'Florence Parker was an extraordinary woman
’
Lilly said. She slurred, swallowed, and added, 'How I wish I could dance.'
Father Bryan, settling himself down in a fine, carved chair, nodded appreciatively. His raised his eyes to the coffered ceiling, and was pleased that even the broken were welcome in his church. No squints for him. He looked very holy and let his mind drift in the pleasure of it all.
Lilly gathered herself. 'Very extraordinary
’
she said. 'And such a piece of work as one could hope never to see again.'
The congregation shuffled - as if perplexed. Surely that was wrong
...?
Patrick felt Audrey's hand seek his again and he took hers gratefully. He squeezed, hers stayed still. He dared to raise his eyes to the Madonna. She was back to being a Queenly Maiden again with the child tucked safely in her arms. That was something to be thankful for. But he did not have long to be thankful before Lilly's voice quavered out, stronger than it ought to be.
'She had a good husband
’
said Lilly. Father Bryan drifted off. 'And she ruined him.' She flung out her knobbly old hand and pointed a twisted, shaking finger at the coffin. 'Her. That one.' Her laugh, for one so frail, was rich. It echoed around the shocked silence and even the candles seemed stilled by it. There was a shuffling, someone dropped a hymn book and bent to pick it up, but otherwise nothing stirred. This, they seemed to be saying, was more like it. Father Bryan sat on, smiling up at the smoke-dimmed panels of the Angelic Host and clouds with saints soaring upwards. Their eyes, too, were fixed on the above.
Patrick closed his and waited for the uproar but none came. Only the silence of the assembled who could not - no, not one of them -quite believe that they had heard such a thing.
'Florence-bloody-Parker
’
went on Lilly a little indistinctly, but not indistinctly enough, 'rotted his teeth with her baking - where she got the sugar from in rationing we'd all like to know - and rotted his heart too. Pretended it was the immaculate conception. George didn't feature, Oh no, nothing to do with him, Patrick wasn't - not even allowed to hold him - called it love - mother love
...'
Father Bryan nodded benignly.
'Mother love. Cracked love more like it
’
Lilly said contemptuously. And you, Patrick Parker, should be ashamed of yourself for letting her take you away from your dear, dead father.' She raised a bony, mottled finger. 'He gave you everything you know . . . Everything you've got now was down to him and his dear, clever hands.'
Father Bryan, mishearing, nodded at the idea that Florence had given her son everything with dear, clever hands. It was certainly what she told him in their little private talks. Father Bryan could have been a bishop if he'd had a mother like that.
Lilly's voice continued, 'Nothing clever about Florence. She had no special gifts. No - it was George with the talent - who passed everything on. Little models he used to make, lovely things . . .' Lilly drifted off for a moment, remembering. "That's where you got the knowledge from, my lad - so don't think you did it all on your own. And little thanks he got for it. None, actually. This man - this selfish stuck-up builder bugger couldn't even cry at his own dad's funeral until he took a bit of drink down the wrong way . . .' Lilly stopped. She was worn out by the effort and the rush of vengeful adrenalin.
This time they knew they had heard right and the congregation responded accordingly with a communal intake of breath, and an almost-hiss as it was let out.
Father Bryan went on appearing to listen devoutly but was in truth now caught up in the mental picture of how well he might wear his mit
re and hold his crook. He was ru
nning an interesting conundrum through his mind. Outside it was drizzling with rain. Now - if he were a bishop he could expect someone to hold an umbrella for him during the external ceremony. But for him to request it, a mere priest, would be considered too proud. But surely once a bishop you were supposed to be even
more
humble? If you were a bishop and it was raining you should be glad to go out and get soaked to the skin and never count the cost. The higher you rose, the wetter you should get. But no. He sighed and adjusted his surplice, which was as ornate as he dared to wear for Coventry. The real reason bishops stayed dry was not to do with holiness, actually. The real reason was the embroidery on the cope and whatnot. It would be ruined and that would be hundreds of pounds down the pan. If not thousands. All those widows' mites. Which brought him back to Florence. He'd have to go out there soon, rain or no rain. Maybe it would stop and be a little miracle for him. He prayed for that and began staring downwards, preparing himself for feeling unpleasantly damp.
Patrick turned his head with difficulty and found himself staring into Audrey's veiled eyes. She, it must be said, had lost some of her cool in the heat of the experience. 'Lumme,' she said. And then even more softly,
'Lumme.
I never thought she'd go
that
far
...'
Patrick was too far gone himself to consider this statement odd.
Lilly continued, tiring now, her voice getting more and more indistinct, until she came to saying, 'So I've come to say it for George. He was a wonderful man and he didn't deserve any of it. She was a very bad woman and good riddance to her. I'm nearly done.'
The congregation began shuffling their feet, moving in their seats, rumbling with dismay. Patrick wondered what the
fuck
he should do? What was the protocol when someone decided to give an anti-eulogy? He looked at the priest who appeared to be transfixed now by the ancient tiles of the floor, as if enraptured with what he heard. He looked up momentarily and nodded once, and smiled encouragingly, in Lilly's direction, aware that she had gone quiet. He gestured with his palms upward that she should speak up, up,
up.
So Lilly did. With amazing strength given how weak she really was. Nothing like getting the bit between your teeth, as she told her minder afterwards, for the Finale. She dabbed at the wet corners of her mouth and eyes and went on, 'And she was so pleased about it, Florence was. Not having to do what a wife should and letting me do it instead. Thought she controlled both of us. Well - she
didn't.
And I want you all to know that George was wonderful, wonderful and -' She broke off. Very tired now, tears trickling down her cheeks. 'And I am very happy to say that
Florence
Parker did not die a happy woman. And I will.'
Patrick went into a numb little corner of hell. It occurred to him that he might die, too, which would be handy for the undertakers and the crazy priest - two for the price of one - two for the - then a voice broke through the pain barrier and called him back to life.
A voice. Her voice. His saviour. Audrey.
"That's quite enough now, Lilly dear
'Oh no, it's not.'
'Oh yes, I think it is.'
Audrey took both handles and spun the chair around - Lilly appeared to genuflect in her chair towards the Host - in fact, she was so shaken by the whirl that she bounced. As she was wheeled past
Patrick's pew she pointed her finger and said, 'He was a wonderful man, your father, Patrick Parker, and you should always remember it.' Then, thank God, the wheelchair screeched past and was silent.
Father Bryan, coming to, stood up and smiled benignly. He walked towards the altar steps rubbing his hands. Outside he could see that the drizzle had stopped. A thin sun was glimmering through. He was blessed after all, and now he could look forward to the next bit -there just was something
impressive
about a burial, and he was extremely good at them. He put himself at the foot of the altar, in the place where the pale shaft of sunlight was at its brightest and he beamed at everybody.
Thank you Lilly,' he said.
'De mortuis nil nisi bonum.'
Latin, how he loved the sound of it.
Audrey, half pleased, half scared, put Lilly very firmly back at her pew. She had summoned her so that she could make Florence do a turn or two in her grave. Not the full Dervish.
Father Bryan held out his arms as if he would embrace them all. 'Hymn number three hundred and sixty,' he said, and while they were riffling he lifted up his voice and his chin and spoke to the rafters ringingly, 'All is feeble shadow - a dream that will not stay; Death comes in a moment, and taketh all away
...'
At which point he was shocked to hear a reedy voice pipe up, 'Bloody Good Job Too.'
Father Bryan lowered his eyes from the rafters in time to see the elegant woman from the front pew put one hand over poor Lilly's mouth, and another over her own, and both appeared to be laughing. Hysterical women. He thought of the Magdalene at the sepulchre.
'Oh,' said the triumphant Lilly later, as they pushed her out behind the long trail of coffin followers. 'But it was worth it. I tell you it was worth it in
cartloads
'Get her away from here,' said Patrick through clenched teeth. It was all he needed to have a scandal at his own mother's funeral.
'Don't catch your death,' was Lilly's parting shot, as her minder, much excited at the interest, wheeled her once round the gaping hole in the ground before taking her, shaking but exhilarated, away.
How refreshing, some thought. For how many so assembled in churches and chapels throughout this good Christian land, gathered together to see off the last of a fellow human, have not wished - just once - that someone would tell the truth? Certainly the minder thought so. He had been up for it all along. You don't get very good wages, after all, so there has to be something in it for a grade three council helper class two. After all said and done. 'Were you laughing?' asked Patrick.
'Patrick,' said Audrey, 'how could you suggest such a thing?' Patrick chose to believe her. He needed her too much to do otherwise.
When the earth had been thrown and the hands shaken - those who wished to do so - and they were many, given Patrick's fame - they made their animated way to the house and ate and drank well. Thank God the press were banned from the service, thought Patrick, and he practically hugged the guzzling priest.
Peggy rang to see how Patrick was managing. Patrick said he was not managing at all well. He was still feeling very roughed up by the service.
‘I
suppose you hated my mother, too,' he said.
There was a silence, and then an 'Oh' and then a non-committal 'Hrnrnm', which he took, irritably, to be assent.
The difficulty with true influenza is that it leaves one feeling weak and low and Peggy had hoped for something along the lines of 'How are
you
feeling?' Instead of how
she
might be feeling about his mother. Instead of denying her true feelings for Florence (unspeakable) and doing the Peggy-usual ('She was Wonderful'), Peggy just said that fateful Tfaimm.'
It was a 'Hmmm' that spoke volumes. Patrick felt offended by it. Peggy's role was maximum support - not 'Hmmm'.
'Anything in the post yet?' Patrick asked stiffly.
‘I
haven't looked,' said Peggy wearily.
'I'm expecting a letter from the Millennium people.'
'If it comes,' she said, 'I'll send it on.'
"Thank you,' he said. And he put down the receiver. Without Peggy - and without his mother - he suddenly felt very alone. Orphaned. And grass-widowered. He went back into the gathering feeling very sorry for himself.
The front room looked no different from the way it looked at his father's funeral. The settee was in the same place, the grate held faded paper fans, the curtains were half drawn to save the furniture from the invasive sun. The only real difference was that the catering was more sophisticated, there were proper flower arrangements and one end of the table held glasses and drinks. Nothing too fancy, of course, no champagne or cocktails - just wine, beer, sherry and whisky. He thought he might have one of those now, and remembered his very first taste of the stuff. He was used to the best of it now.
Across the room Audrey was talking to his godfather and Father Bryan. Father Bryan was saying how wonderful the addresses were
...
and how brave of the woman in the wheelchair - who had been so determined, so determined. He was, Patrick decided, either a consummate bloody actor - or insane. He made his way to the table and poured himself a tot of the malt. Of course, there was
one
big difference with this funeral - one very big difference: this time Audrey was there, and Peggy wasn't.
THREE
AUDREY ALONE
1
Be Strong, Audrey