Page 4 of The Reno
I replied with a watery smile. “Yep.”
The priest started, and I was handed an order of service with a picture of my dad on the front.
Jim Williams
13 February 1958 – 12 June 2022
Holding it was surreal. It was confirmation that he was really gone. In the picture, he had the same curly red hair and the same heart-shaped face as me, but it had gone round as he’d put on a bit of weight in his older age.
The echoey silence of the church made my heart beat faster. The sound of the priest’s shoes hitting the stone floors filled my ears, much too loud. My head spun as the priest took his space at the pulpit and, in a deep booming voice, gave an overview of Dad’s life and upbringing, touching on his ties up north in Everly Heath before he moved south to Reading to live with Mum and me. The priest artfully navigated my parent’s divorce.
“… And despite Jim and Paula parting ways, they always remained friends and continued co-parenting their daughter Kat.”
I gave out an uncontrollable bark of laughter that echoedthrough the church. My mum shifted forward, her eyes wide.
Fuck, that had been loud and in front of all my dad’s friends and family, too.
“Sorry,” I whispered to no one in particular but everyone in the church at the same time.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lydia whispered back, covering her palm over mine and giving me a reassuring squeeze.
I gave her a grateful smile in response as all my words clogged in my throat.
“… And I’d like to ask Kat up here to say a few words about her father.”
My head whipped around to see the priest looking expectantly at me.
Fuck. With all the stress of the speech notes and the dickhead parking spot thief, I hadn’t had time to mentally prepare myself for this.
I stood up, shaking slightly and approached the pulpit. I looked out at the sea of black and felt the church spin. I exhaled, realising I was holding my breath, and began.
“My dad—where do I start?” I forced a laugh, glancing at my family sitting in the first pew.
My uncle and auntie looked up at me, smiling. My uncle Brian, a doppelgänger for my dad, gave me a small, encouraging nod. I couldn’t find any source of embarrassment in their features. This was their town, after all. They knew most of the guests invited, unlike me.
I cleared my throat, shifting my gaze away.
Focus on something else.
“We, ah—we weren’t close before he passed. I think I’m allowed to say that.” I frowned. “But I have fond memories of him growing up. Taking me to the park on my bike. I had stabilisers until I was like twelve. But he never made me feel bad about that. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
I took a deep breath, starting again.
“I have fond memories of my dad growing up. Every summer, he used to take Mum and me camping in Devon. Even though Mum and I hated it, he was the best at camping.”
The crowd chuckled.
“Because we hated it so much, he’d let us bring anything we liked to keep us comfortable and happy. One year, he packed an entire box of my Polly Pockets. And I had the house, the car, everything. He didn’t even blink an eye; he just picked the box up and put it in the boot.”
I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“When I was about eight, my hamster, Gerald, died. Mum was out, and I was distraught, crying… really quite hysterical. Dad, being Dad, panicked and had no idea what to do or how to make it better. So naturally, he built a Viking-style funeral pyre for the hamster in the back garden.”
Louder laughs erupted.
“We stood side by side. Solemn. I said a few words, and so did he.” I burst into deep, hearty laughter that shocked me. “When he went to light the fire, it wouldn’t light. So he got some brandy from the drinks trolley… and poured it on the pyre… then it lit up so much that it almost singed Dad’s eyebrows. Mum came home to the smell of burning, only to find us laughing in frontof a hamster funeral pyre like we’d lost the plot.”
I smiled. “He was a great dad in those moments. Supportive. Even at school, when I struggled, he never pushed me. He told me to do my best. ‘All you can do is your best, Kat,’ he used to say. I just wish—” My knuckles went white on my speech notes.
