Page 32 of A Face in the Crowd
It’s hard not to laugh at that and, all of a sudden, the mood has lifted.
Annie’s husband and son were on the same train as Ben and Ben’s brother, Alex. They were on their way to a football match and her son was the only child to die. They had gone early, to try to make a day of it. If they’d gone closer to kick-off, they’d be here now. It’s hard to comprehend the enormity of how the world turns on such small decisions.
We get into Annie’s car and she sets off away from the station, out of the town, heading west towards the M4.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says.
‘Of course I was going to come,’ I reply, even though it’s not entirely true. The only reason I still attend these memorial events is for people like Annie. It’s five years since the crash and, in the immediate aftermath, before my life fell apart completely, it was hard not to be drawn to other people who had also lost someone. It’s easy to say, ‘I know what you’re going through’, but there was a group of us who genuinely knew.
In the time that’s passed, we’ve all come to the annual ceremonies, plus there’s a secret Facebook group. Some of us are closer than others and we send intermittent messages back and forth to see how people are.
‘How have you been?’ Annie asks.
‘Great,’ I lie.
I think it’s a lie lots of people tell. What are we supposed to say? That life is terrible and that each decision made seems to make it that little bit worse?
She tells me about a new relationship she’s in, insisting it’s early days but that there’s definitely a spark. I tell her I’m pleased – and I am – but the reason I’m on the fringes of this group is because there’s a part of me deep down that’s jealous of people like Annie. She has a conclusion to what happened. There was life insurance and joint accounts.
None of that is worth the two people she lost, of course – but her life can still go on. Like it or not, money matters. It’s why those with it have longer life expectancies than those without.
It’s good to hear Annie’s voice and I let her talk. As well as the new boyfriend, she’s up for a promotion at work and her life seems to be coming together. When she asks about me, I fudge things in the way I do. Work’s going great, my boss loves me, I’m acting up as assistant manager, it looks like it might be a permanent thing, my university course is cracking along… and so on. Lie after lie. When does it become too much to continue thinking of myself as an honest person?
Annie gets off the motorway and follows a series of winding country lanes with ease. ‘I can’t remember if I told you,’ she says, ‘but I have to leave more or less after the service. I’m supposed to be interviewing at work and I’d rather stay on top of it. There’s a buffet somewhere after, but, if you want to leave with me, I can drop you back at the station.’
‘I’m not much of a hanger-arounder,’ I assure her.
The roads narrow as the hedges soar and it’s not long before we’re surrounded by green. All Saints Church is the same venue as the past four years. A beautiful steeple soars high above the surrounding countryside, topping a blooming patch of emerald that will always be quintessentially British.
Cars are parked nose-to-tail along both sides of the road and Annie pulls in at the back of the line. She checks herself over in the mirror and straightens her hair before we set off along the crumbling tarmac.
By the time we reach the gates, there are so many people in black that it could be either a funeral or a goth convention. Many are close to tears, but I feel a distance from their emotion. There are faces I recognise and we offer the standard mini waves and grim smiles. I stick close to Annie because she’s probably the only person from this group I’ve ever been close to. We’ve always been able to laugh at one another and some of the absurd situations in which we find ourselves.
When everyone else starts to traipse into the church, we get into line and follow. It’s not easy to admit, but, with all things like this, there is a pecking order with grief. When everything happened, there were those who stepped forward to become the face of the bereaved. Perhaps it was coincidence, though I doubt it: the media decided the faces of our loss had to be the most attractive among us. Presumably because of this, Elaine gets a spot on the front row. She’s a pristine lawyer who lost her husband – also a lawyer – in the crash. She wears a suit like a lamb wears its wool, as if it’s a part of her.
She’s sitting next to James, a silver fox who was once a local television personality in the south-east. His grown-up daughter was on the train and it was he who set up the Facebook group and organises this memorial each year. He emails relentlessly upbeat messages every three months, as if we’ve signed up to a mailing list from which we cannot escape. It’s like he thinks he’s our counsellor, peppering each note with lines like, ‘Hope our spirits are still high’ and ‘You’ve all been in my prayers’. He starts each mail with something along the lines of, ‘Hey, guys. It’s me again’. There’s no unsubscribe button at the bottom and I’m not brave enough to reply and say I wish he’d leave me off. I should probably just block him.
The truth is that it’s only the crash that connects us as a group. We’re a collection of individuals who were unlucky enough to be thrown together as one. Apart from Annie, I feel no affinity for anyone.
Melancholic organ music sets the tone as Annie and I slot into a row two-thirds of the way back. It’s a stunning building, with stained-glass windows lining both sides, wooden benches in perfect parallel symmetry and echoing stone floors. It’s as we’re taking our seats that I spot Melanie sitting on the opposite side of the church. She’s wearing a net veil and a black dress, while staring unmovingly towards the front of the church. If she can sense me, then she doesn’t shift. I’ve seen her three times in a week now.
As the music stops and the rector begins to speak, Annie takes my hand. She links her fingers into mine and squeezes gently. I don’t say anything, but I feel like a fraud. I’m not in mourning.
Before long, we’re on our feet and miming along to a hymn. The bloke in front is belting out the chorus with the full fire and thunder.
The service continues in the way that services do. Almost nobody believes in God until there’s a birth or death – and then we want to trust that things have meaning.
After a while, the rector stands aside and James heads to the front. I’ve not seen him in twelve months, but it’s as if each year of ageing makes him more attractive. Without a word, he demands the attention of everyone present and, from there, he starts to read the list of all the victims. He goes one at a time; slowly and poignantly. Most people would stumble over a name or two – but not James. I suppose it’s his training from when he was a newsreader.
Sobs spring up from the watching crowd at regular intervals, but he never pauses the cadence, not even when he mentions his own daughter’s name. When he gets to the name of Annie’s son, I rest a hand on her knee. She sits a little straighter, holding her breath as her body tenses, but there’s no hint of a sob this year. As soon as her husband’s name has been read, she slumps a little and lets out a long, low gasp. The torment is over and I wonder for how many more years we’ll do this. There was the original memorial service a couple of weeks after the crash – and then one on the actual anniversary for each of the years leading up to now. Five years is a landmark – but will we come back for six? For seven? Or will there now be a gap until ten years have passed? Where does grieving end and wallowing begin? It’s not quite Princess Di, but will we still be congregating here in twenty years? Twenty-five? Thirty? Is this my life from now on?
I’m so lost in those thoughts that the name ‘Alex Peterson’ takes me by surprise. Annie touches my knee as reciprocation, but I glance sideways to Melanie in the opposite row. She is sitting stoically, her back straight against the unforgiving wooden bench.
‘Benjamin Peterson.’
Annie squeezes my knee a little tighter. It’s reassuring and yet unnecessary. I feel empty and out of place. I loved Ben once – but, if he loved me, then how could he leave me in such a state? How could he tell so many lies?
Melanie’s chest rises and she reaches to pinch the bridge of her nose. She brushes something away from under her veil and then continues to sit rigidly.
