulping with sorrow, burrowing in hankies. Me among them. It was Adam who set me off, the little huff as his shoulders rose and fell. I put my arm round him and pulled him close and let my tears come, warm rain on my cheeks. Jane reached across in front of the guard and squeezed my arm. I turned to her, saw her smile through the blur. Grateful that she was there, her friendship unwavering, her reliability never doubted.
Veronica looked older; we’d been quite near each other as we entered the church. Other people moved slowly past her and Michael, Sophie and Adam, offering condolences, murmured phrases, touching an arm, a shoulder, clasping hands, brushing cheeks. I did not know my place, aware that I wasn’t exactly up for a Widow of the Year award and that people had no idea whether to speak to me or not. I was hungry for a gesture from Sophie, a look, a smile, some reprieve from the terrible silence between us, but she concentrated studiously on everyone else. I hadn’t lingered then, just moved ahead into the church, but I had noticed that Veronica’s hair was greyer, thinner, her foundation paler, the lower half of her face around her mouth and jaw wrinkled and saggy. Still an attractive woman for her age. Neil had shared the same fine bone structure and dark hair. I always thought there was a look of Elizabeth Taylor in Veronica; not that striking, of course, but a similar type, a petite version.
Kneeling, when we bowed our heads in prayer, I slid my eyes to watch Sophie and saw Veronica’s hands, sky-blue beads strung between them. They were shaking uncontrollably. We did not speak to each other at all that day. And Michael avoided me. I was disappointed in him. We had always got along well, though I suppose our contact was buffered by the children. Perhaps I should have expected it – I’d never heard him gainsay Veronica. He was like a satellite, really: she was the centre of the relationship, or that was how it seemed. He was a quiet man. An ambulance driver who had found the job too traumatic and become a warehouse manager instead. He shared Neil’s love of history and the two could talk for hours about the past, about boys’ stuff. Michael was always a kind man but I wondered what he thought about me now, whether he had any more understanding than Veronica about what had driven me to honour Neil’s wishes.
At the crematorium I felt as though I was in a glass cylinder. The service there was swift and I watched, dry-eyed, as Neil’s coffin slid away. The funeral party were going back to the church hall for refreshments. I was going back to prison.
In the car park outside the crematorium, I said goodbye to Adam. Jane gave me a hug and told me she would see me in the week. I drank in a last glimpse of Sophie climbing into the funeral car. I ached, wanting to hold her, touch her. It drove off. As I made to go, someone touched my arm. It was Tony Boyd, Neil’s old friend, who’d been a witness at our wedding. He’d lived in Portugal for years, had a wife and family there, twin girls. We still exchanged Christmas cards and once every couple of years, when he was visiting his parents, he would call Neil and we’d meet up for a night of reminiscing and catching up. He was one of the people we had phoned in the days after Neil’s death but I’d had no idea he’d be coming to the funeral.
‘Deborah,’ he looked me in the eyes, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He hesitated, glanced at my minder, gave a shake of his head and opened his arms. He pulled me close and his generous embrace made me weep. I closed my eyes and savoured the warmth from his body and the breadth of his shoulders and the peppery smell of his cologne.
I pulled back and surveyed him. He was almost bald, his hair cropped close, his eyebrows grey. He had a paunch too, tight against his shirt. We are so old, I thought. We’ve all got so old.
‘I’ve got to fly back tomorrow,’ he said, ‘or I’d have come to see you.’
‘That’s fine. Keep in touch.’
‘I will. He was a lovely man,’ he said, ‘and he was so happy with you.’
The compliments meant so much to me that day and for a few moments I was an honestly grieving wife, not a murderess.