How to Say Goodbye. Katy Colins
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my over-the-top laugh belied how I really felt.
Since I’d decided to throw caution to the wind and invite perfect strangers to the back room of a church hall, I had to continue with this fake bravado. I’d spent ages writing and re-writing the perfect welcome speech, succinctly summing up my job role and what we offered to those who got their affairs in order with us. As long as I had those index cards in my hands I would be OK, or so I kept telling myself. Sadly, Frank couldn’t make it, and Friday nights were Linda’s regular girls’ night to drink one too many Malibu and cokes and watch the burly men of the Red Lion play darts. I’d seen her Facebook statuses. To be honest, I was grateful that she wasn’t able to pop down. I didn’t need her judging me from the sidelines. I was already a little wound up at the way her eyes had rolled and her painted lips had curled up at the edges every time Frank had mentioned tonight.
It had seemed so simple to put the evening together but, in reality, it had taken a lot more work than I’d imagined. First, I’d had to find a suitable – and free – venue. There were fire exits, disabled access and general health and safety to think of. I had followed Ms Norris’s idea of baking a selection of some of my favourite cakes, but I didn’t want to isolate anyone with dietary restrictions so had spent several evenings trapped in the kitchen making sure I would please any gluten-free, dairy-intolerant vegans who might attend. Maybe Linda’s approach of just cold-calling potential customers would have been easier. It certainly would have been quicker, and saved me a small fortune in ingredients. I just knew there was no way I’d have been able to pick up the phone to a stranger and encourage them to sign up to their funeral in the effortless way she did it.
‘Best of luck tonight, Grace. I have to say I can’t wait to hear how you get on!’ Frank smiled.
I felt my stomach do a tiny flip of anticipation.
*
Maybe the clock on the wall was wrong. It looked like it had been there for some time, after all. In fact, the whole of the room could do with a bit of TLC. No wonder they’d let me hire it for free. My eyes strayed to the peeling paint chips and scuffed wooden tables. I’d tried my best to get rid of the musty smell in here with the air freshener I’d brought with me, but it hadn’t managed to do the job. I re-checked my watch, which was showing the same time as the clock, and kept my gaze on the doors, waiting for them to open, shifting on an uncomfortable seat.
The circle of identical red plastic chairs that I’d painstakingly heaved into position around me were all empty. The only sound was the loud ticking of the annoyingly correct wall clock and my feet nervously tapping on the faded lino.
The trestle table I’d set up at the front of the room, under the stained glass window, was full of untouched cakes, neatly laid out biscuits and chilled cartons of orange juice, alongside fanned out forms and free pens. Two balloons with our company logo on bobbed forlornly over the floor, mocking me and this seemingly stupid idea.
I’d been sitting there for the past twenty minutes, psyching myself up whenever the flash of headlights swiped past the window. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook away the tears threatening to prick my eyes. Someone had to show up, surely? Not even in my wildest nightmares about holding this event did no one turn up. But that was how it appeared to be.
I sighed loudly. Maybe I should have done more to get the word out? When I’d posted about it on our Facebook page it had received a couple of likes, which had foolishly buoyed my confidence. I thought the residents of Ryebrook would be queuing up to ask me something. Maybe I should have booked a different location? Taken a stall at the library, or had a table set up in the atrium of Asda instead? Perhaps I should have chosen to hold it on a different day of the week. People clearly didn’t want to think about their own funeral on a Friday night.
I told myself to give it another five minutes then call it quits. Linda’s face would be painful when she heard what a disaster it had been, but not as painful as sitting in an empty church hall on my own, listening to the clock hands ticking by.
When the tediously slow five minutes were up, I wearily got to my feet and pulled out the Tupperware boxes to pack away the homemade cakes. Maybe there was a homeless shelter I could go and drop them off at. Someone should benefit at least.
Suddenly I heard faint footsteps, followed by the creak of the door opening.
‘Ah, Grace! Sorry I’m late –’ the familiar voice chimed, then stopped. She glanced around the room. ‘Am I late? Or am I early?’
‘Evening, Ms Norris!’ I couldn’t help but smile at her. ‘You’re right on time. Come on in.’
‘I wasn’t sure if I could make it, which is why I didn’t mention it to you earlier. I had to see if Alma would watch Purdy for me, you see, and Alma is a bit of a stickler for a routine,’ she babbled, taking off her coat and laying it on an empty chair. ‘A bit like you, actually,’ she chuckled.
‘Well, it’s great to see you. Help yourself to some cake or a drink. You, er, you didn’t see anyone else out there did you?’
‘No dear, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
My heart sank. Stay positive, Grace.
‘I’ll just go and have a final check.’ I jogged to the creaky doors, out to an empty corridor, and peered through the main doors. Ms Norris was right; not a soul in sight.
‘So, erm, thanks again for coming. Possibly it’s the weather keeping others away…’
At that exact moment, the thin window frames, dripping in condensation, gave an almighty rattle.
‘These are delicious,’ she grinned as crumbs of chocolate brownie fell on her plum-coloured skirt.
I couldn’t help but smile. ‘It’s your recipe. I have to say that using a dash of cayenne pepper really worked.’
‘It’s been my secret ingredient for many years.’ She tapped a finger to the side of her nose.
I glanced at the clock. Seven thirty-five. We had this room for another twenty-five minutes. I couldn’t pack away now; she’d made such an effort to brave the outdoors to attend.
‘So…’ I cleared my throat and rummaged in my suit jacket pocket for my index cards. I was about to launch into my pre-prepared speech, for something to fill the time, when a loud creak stopped me.
‘Is this the funeral meet-up thing?’ asked a wobbly, high-pitched voice.
I spun on my chair to see a young boy – he couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen – stick his jet-black, shaggy hair into the room. His dark eyes darted from side to side. The rest of his body remained outside, unsure whether or not to enter.
I leapt to my feet. ‘Oh yes, hi, please come in!’
The lad shuffled in, dragging his feet. He refused to smile but his serious dark brown eyes lit up when he saw the cakes on offer.
‘I’m Grace – I work at Ryebrook Funeral Home – and this is Ms Norris.’ The old lady gave a cheerful wave, dropping more crumbs to the floor.
‘I’m Marcus,’ he mumbled, sloping into the room. ‘Can I have some cake?’
‘Sure, help yourself. There’s plenty to go round.’
Hungrily, Marcus started filling his paper plate with one of everything. I glanced at the clock. Seven forty. The invite had said seven. I wasn’t very good with things not running to plan, but at least people had shown up. Never mind the fact that Marcus was not exactly our target audience, being much too young to sign up to a prepaid funeral plan.
I decided that I would still stick to my original script. I should be able to get through everything before the line dancing group needed the room at eight p.m. I stood up and cleared my throat with as much authority as I could muster. I was conscious that we looked a bit ridiculous, the three of us, sat in such a large circle of empty chairs. I focussed on the pastel-coloured cards in my hands.
‘Thank you for