I watch as they all file in. The music playing is Bat out of Hell. Funny. That’s one of my favourite tracks. I sit on my own, which surprises me a little. I look over and see Geoff; he doesn’t look well. He tries to prop up his stick for the third time, but it falls again with a clatter. He turns to look across the assembled company. I wave discreetly but his eyes slide over me. Probably forgotten his glasses again.
‘Geoff!’ I call, in as loud a whisper as I can.
He doesn’t hear me. Probably not got his hearing aids either. I’ve never known anyone so forgetful. Mind you, he’s in his eighties, a good ten years older than me, so it’s not surprising. Funny how he can always remember whose round it is, and it’s usually mine. Still, I don’t begrudge him. His pension doesn’t stretch far these days.
Uh, oh, here’s my better half. She edges along towards me but settles several seats away. That really annoys me. When we have an argument, as soon as it’s finished it’s over and done with as far as I’m concerned, but she can hold a grudge for days and I get the silent treatment.
‘Not still angry at me?’
She doesn’t answer.
That’s me told then.
In the doorway is a group of young people who look as if they would rather be somewhere else, Ibiza probably. My daughter, Tash, is in a skin-tight dress and my niece, Liv, is in leggings and a crop top. Both have enormous false black eyelashes, so big they have to tilt their heads back to see what’s going on, and their hair extensions are in loose waves. No sense of occasion, youngsters these days. At least they’re wearing black. To be honest, I’m surprised they’re here; Jim was always a bit grumpy with them. It’s nice they’ve come to pay their respects.
I have been to too many funerals this year, practically one a month. That’s what happens as you get older. It’s always interesting to hear what the vicar or celebrant has to say about the deceased, usually someone they have never known. It amuses me to listen to their tributes.
‘He loved a bargain,’ means he would rival Scrooge for meanness.
‘He enjoyed the company of women,’ means he was a serial philanderer.
‘He loved helping others,’ means he was a nosy sod, always poking his nose into other people’s business.
‘He was a plain speaker,’ means he was rude and obnoxious.
I often wonder what they’d say about me, but that’s a long way off. I’ve looked after myself. I don’t go to the gym like the wife does or anything like that, but I do take the dog for a walk, sometimes, when I can, if it’s not raining. It’s usually a walk to the Hare and Hounds; the dog’s happy with a packet of crisps and the wife thinks we’ve been for a long walk. A packet of mints and she never smells the beer – and the dog doesn’t talk!
Come to think of it, perhaps I should cut down on the fry-ups and the takeaways. The doc did say I was pre-diabetic and my blood pressure was a bit high. Still, pre-diabetic means I’m not actually diabetic yet, doesn’t it?
I’ll start on Monday. The wife says I always say that and we argue a lot, mainly about my weight – but we all put on a few pounds as we get older, don’t we? I look across at her. She seems sad. Not sure why, Jim was my friend more than hers. Who’s that sidling up to her? That must be the gym instructor she was telling me about. He’s older than I thought he was. He pats her knee. I give him daggers, but he ignores me. I’ll have words with him later.
Poor Jim, he must have had a heart attack. He was always so cheery when we met up in the pub. He wasn’t mean either. Always bought me a drink and offered me a fag. I gave up years ago and I was surprised that he was still smoking. The last time I saw him we stood outside the pub so he could smoke. I often had a fag with him, just to be sociable, like.
‘You wanna give up the fags,’ I said, as I watched our smoke rise into the cool night air.
‘I will do soon.’
That time never came and it’s too late now.
Meat Loaf finishes and Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On starts up which is a bit ironic, don’t you think?
As Celine finishes, in comes the vicar. I don’t believe it! It’s a lady vicar with dyed auburn hair, shot through with pink. I don’t approve of the pink hair or the fact that she’s female. No offence, but she’s not got the gravitas of a male vicar. Wonder if she’s called a vicar. Is there such a thing as a vicaress?
She shuffles her papers, getting them in order to deliver a tribute to Jim. He used to joke that the last time he was in a church they threw water at him and so he never went back. She clears her throat and I steel myself for whatever platitudes she’s about to say. I’ve made my mind up, no vicar for me; I’ll have a non-denominational celebrant.
She turns to look at the photograph propped up against the coffin. I can’t see it from where I am, but I hope they’ve chosen a good one of Jim. I scan the congregation, but can’t see any of Jim’s family. Funny that, they should be in the front pew with me and my family.
Suddenly I feel cold and a wave of sickness engulfs me. I rise and walk towards the coffin. I remember the argument now, the shouting, the crying, the pain, my heart thumping, then missing a beat, and the young spiky-haired lad pushing two-handed on my chest to the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive while his colleague was unpacking the defibrillator, being manhandled on to a stretcher and into an ambulance, its siren gradually fading to nothing.
The vicar begins, ‘We are here today to celebrate the life of Alan Williams.’
I gasp. That’s me!
The vicar continues, ‘He was a plain speaker. He always loved a bargain.’
Val enjoys the challenge of writing short stories and is a member of Globe Soup writing group. She usually writes light hearted and humorous fiction. Val is retired and has plenty of time to devote to her writing. She has had short stories published in Woman’s Way, Yours annual and Saturday Express magazine amongst others.