How to Say Goodbye
‘I wasn’t sure if I could make it, which is why I didn’t mention it to you earlier. I had to see if Alma would watch Purdy for me, you see, and Alma is a bit of a stickler for a routine,’ she babbled, taking off her coat and laying it on an empty chair. ‘A bit like you, actually,’ she chuckled.
‘Well, it’s great to see you. Help yourself to some cake or a drink. You, er, you didn’t see anyone else out there did you?’
‘No dear, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
My heart sank. Stay positive, Grace.
‘I’ll just go and have a final check.’ I jogged to the creaky doors, out to an empty corridor, and peered through the main doors. Ms Norris was right; not a soul in sight.
‘So, erm, thanks again for coming. Possibly it’s the weather keeping others away…’
At that exact moment, the thin window frames, dripping in condensation, gave an almighty rattle.
‘These are delicious,’ she grinned as crumbs of chocolate brownie fell on her plum-coloured skirt.
I couldn’t help but smile. ‘It’s your recipe. I have to say that using a dash of cayenne pepper really worked.’
‘It’s been my secret ingredient for many years.’ She tapped a finger to the side of her nose.
I glanced at the clock. Seven thirty-five. We had this room for another twenty-five minutes. I couldn’t pack away now; she’d made such an effort to brave the outdoors to attend.
‘So…’ I cleared my throat and rummaged in my suit jacket pocket for my index cards. I was about to launch into my pre-prepared speech, for something to fill the time, when a loud creak stopped me.
‘Is this the funeral meet-up thing?’ asked a wobbly, high-pitched voice.
I spun on my chair to see a young boy – he couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen – stick his jet-black, shaggy hair into the room. His dark eyes darted from side to side. The rest of his body remained outside, unsure whether or not to enter.
I leapt to my feet. ‘Oh yes, hi, please come in!’
The lad shuffled in, dragging his feet. He refused to smile but his serious dark brown eyes lit up when he saw the cakes on offer.
‘I’m Grace – I work at Ryebrook Funeral Home – and this is Ms Norris.’ The old lady gave a cheerful wave, dropping more crumbs to the floor.
‘I’m Marcus,’ he mumbled, sloping into the room. ‘Can I have some cake?’
‘Sure, help yourself. There’s plenty to go round.’
Hungrily, Marcus started filling his paper plate with one of everything. I glanced at the clock. Seven forty. The invite had said seven. I wasn’t very good with things not running to plan, but at least people had shown up. Never mind the fact that Marcus was not exactly our target audience, being much too young to sign up to a prepaid funeral plan.
I decided that I would still stick to my original script. I should be able to get through everything before the line dancing group needed the room at eight p.m. I stood up and cleared my throat with as much authority as I could muster. I was conscious that we looked a bit ridiculous, the three of us, sat in such a large circle of empty chairs. I focussed on the pastel-coloured cards in my hands.
‘Thank you for coming this evening. My name is Grace Salmon, and I’m a funeral arranger at Ryebrook Funeral Home. We are a small business who have been in the funeral trade for over fifty-five years. Our aim is for you to have your funeral your way, on your big day. I wanted to host this event tonight as a way to debunk some of the myths around what we do. For example, not all funeral arrangers are fans of Halloween.’
I chuckled. My awkward laugh was the only sound in the room.
‘Um. Anyway – there have been a lot of misconceptions from pop culture and horror films, but the truth is that we’re here to assist in one of the most rewarding and important events, in the most dignified way that we can. I’m going to run through a few of the other popular myths before passing over to the room for your questions –’ I stopped abruptly and looked at the clock.
‘Actually, as there’s only the three of us you probably don’t need to hear all of this…’ I sat back down, feeling self-conscious, and placed the stack of cards on the empty seat next to me. ‘We don’t have much time left before we need to go, so, er, maybe it’s easier if you ask me whatever you would like to know and I’ll try to answer as many questions as I can?’
There was a silence, only filled with Marcus loudly chewing on a slice of Bakewell tart.
‘I’ll start.’ Ms Norris raised a wrinkled hand. ‘I wanted to ask you, Grace, what made you get into a career like this?’
‘Well,’ I cleared my throat. ‘I always knew I wanted to work in a role that helped others.’
I parroted the well-worn answer. Tonight had already been a disaster; there was no chance I was going to dive into the truth.
Marcus slowly raised a skinny arm. ‘I have a question.’
I smiled at him encouragingly. He had a smear of chocolate from one of the brownies on his chin. ‘Go on.’
‘My grandma died last year and I want to know…’ He paused.
I expected him to ask what happened to her body, how embalming works or what temperature the incinerator reaches – a teenager fascinated with the ghoulish side of our world. I wasn’t prepared for what he eventually found the words to ask.
‘I want to know…’ A deep intake of breath. ‘When I’m going to start feeling happy again?’
A soft, gentle sound passed from Ms Norris’s lips.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Marcus.’ He was blinking rapidly and refused to take his eyes from his scuffed trainers.
I paused for a moment. ‘What was her name? Your grandma?’
‘June. She was eighty-seven, which everyone said was “a good innings” and “her time” and other things like that. I just don’t get why there’s loads of old people still alive when she isn’t. It’s not fair.’ He angrily kicked the leg of the chair next to him then flashed a wide-eyed look at Ms Norris. ‘God, sorry. I didn’t mean, like…’
‘It’s quite alright, dear. It’s very normal to be angry when you lose someone you love.’ Ms Norris bobbed her head in sympathy.
Marcus lowered his voice. ‘She was like you, actually. She loved those mini apple pies from Aldi. She’d pick off the edges and secretly give them to my dog when my mam wasn’t looking.’ He pointed to the neat line of crumbs that Ms Norris had left on her paper plate. ‘I just miss her so much.’ His voice cracked and tightly bunched-up fists flew to stem the tears from his eyes. ‘My mam thought if I came here tonight it might help…’
I’d foolishly expected questions on what options people have during a cremation, the most popular funeral songs, or whether eco-funerals were the future. Not this.
‘Do you talk about June – I mean your grandma – much at home?’ I asked gently.
Marcus shook his head.
‘When I lost my Billy I could hardly function,’ Ms Norris said, handing Marcus a tissue that he accepted. He blew his nose noisily.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ I paused then turned to her. ‘Who’s Billy?’
In our regular meetings I’d never heard her mention a Billy.
‘My dog. I had Billy before Purdy. A King Charles Cavalier and exceedingly handsome if I do say so myself. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if it’s a pet or a person.’ She wafted a wrinkled hand. ‘To be honest I’ve met nicer animals than I have people in my time. When someone or something you love dies, it can make you feel like the world has spun off its axis and you’re barely holding onto the edges.’
Marcus nodded slowly in agreement.
‘That’s normal. But Marcus, your grandma would have known how much you loved her, and no one can ever take away that special bond you had.’
He let out a loud sniff and used the sleeve of his hoody to wipe his nose.
‘Ms Norris is right,’ I added. ‘Also, it might help if you spoke to someone? Maybe tell your mum how you’re feeling?’
I felt completely out of my comfort zone offering what I hoped was good advice. I was fine with planning funerals, arranging hearses and comparing coffins. I could comfort the recently bereaved by fixing as much of their pain as I could with a perfect send-off, but I wasn’t ready to deal with the raw loss and love of a teenage boy for his grandma.
‘Don’t you ever get scared of… you know… dying?’ Marcus asked Mrs Norris, looking a little more composed.
‘Not so much that it stops me from living. You can’t do anything to avoid it, but you can make the most of whatever time you have. It’s something I wish I’d learnt a long time ago,’ she said wistfully. ‘I don’t expect you to live every day as if it’s your last, or any silly nonsense like that, but I do think we should all be more aware of how lucky we are.’
‘Hashtag blessed.’ Marcus nodded along.
‘Um, exactly. What I’m saying is: you need light and shade.’
I could hear footsteps growing outside; the line dancing class waiting to get in. It was nearly eight o’clock.
‘I’m so sorry, but we have to leave it there.’
‘Is it going to be on next week?’ Marcus asked, lolling to his feet and pulling the sleeves of his hoody low over his hands. ‘I’ll try not to cry next time.’
‘Oh, well, I…’ I stuttered. ‘It was actually just a one-off evening… I’m not a trained bereavement counsellor to start with and –’
‘Hear hear! I think it’s a wonderful idea to hold it again next week. Maybe you’d get more people turning up if it was a regular thing too?’ Ms Norris said, pulling on her thick coat. ‘You’ve gone to so much effort, lovey, it would be a shame to waste it.’
A forlorn balloon bobbed past, as if on cue.
‘Er.’ I bit my lip. I couldn’t suffer the embarrassment of sitting in an empty hall for half an hour again. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.
‘Well, see ya next week then,’ Marcus said, slipping a brownie into each of his low slung pockets and flashing a wave as he bobbed out of the room.
‘What a lovely young man.’ Ms Norris smiled after him. ‘So brave of him to come here and open up.’
The sound of impatient huffing from outside made me jump into action. I began swiping up everything into two large reusable shopping bags.
‘It looks like I’ll see you here next week then, dear!’ Ms Norris opened the door and let the moody-faced dancers file in. We’d run over by six minutes.
‘Yeah, I guess so…’ I trailed off, hurrying to get out before being dragged into a grapevine formation.
The thought of hosting an event again would have to wait. I had somewhere to be – somewhere I desperately did not want to go, and I was running late.
Chapter 6
‘Grace!’ my mum shrieked. ‘Coo-eee! Gracie!’
Tina Salmon had always talked too loudly. She was one of those people who simply believed that the world desperately needed to hear what she had to say, whether the world liked it or not. Right then, her louder-than-average voice had to compete with the whiny strains of a saxophonist in the local band. An enthusiastic but tone-deaf singer was screeching into a microphone too close to his mouth. It was also about three hundred degrees. Bodies squeezed to get closer to the wrought- iron bar, desperate for the harassed members of staff to serve them.
Despite my protestations that I’d long given up celebrating and that my birthday had already come and gone, my mum had other ideas. It had been too long, she’d insisted, since we’d all got together, and this was the first evening all of us could make – hence my presence at a noisy bar in town. Still, I would really rather have been at home working on Mr Thomson’s service. Coming out on a Friday night wreaked havoc with my anxiety levels. Thankfully she had at least managed to get a table. She was perched on a high stool, with absolutely no lumbar support whatsoever, at a high table tucked into the corner.
I slowly headed over to her. I was still trying to put a positive spin on the Ask A Funeral Arranger event I’d rushed here from. But I just felt embarrassed. How could I have thought I could get the people of Ryebrook to come to a draughty church hall on a Friday night to hear me chattering on about funerals? The only thing to be taken from this evening was that I should trust my instincts. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, left the safety of my flat, and put myself out there. I was annoyed at how much time I had wasted in preparing for the event, and in sitting alone in that musty hall before anyone arrived. Time I could have spent productively planning for the services I had coming up next week. I still hadn’t tracked down the perfect top hat to go as a coffin topper for Mr Deacon, a local milliner who’d recently passed away. I really wasn’t convinced that running the event again next week would have a more positive outcome, but I’d agreed to it, so it didn’t look like I had much choice.
‘Ooh! Grace! Over here!’ Mum was still waving a tanned arm in my direction, despite the fact I was heading her way. Rolls of mature skin were stuffed into the unforgiving, low-cut, shiny black vest top, and she jiggled as she beckoned me over. I sighed. Climbing into my bed seemed a long way off.
Next to her was my half-brother, Freddie, his face lit up by the blue hue of his phone screen, eyebrows knotted together, lost in some virtual world, ignoring Mum and the man on his right. That must be her new boyfriend. Tonight we were ‘being introduced’. Brian? Barry? Bobby?
‘Grace! Isn’t this brilliant!?’ Mum energetically jumped from her stool. Her cherry-red patent stilettos skidded slightly on the tiles as she pulled me into an over-the-top embrace. She smelt of cigarettes and red wine and a sickly floral perfume. She’d had her nose pierced since I saw her last.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, breathing through my mouth.
Freddie looked up, nodded in my direction, then went back to his phone.
‘Oh happy birthday, my darling girl!’ she shouted in my ear, pulling out an empty stool for me to sit on. The metal legs scraped in resistance. ‘Grace, this is Brendan.’
‘Alright!’ Brendan flashed a toothy, nicotine-stained grin and tilted his half-empty glass of lager in my direction. His round head nestled onto folds of stubbly flesh spilling from his tight, dark grey turtleneck. ‘So, the famous Amazing Grace. Lovely to finally meet you. Happy birthday and all that.’
‘Thanks, er, it was a couple of weeks ago but thanks.’
‘Freddie, make room for your sister!’
‘Half-sister,’ he muttered, moving over half an inch to let me get past.
‘Brendan got you a bottle of fizz to celebrate but you’ve taken so long to get here that we had to make a start,’ Mum admitted, without a hint of an apology, flicking her heavily mascaraed eyes to the upturned bottle of cava in a watery ice bucket.
She knew I didn’t drink. No matter how many times she’d tried to encourage me to lighten up and let my hair down, I had to continually repeat that I didn’t need alcohol to have a good time.
More for me then, was always her reply, after a quiet but audible, If I hadn’t given birth to you then I’d swear you’re not my daughter.
‘Ah, well, thanks. That’s very, er, thoughtful,’ I said politely to Brendan. He winked and made a clicking sound with his mouth, helping Mum get back up on her stool.
‘What took you so long, anyway?’ Mum rearranged herself with a wobble.
‘Work emergency,’ I lied. I couldn’t bear to go into the church hall disaster.
Freddie made a strange noise between his pursed lips, flecks of spittle jumping from his mouth onto the glossy tabletop. ‘What? Too many stiffs to deal with?’
Brendan smiled as if he understood the joke. Then realised he didn’t. ‘Stiffs?’
‘Yeah, did Mum not tell you?’ Freddie said.
I noticed Mum’s painted red lips tighten. She picked up a tired-looking cocktail list, zoning out from this conversation.
‘Our Grace here is the local Morticia Addams.’
Brendan looked at me and back to Freddie.
‘She’s a funeral director,’ Freddie explained.
‘Arranger. A funeral arranger,’ I corrected. Frank wouldn’t be happy with me stealing his job title. Not that detail mattered to someone like Freddie. He thought feminists were hairy, angry lesbians, and still called women ‘birds’. I’d once overheard him explain, in depth, that it was scientifically proven you couldn’t get wasted two nights in a row, something to do with the first night cancelling out the second.
‘Really?! You work with dead people!’ Brendan literally recoiled, a little precariously on his stool.
‘I’m going to get a mojito. Anyone else want one?’ Mum said loudly, pretending to be oblivious to the topic of conversation. ‘Or maybe a pornstar martini?’
‘It’s sick, innit. I see dead people…’ Freddie said in a little boy’s voice, ignoring her.
Brendan leant forward, placing an elbow in a small puddle of lager. His eyes widened. ‘Wow, Grace, you work with corpses, what’s that like?’
Inwardly I sighed.
‘It’s just my job and I love what I do.’
‘Yeah, but it’s like… you know… death.’
‘And?’
‘I’m not in denial, don’t get me wrong. I’ve even planned my funeral.’ Brendan sat up straighter. ‘I know exactly what I want.’ Mum looked up from the cocktail list. ‘I want “I Am A Cider Drinker” playing as they carry me in for a start –’
‘You’re joking? You want The Wurzels played at your funeral?’ She blurted out an incredulous laugh.
‘Why not?’ Brendan winked to hide any embarrassment. ‘They’re only like the greatest band in the world, ever!’ I could see his shine fading as Mum frowned at him. ‘Just a little underrated, that’s all.’
‘But at your funeral? I really don’t think it’s appropriate. Plus, the greatest band in the world are Queen. That’s who Freddie’s named after.’ She squashed my brother’s cheeks in her hands.
‘Alright, Mum.’ He swatted her away.
‘No. We won’t be having some country hicks play at your funeral,’ Mum decided for him. ‘Anyway, you won’t even be there so you can’t complain. Right, can we please change the subject? We’re meant to be here celebrating Grace and her birthday. You know, Grace, who is still alive!’
‘I’m going for a piss.’ Freddie sprang to his feet, making a comment about how my birthday was actually ages ago and that this was a load of bollocks.
‘So Grace, is your boyfriend joining us later?’ Brendan asked. I squirted a dollop of antibacterial hand gel in my palms and rubbed them together, hoping to avoid the question.
‘She’s single and ready to mingle!’ Mum sang.
‘Well…’ I have never been ready to mingle in my life. Just the very word made me want to uncomfortably scratch my arms and hide under my duvet.
‘Ah, I get it. I guess it must be tough finding someone because of what you… do.’
‘I don’t know why you didn’t see more of that Ian. Cheryl said he’s a lovely bloke, when I bumped into her last,’ Mum piped up, sloshing red wine from the bottle into her empty, lipstick-stained glass. How much had she got through this evening? Cheryl was my mum’s chiropodist and Ian was another of her clients.
‘Cheryl isn’t the best judge of character,’ I said tactfully, desperate to move the conversation on.
I’d never told my mum about Henry. We had promised each other not to tell anyone about us – it was part of the deal. A deal that felt like it suffocated me at times. But it was a promise I had stuck to, despite everything that had happened. The only living soul who knew was Maria, but, well, that was different.
‘You need to get yourself on Tinder,’ Freddie had returned from the bathroom, waving his lit-up phone screen in my face, the brightness blinding me for a second.
‘Ah, Tinder,’ Brendan said wistfully, before sticking his reddened face into his wine glass as Mum glared at him.
‘Right! Present time!’ Mum shrieked. ‘Freddie, put your phone away now. This is family time.’
Freddie muttered but obeyed, and slid his phone into the pocket of his tight chinos.
‘Grace, Brendan and I got you this.’ She rummaged in the tie-dye pillowcase thing that acted as a handbag. I’d have palpitations thinking about her gallivanting off to the next country on her travels with such a badly designed bag; a pick-pocketer’s dream. She pulled out a slightly crumpled gift bag that had a boiled sweet wrapper stuck to the back and an almost perfectly spherical tea-stain ring in the top right-hand corner.
‘Whoops,’ she picked off the wrapper and dropped it to the floor. ‘Right, well, happy birthday my little Gracie.’
‘You really didn’t have to…’ I started to protest as I cautiously took the packet off her and peeled it open. Last year she’d got me a clunky handmade Tunisian shell necklace. It was still in its bubble wrap, sitting patiently in the half-empty Tesco Bag for Life that was destined for my next trip to Oxfam.
‘Oh…’
I wrapped my fingers around a red and yellow hand-woven cotton bracelet. The type of thing you’d give your school friend when you were about thirteen. A tiny peace sign was threaded in the centre, next to a small metal disc that was engraved with my name.
‘It’s personalised! Do you love it? Put it on!’
I smiled tightly and let her tie it around my wrist. I could cover it up with my watch without hurting her feelings.
‘There’s something else in there too!’
The other gift was a yellow plastic radio in the shape of a bumblebee. Two slim silver antennas had been coated in black paint, it’s bulbous behind was covered in wire mesh for the speakers, and two thick black stripes over a sunflower-yellow body were the dials. There was no kind way to put it…
It was hideous.
‘It’s a radio! Isn’t it funky!’ Mum beamed, clapping her hands together. Freddie scoffed into his pint glass. ‘I picked it up at this market in Latvia and thought it would really brighten up your house. It’s about time you added a touch of personality to that place. It’s so very… sterile.’
‘Perfect for Grace then,’ Freddie said with a smirk, before Mum told him to be nice to me as it was my birthday.
Neither Mum nor Freddie visited my home very often. In fact, Freddie had only been once for about five minutes, when he was waiting for his friend to pick him up for a football match and it was chucking it down with rain. Whenever Mum was back in England, she sporadically popped in for a cup of tea but preferred to stay at the hotel near the library as she could fill up her bag with all the miniature toiletries. A low-cut top was all she needed to get a discount on a room from the male receptionist.
‘Right, wow. Thanks.’ I forced a smile, running my fingers over the chubby bee radio. There was no doubt in my mind it would be destined for the Bag for Life too.
‘My gift is… on its way,’ Freddie muttered. Code for he’d completely forgotten.
‘It’s fine. My birthday was ages ago and I really didn’t expect anything anyway.’
‘Is there really no one on the scene?’ Mum pushed. Now presents were out the way she clearly hadn’t given up on the previous conversation.
‘No. I’ve told you. I’m fine like this.’
‘You not worried about, well, you know… tick-tock, tick-tock?’
This usually happened after a bottle of wine. She would grill me about my lack of a nice young man. She would be slurring about missing out on grandchildren in another few glasses, mark my words.
‘Mum, please…’
‘I thought you said Grace were only twenty-seven? She’s got plenty of time for babies and all that.’
‘She’s thirty-three! And not getting any younger, may I add!’
I could see Brendan doing the maths in his head, working out Mum’s real age, a fact as unknown as the location of Cleopatra’s tomb. She’d been clinging onto her early fifties for the past few years.
‘You’re ancient, Grace,’ Freddie unhelpfully joined in. ‘You may as well stop being so picky and go for the next bloke that walks in here.’ He never got a grilling, despite only being three years younger than me.
‘Ooh yes! It could be fate, bringing them together!’ Mum clapped her hands and the three of us glanced towards the door. Brendan still stared at Mum, looking utterly perplexed.