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Authors: Eleanor Moran
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to the auburn-haired woman, I now realised: his hand intermittently stroked her hand, which still
lay on the pew where her children sat with Max. Max turned his body round as I watched, kneeling on the wooden seat to show her his Woody doll. She smiled at him kindly, nodded towards his dad. I
squeezed Lysette’s hand again, and she caught my eye, her fear naked and palpable.
‘You can do this,’ I whispered.
She gave me a tight smile, then looked back towards the still sobbing teacher. I thought she’d smile at him too, send him a crumb of comfort even if it went unseen, but instead her face
stayed still. As she turned back, I saw Kimberley’s mouth pucker into a barely detectable moue.
‘Sarah made time for everyone, but she always fought hardest for the underdog,’ said Joshua, shuffling the pages. Typewritten, neatly stacked: it was probably the only way he could
make it through, but there was something about it that felt chilly. Heathcliff would’ve scrawled Cathy’s eulogy in his own blood, thought the geeky English student inside of me. What
would Patrick say, if it was him up there? Was everyone asking the same? Was Kimberley secretly watching Nigel, hoping that if she died, his politician’s polish would get swept away by a
torrent of grief? I snuck a glance at her. Her face was moulded into a mask of appropriate sadness.
‘Even when Max was tiny, she insisted on volunteering at the homeless centre in Cambridge. She joked it was so she’d come home smelling of fags and booze and I wouldn’t know
what she’d been up to, but it was really because she never wanted to forget how much we had. There but for the grace of God, is what she’d say.’ He tried to smile, but it was more
a twist of pain. Did he believe in God, I wondered, and if he did, did he feel like God had punched him in the face? I took comfort in my own half-belief in a shadowy force that was too nebulous to
make any real commitment to – I was like an ambivalent dater on Tinder, swiping right but never sending a message. Sometimes I envied Patrick his rock-solid Catholicism, however much I mocked
him for it when I was feeling mean.
Joshua was finishing now, directing us to the next hymn. I sensed how much Lysette wanted it to stretch out for ever, but it didn’t. She froze for a second as she made her way out of the
pew, and I gave her a tiny touch, something between a stroke and a push. Once she was walking down the aisle her perilously high heels tapped out a confident tattoo. She arrived at the lectern
looking more beautiful than I’d ever seen her, lit from within by purpose. She smoothed out the paper she was holding, looked down at it and then looked straight out at the packed church.
‘I’ve got a poem here . . .’ she said, ‘and it’s about grief and loss and all the things we’re all feeling.’ She looked at Joshua.
‘I’m sorry, can I just junk the script? Is that OK?’
Her words had a sharpness to them, but he must’ve nodded because she turned straight back to face us.
‘There are so many things I want to say about Sarah, but we’d be here until Christmas if I said them all. I don’t know if you know this about her, but she loved Fleetwood Mac.
She’d belt them out in the car, run too many red lights. I think a little bit of her wanted to be Stevie Nicks in 1977.’
When we laughed, it was like a cold compress on a fevered brow; I could sense Lysette gaining confidence, safe in the knowledge that she was holding us in the palm of her hand. Kimberley had
leaned in, eyes trained on her like a sniper, whilst Helena’s overflowed with tears.
‘There’s a song of theirs she sings, not one of the million dollar anthems, it’s called “Landslide”, and it’s either the most beautiful song you’ve ever
heard or the saddest. She says she’s afraid of changing, she’s built her life around this “you” that she’s singing it for. It’s been going round and round my
head since
lay on the pew where her children sat with Max. Max turned his body round as I watched, kneeling on the wooden seat to show her his Woody doll. She smiled at him kindly, nodded towards his dad. I
squeezed Lysette’s hand again, and she caught my eye, her fear naked and palpable.
‘You can do this,’ I whispered.
She gave me a tight smile, then looked back towards the still sobbing teacher. I thought she’d smile at him too, send him a crumb of comfort even if it went unseen, but instead her face
stayed still. As she turned back, I saw Kimberley’s mouth pucker into a barely detectable moue.
‘Sarah made time for everyone, but she always fought hardest for the underdog,’ said Joshua, shuffling the pages. Typewritten, neatly stacked: it was probably the only way he could
make it through, but there was something about it that felt chilly. Heathcliff would’ve scrawled Cathy’s eulogy in his own blood, thought the geeky English student inside of me. What
would Patrick say, if it was him up there? Was everyone asking the same? Was Kimberley secretly watching Nigel, hoping that if she died, his politician’s polish would get swept away by a
torrent of grief? I snuck a glance at her. Her face was moulded into a mask of appropriate sadness.
‘Even when Max was tiny, she insisted on volunteering at the homeless centre in Cambridge. She joked it was so she’d come home smelling of fags and booze and I wouldn’t know
what she’d been up to, but it was really because she never wanted to forget how much we had. There but for the grace of God, is what she’d say.’ He tried to smile, but it was more
a twist of pain. Did he believe in God, I wondered, and if he did, did he feel like God had punched him in the face? I took comfort in my own half-belief in a shadowy force that was too nebulous to
make any real commitment to – I was like an ambivalent dater on Tinder, swiping right but never sending a message. Sometimes I envied Patrick his rock-solid Catholicism, however much I mocked
him for it when I was feeling mean.
Joshua was finishing now, directing us to the next hymn. I sensed how much Lysette wanted it to stretch out for ever, but it didn’t. She froze for a second as she made her way out of the
pew, and I gave her a tiny touch, something between a stroke and a push. Once she was walking down the aisle her perilously high heels tapped out a confident tattoo. She arrived at the lectern
looking more beautiful than I’d ever seen her, lit from within by purpose. She smoothed out the paper she was holding, looked down at it and then looked straight out at the packed church.
‘I’ve got a poem here . . .’ she said, ‘and it’s about grief and loss and all the things we’re all feeling.’ She looked at Joshua.
‘I’m sorry, can I just junk the script? Is that OK?’
Her words had a sharpness to them, but he must’ve nodded because she turned straight back to face us.
‘There are so many things I want to say about Sarah, but we’d be here until Christmas if I said them all. I don’t know if you know this about her, but she loved Fleetwood Mac.
She’d belt them out in the car, run too many red lights. I think a little bit of her wanted to be Stevie Nicks in 1977.’
When we laughed, it was like a cold compress on a fevered brow; I could sense Lysette gaining confidence, safe in the knowledge that she was holding us in the palm of her hand. Kimberley had
leaned in, eyes trained on her like a sniper, whilst Helena’s overflowed with tears.
‘There’s a song of theirs she sings, not one of the million dollar anthems, it’s called “Landslide”, and it’s either the most beautiful song you’ve ever
heard or the saddest. She says she’s afraid of changing, she’s built her life around this “you” that she’s singing it for. It’s been going round and round my
head since