see you again,’ I said, remembering that first morning, the men who had arrived to remove your body. I hadn’t wanted to see any of them again, didn’t want to think about that moment, then realised your body was here somewhere being prepared, that you were in this building. The thought made my head spin and I tried to focus on the present. ‘This is Lottie, my granddaughter.’
Lottie was staring at the urns and it took a moment before the sound of her name sank in. She started a fraction before moving to shake the man’s hand. In this soft light she looked less wan, less thin.
I pulled the pieces of paper from the envelope wallet I’d been clutching as we were directed to two soft leather chairs at a side table.
‘Shall we? Can I get either of you a tea or a coffee?’
We both refused in low voices, a sombre mood settling over us. Simon should be here with me, not Lottie; it was such a lot to ask of her, she was only young.
Your list was thorough, decisions taken out of our hands. Short readings selected, brief, eloquent: you.
We were both grateful for your direction. The list meant you were in control, removing the need for us to second-guess, to worry it was something you wouldn’t want. I realised Lottie was as lost as I was and I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, reassure her, thank her for being there with me. My hands stayed frozen on my thighs.
A coffee ring had almost obscured your last song choice but the funeral director had been able to decipher it.
‘What do you think?’ I’d asked Lottie, pushing the sheet across to her.
‘It’s what she wanted, at least.’
The funeral director had bowed his head.
She dropped me back at the house, didn’t come inside, said she had work to do but that she’d call. I knew she was on the verge of tears and I wavered, wondering if I needed to force her out of the car, frog-march her into the house. My own energy levels were depleted, though, and I wouldn’t know what to say or do. I thanked her for the lift, tapped on her window as she left. She wound it down and I told her a brake light was out. Nodding thanks, she drove away.
The night before the funeral I couldn’t sleep. The house has been strange without you in it. I slept on my side of the bed, scrunched up far too close to the edge as if you were still starfished by my side. I miss the feel of your foot nudging me inch by inch, causing me to grumble, reminding me you were there. I haven’t slept well since you’ve died, and yet I’m dreading a night when I do.
Did I regret saying I’d meet people there? The house was empty and silent that morning as I stared at myself in your full-length mirror, at the ill-fitting suit that had been dusted down for too many weddings and funerals. Why hadn’t I bought something new for today?
I’d wanted to stay in the car park of the crematorium. You would have been in the passenger seat, pressing your lips together as you fussed in the small rectangular mirror overhead, chiding me, reminding me who so-and-so was married to, and remember X had divorced Y a while ago so I mustn’t put my foot in it. I glanced across at the empty seat, still unused to the silence, the space, the fact you were simply no longer there. And now I was about to get up and walk inside without you.
The funeral hearse was parked outside and I couldn’t help but drag my eyes across to it, the oak polished and bright, the wreath we had selected woven with the flowers you so loved. You were in that box, in this car park. I froze in the seat, hand on the lock, watching people drift inside. I saw Geoffrey fussing over Arjun’s tie before they disappeared inside, a woman I couldn’t place following in their wake.
Moving quickly across the tarmac, skirting puddles, my shoes tight, I managed to make it inside and up the aisle, eyes down, not yet ready to talk. I shuffled into the front pew, Lottie and Luke already there at the other end, Luke’s hand on Lottie’s lower back making small circular motions. Your sister Sue stepped across the aisle to say hello, her eyes, the same shade of blue