Sue Townsend - The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

Brianne said, from a front pew, ‘And Monkey’s.’ Brian Junior wiped his eyes using the sleeve of his jacket, and continued, ‘I know some of you are worried about the apparent flimsiness of Gran’s coffin, so I researched the decomposition cycle of the human body. Given her height and approximate weight, and allowing for the variables of climate and temperature, I reckon that her coffin and corpse will last for -’

Brian called out, ‘Thank you, Brian Junior! Step down now, son.’

The vicar hastily took possession of the lectern and, before Brian Junior had reached his place in the pew, had signalled to the organist for the first hymn to be sung: We plough the fields and scatter’

Stanley and Ruby sang lustily, neither of them needed a hymn book.

Ruby glanced at Stanley’s face and thought, ‘It’s amazing what you can get used to, given time.’

Eva was luxuriating in the silent house. It had stopped raining and she could tell by the light on the white walls that it was approximately eleven o’clock.

It was quiet outside. The downpour had sent most of the crowd looking for shelter.

She thought about Yvonne, who she had seen at least twice a week for twenty-five years. She dredged out memories.

Yvonne at the seaside, shaking sandy towels into the wind.

Yvonne with a child’s fishing net, trying to catch tadpoles with the twins.

Yvonne in bed, crying with arthritic pain. Yvonne helpless with laughter at Norman Wisdom on television.

Yvonne’s teeth clicking as she ate her Sunday dinner.

Yvonne arguing with Brian about creationism.

Yvonne dropping cigarette ash into a casserole she was serving.

Yvonne’s horror in a restaurant in France, when her steak tartare turned out to be raw meat.

Eva was surprised to find that she mourned Yvonne’s death.

Back in church, the vicar, who was trying to be relevant to the community, led the congregation on the last verse of ‘Yellow Submarine’.

When it was finally over, he said, ‘You know, life is like a banana. The fruit is inside, but the skin is green, so you leave it to ripen…’ He paused. ‘But sometimes you leave it too long, and when you remember it again, the skin has turned black, and when you finally remove it, what has happened to the good fruit?’

Brian Junior said, from the front pew, ‘The banana has produced ethylene, and will eventually oxidize and break down into a new gaseous compound of equivalent mass.’

The vicar said, ‘Thank you for your contribution,’ and carried on. ‘Eventually, Yvonne’s body will decompose, but her soul will attain everlasting life in God’s Kingdom, and will forever remain in your memory.’

Brian Junior laughed.

The vicar asked the congregation to kneel again while he read them a passage on resurrection from the King James Bible. Only Ruby remained standing. She pointed to her knees, mouthed the word, ‘Knees!’ to the vicar, and shook her head.

When he’d finished the passage, the vicar looked at the congregation. They were shifting from foot to foot, glancing at their watches and yawning. He thought it was time for the Commendation and Farewell. He cleared his throat, turned to the coffin and said, ‘Let us commend Yvonne Primrose Beaver to the mercy of God, our Maker and Redeemer.’

Brian Junior said, very loudly, ‘Maker? I think not.’ He added, as if he were in an advanced tutorial, ‘Variation plus differential reproduction plus heredity equals natural selection. Darwin one, God nil.’

The vicar looked at Brian Junior, and thought, ‘Poor chap, Tourette’s is a cruel affliction.’

Alexander thought, ‘When will this end? When will this dreary tight-arsed ceremony be over?’

At the last funeral he’d been to, there was a gospel choir, steel drums and dancing. People had swayed their hips and raised their arms above their heads, as though they were truly joyful that the departed one would soon be in the arms of Jesus.

When the vicar said the words, ‘We entrust Yvonne to your mercy, in the name of Jesus our Lord, who died and is alive, and reigns with you, now and for ever,’ the congregation said, ‘Amen,’ as though they were truly thankful that the ceremony had finally ended.

Four undertakers walked solemnly up the aisle, lifted the eco-box coffin on to their shoulders and, to the accompanying sound of ‘Rawhide’, walked back down the aisle, out of the church and towards the poorly dug fresh grave.

The mourners followed.

Brian sang along quietly with Frankie Laine. He cracked an imaginary whip and envisioned himself herding stampeding cattle across the Texan plains.

When the cardboard coffin was carried to the grave-side, some of the angel worshippers from the Bowling Green Road crowd joined the procession. At their head were Sandy Lake and her friend, the anarchist William Wainwright.

Sandy was carrying a single lily she had bought from Mr Barthi’s shop. He had not wanted to split a ready-made bouquet of six stems, but she had been so tenacious that he had eventually given up, telling his wife later that he was thinking of retiring and starting a new business where he wouldn’t have to interact with people.

His wife had scolded, ‘Ha! So, now you are playing with robots? You are going back to university to do a degree in electronics and then a masters in robotics? By then you will be seventy years old, you fat fool! And I will be dead of starvation, and our children will be sweeping the gutters!’

As he stacked the instant rice, Mr Barthi wished fervently that he had not spoken so openly to his wife. It was already a sad day for him. Mrs Yvonne Beaver was a good customer and an interesting conversationalist, unlike her son.

He also missed Mrs Eva Beaver. He used to buy a crate of Heinz tomato soup from the cash and carry especially for her. She ate a bowl for her lunch every day. Nobody else in her family liked it, they had their own favourites.

Back in Bowling Green Road, there were shouts and insults being traded by opposing groups in the crowd. The vampire worshippers were berating the Harry Potter faction.

In an attempt to block out the noise, Eva had set herself the task of remembering all her favourite songs from childhood to the present day. She had started with Max Bygraves, ‘I’m A Pink Toothbrush’, then moved on to the Walker Brothers, ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine (Anymore)’, and was presently struggling to remember Amy Winehouse’s ‘Back To Black’. She knew she had a good voice, with perfect pitch. It offended her when professional singers strayed from a note.

Miss Bailey, her music teacher at school, had entered her into the County Music Festival. Eva was to perform a solo classic, Schubert’s ‘The Trout’, to a panel of weary judges. At the end, she had looked at their smiling faces, automatically assuming they were laughing at her, and had run from the platform, down long corridors and into a garden with benches where the other contestants were eating their packed lunches. They had all stared at her.

At school assembly on Monday morning, the headmistress, Miss Fosdyke, announced after prayers that Eva Brown-Bird had won the Gold Medal at the County Music Festival. Eva was shocked, and she found the thunderous applause unbearable. She had blushed and lowered her head. When Miss Fosdyke called for her to come up on the stage, she pushed her way along the rows of girls and escaped through the nearest door. As she walked towards the cloakroom, she heard loud laughter from the hall. Finding it impossible to stay in the school, she had collected her coat and satchel and walked in miserable drenching rain around the area where she lived, until it was the legitimate time to go home.

When the funeral party arrived back at the house, the crowd growled its displeasure at Brian and Titania. Then, after a gesture from Alexander, they grew silent. Photographs of Yvonne’s funeral had already been posted on the internet. Some of the regulars had twittered their worries that access to the lavatory would cease with her passing.