Page 50 of The Tapes
There are posters in the entrance of the local Labour Club, advertising Rob Stewart for this weekend, then Stung for the Saturday after. Cheap tribute acts and cheaper bitter is more Dad’s scene. He’d have particularly enjoyed Marvin Gray’s Motown night next month.
It’s lunchtime and the bar is lined by half a dozen men who look as if they’ve been sitting in the same spot since Reagan was elected. There’s a pool table with ripped felt, a small TV on the wall showing Sky News, then a dartboard with pinprick holes dotted across the wall behind.
The guy behind the bar has a towel over his shoulder and points towards a door on the far side. ‘In there, love,’ he calls, and I follow the direction into the function room. This reallyisDad’s scene.
There’s tinsel in the corner from a Christmas that I doubt was last year’s, plus the sort of bobbled, patterned beige wallpaper more fashionable during the three-day week. It’s so outdated that I’m almost certain I threw out a roll of it from Dad’s garage.
I have a clarity now I’m away from the crematorium. Of course Mum wasn’t hiding there. Of course she isn’t about to reveal herself.
Faith held my hand for the walk to the car, then asked if it was OK for her and Shannon to disappear off. I told her it was, knowing this sort of social club is barely for people my age, let alone hers.
Most from the funeral have made it to the wake. They head in with bowed heads, buoyed by the chance of free ham and pickle sandwiches, plus Fosters at happy hour prices.
Fosters.
I don’t even like lager and yet it would be so easy to get a drink. Cheap. The barman wouldn’t even think twice. I booked this place because Dad would end up here once or twice a week. This is where his old-time crew hang around. There’s a bookies’ next door, which helps. I could’ve picked somewhere that didn’t serve alcohol but it’s not about me.
I won’t drink but that doesn’t mean I consider it.
It’s only as I say hello to one of Dad’s old workmates from his time at the quarry that I realise, properly, both Nicola and Faith have gone. Nicola had to head off to work and there’s nobody here I particularly want to talk to, nor anybody coming. I say a lot of hellos, over a bunch of waves and nods. Harriet has gone, which is probably for the best. When it comes to people asking how she knew the deceased, it’s not easy to pipe up and say she was his mistress.
Allie Rowett’s here. She says a sheepish hello, but we said all had to on Wednesday. Her husband assaulted me and she kept quiet about it until after he’d died. None of that stops her tucking into a glass of house red, an egg sandwich, and one of the yellow French Fancies.
I do the rounds.Hello. Goodbye. Thanks for coming. Yes, it’s a great spread. Yes, it was a lovely service. Yes, it’s a shame. Yes, we’ll have to catch up soon. No, I don’t have your number.
The same conversations with the same kinds of people. Everyone means well, nobody manages to see that I don’t want to be here and I wish they’d all go away.
It’s probably not a surprise but I had no real conversation with my brother at the funeral. I find myself standing next to the tea urn, filling my third cup because it’s better than alcohol. My brother’s wife, Bridget, my sister-in-law, picks up one of the empty cups, smiles politely, then realises it’s me.
‘Eve,’ she says. ‘I was hoping to catch up to you. You look lovely.’
I know I don’t – and the damned sleeves still won’t sit in place – but I thank her anyway and return the favour. Yes, the service was lovely. It really was a perfect send-off. Yes, this was his favourite place. No, I don’t come here often. No, I don’t know why there’s a poster for the 1984 Milk Cup final on the wall, nor do I know what that is.
‘Thank you so much for organising,’ she adds. ‘And for doing everything at the house. I know Peter can be a bit, um… hands off.’
That’s an understatement – but at least it isn’t only me who thinks it. Bridget and I are standing close to the abandoned tinsel, each sipping our tea. She’s so far out of my brother’s league that it’s baffling how they’re together. Not only is she a nice, considerate person, but she has that sort of prettiness that’s borderline sickening.
‘He said you both had a chat at the house the other night,’ Bridget says.
I’d almost forgotten about Peter dashing upstairs, spending time in Dad’s room, flushing the toilet and then returning downstairs with something stuffed in his pocket.
‘I offered him one of Dad’s watches,’ I say. ‘He took it but didn’t seem too keen. I did say he could look around the houseand take anything he wanted. I presume he brought home a few things?’
I’m such a good liar when I’m thinking about not drinking.
Bridget thinks. ‘There was something…’
She tails off because a small boy with a bowl cut trots across. He has a French Fancy, Bakewell, Viennese whirl and Battenberg all on the same plate. A perfect Mr Kipling tapas.
‘You can’t eat all those,’ Bridget says.
He looks up with dinnerplate eyes, reinforcing the fact that my brother and Bridget have fantastic genes. Even I want to tell him it’s fine.
‘Pick two,’ Bridget says.
‘Four?’
‘Two. You pick, or I’ll pick for you.’
