No flowers

I have spent a not inconsiderable amount of time recently mulling over the fact that, depending on the context, I pronounce ‘cerebral’ in two entirely different ways. It is pissing me off.

I feel lousy today. Jesse’s funeral was a very bleak affair. We arrived far too early and had to suffer 20 agonising minutes of hushed, tearful contemplation, trying to look everywhere except at the coffin. People kept telling me to be strong which was rather perplexing. I felt strong. Certainly strong enough to let out a damn good cry without anything terrible happening.

We had some awkward moments when we got to the church, trying to work out the best place for Matt to park his wheelchair. Matt wanted to leave it up to me. I wanted to make sure he felt comfortable. The vicar said we could sit anywhere. He said that he hoped we would not be the type of people that sit at the back. He said that yes, here, a few rows from the front, would be fine. Then he said that Matt should be aware that he would have to move out of the way when the coffin was carried down the aisle. So sitting there really wasn’t fine. Christ! We are BEREAVED. We don’t want to have to make decisions. Just tell us where to sit where we won’t be in the way. Matt cannot possibly be the first wheelchair user to ever come into this church. So we ended up in a weird corner, at a strange angle, too far away from my Dad and brother. I tried to hide my face behind my hair so no one could see me crying and dribbling snot but it didn’t really work. I tried to think of funny things to stop myself blubbing but that didn’t really work either. So I just hung on tightly to Matt and tried to keep in mind that Jesse had been very poorly and this was a release for him. He had survived to an impressive age after all.

My uncle had insisted that the service be the strict version from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. Being an atheist and all, I didn’t really expect to be very impressed by the whole Christian pantomime but I was a bit disappointed that the ceremony did not strike a single chord with me. Its brutal and somewhat terse take on the suffering we all endure in life, with death being an ‘enemy’, just reinforced my sense of estrangement from the church. The vicar’s microphone was not working properly. He faded in and out of amplification, sounding stilted and at times comical. Jesse would have been furious (and might even have called him a berk).

Hats off to the pall bearers. Jesse was a very large man and must have been somewhat of a challenge for them. They hid the struggle well and managed to keep the jostling to a minimum (although they did nearly back into a candlestick at one point). The mourning and weeping continued at the graveside where we shifted uncomfortably, getting cold, on soft wet grass. On request, I doled out the apricot coloured tissues that I had swiped from Mum’s kitchen to a couple of the other sobbing females and wondered if their tears had taken them by surprise.

There was some respite when my cousins shared some of their memories of Uncle Jesse. I laughed (probably far too loudly considering we were in a churchyard) when they told me about the time they all went to Plymouth, accompanied by a dear old friend of his who didn’t eat very much. Jesse, on the other hand, loved his food. He practically lived for his food. They stopped for a hearty three course lunch and then, a little later, for a cream tea. On the way home, Jesse insisted that they find somewhere for supper. His friend felt unpleasantly full by this stage and tried to refuse anything further, which made my uncle very cross. Ken ordered something light and just pushed it about his plate to keep up appearances. Jesse was not fooled and announced in a loud and peevish voice, “Mr Stevens, you are eating like a damn sparrow!”.

We all squeezed into a small room in ‘the Plough’ in Prestbury to eat comfort food and put the wind back into our sails. Matt and I read up on the ghosts in the village (reputed to be one of the most haunted in Britain) and shivered at the idea of dogs and horses going berserk outside the spooky cottages next the pub we were in. Later we moseyed up Mill Lane hoping to spot some phantoms or at least see some dogs/horses going berserk but all we saw were falling yellow leaves and raindrips and cobwebs.

The rain got heavier as the afternoon dragged on and was nothing short of torrential as our trusty Slipper carried us towards London, back to another world. And even though it was only yesterday when they tautly, painfully, lowered dear Jesse into the ground, it suddenly seems like he has been dead a long time now.