was no pain.”
“Good. And how are you?”
“Bloody awful,” I said, discovering in horror that I was unable to switch from being direct to being convoluted in the name of self-effacing good manners. “But that’s okay, I’ll be better soon, Francie’s coming.”
“Francie’s very warm-hearted and extremely efficient, but be sure to let her know when you’ve had enough and need to be alone. Do you want me to conduct the funeral service?”
I did try to pretend to him that any old clergyman would do, but the words which came out were: “Yes, but I don’t want to be a nuisance and take you away from your real work.”
“Funerals
are
part of my real work and asking me to conduct one doesn’t convert you into a nuisance. We’ll discuss the details on Monday when I’m back in town—and meanwhile if you still feel hellish, even after seeing Francie, do please phone my colleague Lewis Hall. He likes getting calls on weekends when the City’s deserted and the Healing Centre’s closed.”
After I had thanked him for this reassurance he said he was very sorry I was going through this difficult time, bereavement was a great ordeal, he’d keep praying for me.
Then he rang off.
Returning in a daze to the kitchen I slumped down again at the table and blotted out all my humiliating romantic dreams by finishing off the rum raisin ice cream.
IX
Francie
was magnificent. She made an appointment with the undertakers to discuss the funeral details, she rang the doctor to find out where the death certificate had to be registered (he’d told me but I hadn’t taken a word in), she made a list of the people who had to be informed (the solicitors, the landlords, the bank and various departments of the government’s bureaucracy) and she drafted a most impressive notice for the “Deaths” column of
The Times.
She even offered to call my mother, but I thought that was unnecessary; my mother and I never communicated by phone. I did manage to write her a three-line note, but this so exhausted me that Francie said she would leave me to rest, a move which I thought displayed perfect behaviour for a Befriender.
She returned on Sunday with some flowers from her garden in Islington and offered to take me to her local church, but when I declined she didn’t argue; she merely asked me to have lunch with her instead. I said no, sorry, I was too tired, and she didn’t argue with that response either. Instead after promising to be with me when the funeral director called, she again excelled herself by leaving me alone.
The funeral director was seen as planned on Monday morning and in the evening Francie returned to the cottage, this time accompanied by Nicholas, in order to review the arrangements. Nicholas talked about the service and Francie talked about the catering. Afterwards I was so exhausted that I barely had the strength to binge. I was also starting to worry about the expenses I was incurring, but I decided to postpone all thought of my dire financial situation until after the funeral.
Some of Aunt’s friends were still alive and no doubt there were numerous former pupils who remembered her, but during the long illness when she could no longer write, many had ceased to keep in touch. No more than thirty people turned up at the crematorium and less than twenty came back to the cottage, where I had spent many therapeutic hours preparing an elaborate buffet. I had been uncertain what to do about drink. Francie had said I shouldn’t feel obliged to serve alcohol, but providing only tea or coffee seemed an inadequate way to revive people after the grisliness of the crematorium, and in the end I had splurged at the supermarket on some white
vin de pays.
The thought of lapping up the surplus after the guests had gone hadcheered me considerably. The only reason, I was sure, why I never normally drank to excess was because I could never normally afford to do so.
To my relief my mother had decided not to attend the funeral
“Good. And how are you?”
“Bloody awful,” I said, discovering in horror that I was unable to switch from being direct to being convoluted in the name of self-effacing good manners. “But that’s okay, I’ll be better soon, Francie’s coming.”
“Francie’s very warm-hearted and extremely efficient, but be sure to let her know when you’ve had enough and need to be alone. Do you want me to conduct the funeral service?”
I did try to pretend to him that any old clergyman would do, but the words which came out were: “Yes, but I don’t want to be a nuisance and take you away from your real work.”
“Funerals
are
part of my real work and asking me to conduct one doesn’t convert you into a nuisance. We’ll discuss the details on Monday when I’m back in town—and meanwhile if you still feel hellish, even after seeing Francie, do please phone my colleague Lewis Hall. He likes getting calls on weekends when the City’s deserted and the Healing Centre’s closed.”
After I had thanked him for this reassurance he said he was very sorry I was going through this difficult time, bereavement was a great ordeal, he’d keep praying for me.
Then he rang off.
Returning in a daze to the kitchen I slumped down again at the table and blotted out all my humiliating romantic dreams by finishing off the rum raisin ice cream.
IX
Francie
was magnificent. She made an appointment with the undertakers to discuss the funeral details, she rang the doctor to find out where the death certificate had to be registered (he’d told me but I hadn’t taken a word in), she made a list of the people who had to be informed (the solicitors, the landlords, the bank and various departments of the government’s bureaucracy) and she drafted a most impressive notice for the “Deaths” column of
The Times.
She even offered to call my mother, but I thought that was unnecessary; my mother and I never communicated by phone. I did manage to write her a three-line note, but this so exhausted me that Francie said she would leave me to rest, a move which I thought displayed perfect behaviour for a Befriender.
She returned on Sunday with some flowers from her garden in Islington and offered to take me to her local church, but when I declined she didn’t argue; she merely asked me to have lunch with her instead. I said no, sorry, I was too tired, and she didn’t argue with that response either. Instead after promising to be with me when the funeral director called, she again excelled herself by leaving me alone.
The funeral director was seen as planned on Monday morning and in the evening Francie returned to the cottage, this time accompanied by Nicholas, in order to review the arrangements. Nicholas talked about the service and Francie talked about the catering. Afterwards I was so exhausted that I barely had the strength to binge. I was also starting to worry about the expenses I was incurring, but I decided to postpone all thought of my dire financial situation until after the funeral.
Some of Aunt’s friends were still alive and no doubt there were numerous former pupils who remembered her, but during the long illness when she could no longer write, many had ceased to keep in touch. No more than thirty people turned up at the crematorium and less than twenty came back to the cottage, where I had spent many therapeutic hours preparing an elaborate buffet. I had been uncertain what to do about drink. Francie had said I shouldn’t feel obliged to serve alcohol, but providing only tea or coffee seemed an inadequate way to revive people after the grisliness of the crematorium, and in the end I had splurged at the supermarket on some white
vin de pays.
The thought of lapping up the surplus after the guests had gone hadcheered me considerably. The only reason, I was sure, why I never normally drank to excess was because I could never normally afford to do so.
To my relief my mother had decided not to attend the funeral
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