How to Say Goodbye

Chapter 6 (#ulink_1d8afa4c-8d35-5ea8-9ef2-73d05da46cb2)

‘Grace!’ my mum shrieked. ‘Coo-eee! Gracie!’

Tina Salmon had always talked too loudly. She was one of those people who simply believed that the world desperately needed to hear what she had to say, whether the world liked it or not. Right then, her louder-than-average voice had to compete with the whiny strains of a saxophonist in the local band. An enthusiastic but tone-deaf singer was screeching into a microphone too close to his mouth. It was also about three hundred degrees. Bodies squeezed to get closer to the wrought- iron bar, desperate for the harassed members of staff to serve them.

Despite my protestations that I’d long given up celebrating and that my birthday had already come and gone, my mum had other ideas. It had been too long, she’d insisted, since we’d all got together, and this was the first evening all of us could make – hence my presence at a noisy bar in town. Still, I would really rather have been at home working on Mr Thomson’s service. Coming out on a Friday night wreaked havoc with my anxiety levels. Thankfully she had at least managed to get a table. She was perched on a high stool, with absolutely no lumbar support whatsoever, at a high table tucked into the corner.

I slowly headed over to her. I was still trying to put a positive spin on the Ask A Funeral Arranger event I’d rushed here from. But I just felt embarrassed. How could I have thought I could get the people of Ryebrook to come to a draughty church hall on a Friday night to hear me chattering on about funerals? The only thing to be taken from this evening was that I should trust my instincts. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, left the safety of my flat, and put myself out there. I was annoyed at how much time I had wasted in preparing for the event, and in sitting alone in that musty hall before anyone arrived. Time I could have spent productively planning for the services I had coming up next week. I still hadn’t tracked down the perfect top hat to go as a coffin topper for Mr Deacon, a local milliner who’d recently passed away. I really wasn’t convinced that running the event again next week would have a more positive outcome, but I’d agreed to it, so it didn’t look like I had much choice.

‘Ooh! Grace! Over here!’ Mum was still waving a tanned arm in my direction, despite the fact I was heading her way. Rolls of mature skin were stuffed into the unforgiving, low-cut, shiny black vest top, and she jiggled as she beckoned me over. I sighed. Climbing into my bed seemed a long way off.

Next to her was my half-brother, Freddie, his face lit up by the blue hue of his phone screen, eyebrows knotted together, lost in some virtual world, ignoring Mum and the man on his right. That must be her new boyfriend. Tonight we were ‘being introduced’. Brian? Barry? Bobby?

‘Grace! Isn’t this brilliant!?’ Mum energetically jumped from her stool. Her cherry-red patent stilettos skidded slightly on the tiles as she pulled me into an over-the-top embrace. She smelt of cigarettes and red wine and a sickly floral perfume. She’d had her nose pierced since I saw her last.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, breathing through my mouth.

Freddie looked up, nodded in my direction, then went back to his phone.

‘Oh happy birthday, my darling girl!’ she shouted in my ear, pulling out an empty stool for me to sit on. The metal legs scraped in resistance. ‘Grace, this is Brendan.’

‘Alright!’ Brendan flashed a toothy, nicotine-stained grin and tilted his half-empty glass of lager in my direction. His round head nestled onto folds of stubbly flesh spilling from his tight, dark grey turtleneck. ‘So, the famous Amazing Grace. Lovely to finally meet you. Happy birthday and all that.’

‘Thanks, er, it was a couple of weeks ago but thanks.’

‘Freddie, make room for your sister!’

‘Half-sister,’ he muttered, moving over half an inch to let me get past.

‘Brendan got you a bottle of fizz to celebrate but you’ve taken so long to get here that we had to make a start,’ Mum admitted, without a hint of an apology, flicking her heavily mascaraed eyes to the upturned bottle of cava in a watery ice bucket.

She knew I didn’t drink. No matter how many times she’d tried to encourage me to lighten up and let my hair down, I had to continually repeat that I didn’t need alcohol to have a good time.

More for me then, was always her reply, after a quiet but audible, If I hadn’t given birth to you then I’d swear you’re not my daughter.

‘Ah, well, thanks. That’s very, er, thoughtful,’ I said politely to Brendan. He winked and made a clicking sound with his mouth, helping Mum get back up on her stool.

‘What took you so long, anyway?’ Mum rearranged herself with a wobble.

‘Work emergency,’ I lied. I couldn’t bear to go into the church hall disaster.

Freddie made a strange noise between his pursed lips, flecks of spittle jumping from his mouth onto the glossy tabletop. ‘What? Too many stiffs to deal with?’

Brendan smiled as if he understood the joke. Then realised he didn’t. ‘Stiffs?’

‘Yeah, did Mum not tell you?’ Freddie said.

I noticed Mum’s painted red lips tighten. She picked up a tired-looking cocktail list, zoning out from this conversation.

‘Our Grace here is the local Morticia Addams.’

Brendan looked at me and back to Freddie.

‘She’s a funeral director,’ Freddie explained.

‘Arranger. A funeral arranger,’ I corrected. Frank wouldn’t be happy with me stealing his job title. Not that detail mattered to someone like Freddie. He thought feminists were hairy, angry lesbians, and still called women ‘birds’. I’d once overheard him explain, in depth, that it was scientifically proven you couldn’t get wasted two nights in a row, something to do with the first night cancelling out the second.

‘Really?! You work with dead people!’ Brendan literally recoiled, a little precariously on his stool.

‘I’m going to get a mojito. Anyone else want one?’ Mum said loudly, pretending to be oblivious to the topic of conversation. ‘Or maybe a pornstar martini?’

‘It’s sick, innit. I see dead people…’ Freddie said in a little boy’s voice, ignoring her.

Brendan leant forward, placing an elbow in a small puddle of lager. His eyes widened. ‘Wow, Grace, you work with corpses, what’s that like?’

Inwardly I sighed.

‘It’s just my job and I love what I do.’

‘Yeah, but it’s like… you know… death.’

‘And?’

‘I’m not in denial, don’t get me wrong. I’ve even planned my funeral.’ Brendan sat up straighter. ‘I know exactly what I want.’ Mum looked up from the cocktail list. ‘I want “I Am A Cider Drinker” playing as they carry me in for a start –’

‘You’re joking? You want The Wurzels played at your funeral?’ She blurted out an incredulous laugh.

‘Why not?’ Brendan winked to hide any embarrassment. ‘They’re only like the greatest band in the world, ever!’ I could see his shine fading as Mum frowned at him. ‘Just a little underrated, that’s all.’

‘But at your funeral? I really don’t think it’s appropriate. Plus, the greatest band in the world are Queen. That’s who Freddie’s named after.’ She squashed my brother’s cheeks in her hands.

‘Alright, Mum.’ He swatted her away.

‘No. We won’t be having some country hicks play at your funeral,’ Mum decided for him. ‘Anyway, you won’t even be there so you can’t complain. Right, can we please change the subject? We’re meant to be here celebrating Grace and her birthday. You know, Grace, who is still alive!’

‘I’m going for a piss.’ Freddie sprang to his feet, making a comment about how my birthday was actually ages ago and that this was a load of bollocks.

‘So Grace, is your boyfriend joining us later?’ Brendan asked. I squirted a dollop of antibacterial hand gel in my palms and rubbed them together, hoping to avoid the question.

‘She’s single and ready to mingle!’ Mum sang.

‘Well…’ I have never been ready to mingle in my life. Just the very word made me want to uncomfortably scratch my arms and hide under my duvet.

‘Ah, I get it. I guess it must be tough finding someone because of what you… do.’

‘I don’t know why you didn’t see more of that Ian. Cheryl said he’s a lovely bloke, when I bumped into her last,’ Mum piped up, sloshing red wine from the bottle into her empty, lipstick-stained glass. How much had she got through this evening? Cheryl was my mum’s chiropodist and Ian was another of her clients.

‘Cheryl isn’t the best judge of character,’ I said tactfully, desperate to move the conversation on.