On the Way to the Funeral
The weather was so sunny and tranquil when we were last in Barrow-in-Furness, collecting the cake on the way to Emily and Gareth's wedding. This time, a mere fortnight later, as we arrived for Robert's funeral, the weather decided to mirror our feelings about Robert's death. It blew a howling gale so strong that when we reached the crematorium we had to use Chris - delightful and incredibly tall boyfriend of cousin Joanna - as a windbreak to stop my mother and Amy being blown away.
It wasn't an easy journey from Amy's house to the crematorium - but that wasn't primarily because of either the grief or the weather.
It was because, in a glorious illustration of black humour, both my mother and Amy were giving me conflicting directions.
To put it in context, my mother lived in Barrow until she was eighteen and left to go to university. But the crematorium's quite near where she used to live on Victoria Avenue and therefore she was quite convinced she knew the best way.
Amy, on the other hand, has lived in Barrow all her life. It's not that big, Barrow, and there are many ways you can go to get to the same place.
Add to this the facts that my mother was in the back, Amy in the front, and that they are both pretty deaf - they will both be eighty-four in April, after all - and they have both got quiet voices - and it was a recipe for - well, I'm not sure what. Black comedy is probably the nearest.
"Right at the next lights," says Amy.
"At the next lights, turn left," says Mum. - - Oh yes, and another thing. My mother really doesn't know her left from her right. Especially when she's feeling a bit churned up.
So I turned right.
"Third on the left, now," says Amy. "Or it might be the second."
"Daphne! Daphne!" shouts Mum, from the back seat, "You've gone the wrong way! You should have gone left - - sorry, right - - no, left - - "
"It could be this one," says Amy.
"Shall I turn down it, then?" I ask,
"Well, you could do," says Amy - - "but then again the next one will do just as well."
She's a generous soul, Amy, and her usual response to frenzied cries of "Which way?" is a kindly "Either."
"WRONG WAY!" shouts my mother. "You want to go up Victoria Avenue! NOT THAT WAY!"
I take the next on the left. It has speed bumps.
"WATCH OUT! SPEED BUMPS!" shouts my mother, to whom anything new is a cause of panic.
The gates of the crematorium appear in front of us.
"Here we are," says Amy.
"This isn't the way in," said my mother, because it didn't used to be.
I drive through the gates.
"Straight on," says Amy.
"Turn round, quickly!" says my mother.
In my imagination, sitting on the back seat, next to my mother, is Robert - Amy's son - dead - about to be cremated. And he is laughing, and laughing, and laughing.
It wasn't an easy journey from Amy's house to the crematorium - but that wasn't primarily because of either the grief or the weather.
It was because, in a glorious illustration of black humour, both my mother and Amy were giving me conflicting directions.
To put it in context, my mother lived in Barrow until she was eighteen and left to go to university. But the crematorium's quite near where she used to live on Victoria Avenue and therefore she was quite convinced she knew the best way.
Amy, on the other hand, has lived in Barrow all her life. It's not that big, Barrow, and there are many ways you can go to get to the same place.
Add to this the facts that my mother was in the back, Amy in the front, and that they are both pretty deaf - they will both be eighty-four in April, after all - and they have both got quiet voices - and it was a recipe for - well, I'm not sure what. Black comedy is probably the nearest.
"Right at the next lights," says Amy.
"At the next lights, turn left," says Mum. - - Oh yes, and another thing. My mother really doesn't know her left from her right. Especially when she's feeling a bit churned up.
So I turned right.
"Third on the left, now," says Amy. "Or it might be the second."
"Daphne! Daphne!" shouts Mum, from the back seat, "You've gone the wrong way! You should have gone left - - sorry, right - - no, left - - "
"It could be this one," says Amy.
"Shall I turn down it, then?" I ask,
"Well, you could do," says Amy - - "but then again the next one will do just as well."
She's a generous soul, Amy, and her usual response to frenzied cries of "Which way?" is a kindly "Either."
"WRONG WAY!" shouts my mother. "You want to go up Victoria Avenue! NOT THAT WAY!"
I take the next on the left. It has speed bumps.
"WATCH OUT! SPEED BUMPS!" shouts my mother, to whom anything new is a cause of panic.
The gates of the crematorium appear in front of us.
"Here we are," says Amy.
"This isn't the way in," said my mother, because it didn't used to be.
I drive through the gates.
"Straight on," says Amy.
"Turn round, quickly!" says my mother.
In my imagination, sitting on the back seat, next to my mother, is Robert - Amy's son - dead - about to be cremated. And he is laughing, and laughing, and laughing.
posted by Daphne at 6:38 pm
1 Comments:
Thank you, I love humour in terrible situations.
My dad's funeral was late. It was booked for 2pm. The cemetery knew, the mourners knew, the people officiating knew, supposedly the funeral directors knew. But the latter decided it was going to start at 2.30pm. That half hour wait really broke the ice not least because, as a friend of the family pointed out, my dad (and my mum) hated being late and would have been looking at their watches saying it's late, it should have started by now and then probably leaving in disgust. I replied I didn't think either of them would actually leave their own funeral in disgust but I saw her point.
I spent much of the half hour circulating, spreading goodwill like some hostess with the mostest and it gave everyone the opportunity to chat rather than just sit there glumly. My late mother and father would have loved it - oh, yes of course now they are 'late'.
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