Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

Val’s friends Sheena and Sue arrived and they went out to greet them. The weather was calm, grey, cold and foggy. A sweaty scent clung in the air; Andrew couldn’t put a name to it. Then Colin and Izzie and their two arrived, and Jason’s friends. Warm greetings were exchanged, murmurs of mutual sympathy, questions about the schedule for the day. They waited for the hearse.

Ideally they’d have used a horse-drawn carriage and walked behind it, respecting Jason’s views on carbon footprints, but the woodland burial site was miles away, and it simply wasn’t practical. Andrew thought of the old rural maps he’d seen in Ireland, where mass paths were rights of way to enable the devout to reach their parish church to celebrate mass. He recalled images from a film, though its name was lost to him now, of villagers carrying a coffin across a hillside for burial.

He moved among the visitors crowding the house and felt that distanced sensation again. The notion that he was going through the motions, living someone else’s nightmare. He remembered being in a similar state at their wedding, even though that was a happy occasion. The focus on the right sequence of trivia, the whole thing more of a rehearsed ordeal than a joyous celebration. The distortion of ritual.

He faltered when he saw his parents, their wobbly faces, the ravaged expressions in their eyes. Hard to conceal their pain. He hugged his father, thinking, why Jason and not you, but with no hint of malice as he felt the old man’s belly bulging out, and noted the rounding slope of his shoulders.

Andrew hadn’t expected the press. They were set up at the ready as the cortège entered the cemetery site. Family and friends emerged from the cars to the snick and whir of the lenses. He watched as Jason’s good friends, along with Colin, took instructions from the director and carried the coffin into the chapel.

Two nights before, the boys had turned up to decorate the coffin, armed with memorabilia, computer printouts and photographs, PVA glue, felt pens, paint and scissors. Andrew had cleared space in the conservatory and found a wallpaper table to put the coffin on. The event took on a party atmosphere, helped along by the pizzas and six-packs of beer that the boys had brought.

The collage grew: riotous, lively, spreading over the sides of the coffin. One of the girls, an art student, used paint to connect the different images together, spirals and tendrils and leaf shapes.

A map, thought Andrew. There should be a map. He went to find his ordnance survey maps of the Peak District. He selected the one that included the little campsite where they had gone for weekends when Jason was small, and the hills where they’d hiked in later years until Jason rebelled and started sleeping all morning whenever he was off school.

Andrew had cut a large shape from the centre of the map and pasted it on to the lid as one of the boys told a story about getting lost with Jason on the school outdoor pursuit camp when they were in Year 6. How they had followed a stream downhill, sure that once they reached the valley they could trek back along the road to the base. But the stream had led down to a farm. Fields full of llamas and ostriches like somewhere in South America, and it turned out to be the wrong valley, and the farmer had to ring the outdoor pursuits centre and get someone to come and pick them up.

Andrew laughed and glanced round for Jason, wanting to catch his eye and share the joke. His heart shrank.

He hadn’t wanted the decorating session to end, but it did, and the young people left, and with them went their energy and brilliance and noise, and aspects of Jason.

In the chapel they gave testimonials and played music. Felix played a piece on the flute. Andrew gritted his teeth and hardened his heart as ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ filled the space. There were other tunes, other brave speeches, and then they left the chapel and paraded through the grounds to the woodland: the coffin, the mourners, someone carrying the rowan tree, the watering can, the spade. A motley crew, Andrew thought as they gathered around the grave. Trestle tables had been set up to take the coffin while they prepared the straps that they would use to lower it into the hole.

The mist was still rising in the woods as the weak winter sun met the dew. People wept and laughed and exchanged teary smiles and blinks of recognition. Without too much trouble the coffin was lowered into place, and the humanist minister gave a brief address and read a poem that Val had chosen. Felix played the flute again while Andrew and Val manoeuvred the tree into place just near the head of the grave in a second, much smaller, hole and covered the roots and watered them. Jason’s friends filled the grave with soil, and that was when Andrew felt close to breaking down. He held it in, a giant hand throttling his neck, pressing on his chest. Val trembled beside him. He put an arm around her. She was wearing a veil. ‘I’m going to cry my eyes out,’ she had said to him earlier. ‘It’s either that or sunglasses, and in sunglasses I’ll end up looking like some B-movie Mafia matriarch.’ They had told people to wear whatever they liked. Some had gone along with it, sporting vibrant colours, but most clung to the safety of sombre shades.

The reception was wonderful. People relaxed and mixed. His father had insisted on paying for a free bar, and it wasn’t only youngsters that took advantage of the fact. His nephew had sorted out a laptop loaded with music, and people could pick tracks to play. There was a wall of photos of Jason and the people who loved him. The food kept coming.

Close to eleven o’clock, Val caught up with him. ‘There’s a taxi coming.’ They’d agreed to leave the car and collect it the next morning.

They slipped away. The temperature had plummeted, and Andrew’s teeth were chattering by the time they got into the cab.

The driver was a young Asian lad. He struck up conversation as he pulled away. ‘Good do?’ he said blithely.

Andrew squeezed Val’s hand, felt his eyes prickle. ‘Great, thanks,’ he said, and gave their address.

Louise

Louise started back at work. She couldn’t afford to miss any more shifts. She might be able to get a hardship payment from the union, but she hadn’t had time to look into it.

Most days she worked eight till four so she could have some time with Ruby and visit Luke in the evenings.

Deanne came to the hospital. She was only just back from Christmas with her husband’s family in Wales. Louise had texted her, and they’d spoken on the phone several times. ‘Oh Louise, oh God,’ she’d said when she set eyes on Luke, and her eyes had glittered.

Louise hugged her friend and closed her own eyes against the grief.

‘Can he hear you?’ Deanne pulled away and looked at Louise, who shrugged. ‘No idea. No one has. We talk to him anyway. Ruby made a tape.’

‘How’s she been?’

Louise gave a breath out. ‘Brilliant really. But something like this…’ The enormity of it hit her again. She frowned and shook her head, determined not to cry. What did it mean for Ruby? Her brother so hurt, the uncertainty, the new routine of snatched meals and hospital visiting. ‘She’s got her audition soon. She needs to practise.’

‘She’ll get in,’ Deane said. ‘They’d be mad not to take her.’

‘I think she’s worried about going, if she does get a place. She’ll be boarding during the week.’ Her throat ached, the pressure building inside, the urge to let go and weep, which she had fought so hard.

‘Home at weekends?’

‘Oh yeah. The fees are means-tested and there are grants and stuff. The woman said we’d be fine on that score. She’s bought this wig.’ Louise smiled, still sniffing, pedalling back from the brink. ‘Dark crimson. She looks amazing.’