‘Fine means a million different things. Define yours.’
He laughed at that. ‘My fine is fine. I wish with all my heart that what happened on Sunday hadn’t happened but I can’t change it.’
That didn’t really answer my question but I wasn’t going to push him any further.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said after a while. ‘But you can stop worrying about me. When you lose someone you love, I know how important it is to give way to your emotions instead of bottling it all up but, like I said to you and Georgia, I’m not the sort of person who’ll do that in front of others. That’s private but the important thing is that I’ve done it.’
I could feel his gaze on me and wondered if that was a dig at me about Mum or perhaps even about Noah. Or both. I had kept it all bottled up and it terrified me that one day soon the bottle might become too full and the cork would spring out. It would be like opening up one of those cans full of springy worms and them escaping everywhere. If I could just shed a few tears, maybe it would be enough, but they just wouldn’t come. Maybe they would at the funeral next Friday. When they did, I just hoped that it would be a bit of seepage and not the uncorking of the bottle because I couldn’t help thinking that, if and when the cork did come out, it would be carnage.
33
A week later, it was the final Friday in April and Mum’s funeral. I woke up feeling a heaviness on my chest. As I got ready, back to black, sadness wrapped itself around me and clung on tight, but those tears still refused to fall.
After several warm and sunny days, it was overcast and cool with rain expected by late afternoon. The grey sky mirrored the sombre mood as a small group of us gathered at Derwent Rise to travel in a funeral limousine with Dad. Mum’s wishes had been for a service at Willowdale Methodist Church, where she’d been a member of the congregation, and afterwards at North Lakes Crematorium near Penrith – the same place where Noah had been cremated.
The Reverend Avryl Palmer read out the eulogy she’d prepared following a discussion with Dad, Georgia and me earlier in the week. She’d included comments from Mum’s grandchildren and closest friends. Many of them made me smile and some drew laughter, which took me back to Noah’s funeral when I’d been furious with people for laughing when there was nothing remotely funny about my boy lying in a wooden box. Laughter was comforting and it felt good to commemorate the strong, vivacious woman Mum had been, celebrating her life instead of just mourning her death.
Georgia and I sat either side of Dad. She cried throughout the service and I willed myself to shed a couple of tears to show I cared, but to no avail. Dad’s eyes were watery but he held it together somehow.
Reverend Palmer announced that there’d be further prayers at the crematorium and all were welcome. As the organist played a mournful tune I didn’t recognise, we filed out. I kept my head down, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye, ashamed that I wasn’t in bits like my sister.
Back in the limo, onto the crem, another song, more prayers, more tears from Georgia and dry eyes from me and an open invitation from Reverend Palmer to join the family back at Lakeside Inn.
As we led the mourners outside, I did look up this time and my eyes met Flynn’s. He was in a row near the back wearing a charcoal-grey suit and black tie. His hair had been cut and his beard trimmed. He’d always been a very handsome man but it crossed my mind that he’d aged well and looked even better with streaks of grey in his hair and beard. He nodded at me, that small gesture conveying his sorrow. I nodded back to him in acceptance. I hadn’t wanted to call him but I was going to need to speak to him at the pub and thank him for coming. It was the right thing to do.
* * *
‘Who are you looking for?’ Dad asked back at Lakeside Inn a bit later.
‘Nobody. Just seeing who’s here.’
Dad evidently didn’t buy that. ‘Flynn’s not here. He came to see me yesterday and told me he’d be at the church and crem but not here.’
‘Did he say why?’
Dad looked at me meaningfully. As if I hadn’t already guessed that I was the reason.
‘I told him you were fine with it,’ he said, ‘but he said he didn’t want to encroach.’
I could fill in the missing words –If you’d called him like I asked…– and felt terrible. One of Mum and Dad’s friends was hovering nearby, clearly eager to speak to him, so I went in search of Mark. Flynnshouldbe here. I felt guilty about enough things in my life without adding this to the list. Mark was near the bar talking to Regan and Clarke so I apologised to the boys and pulled him to one side.
‘Can you call Flynn but give me your phone?’
He looked puzzled but handed me his phone with Flynn’s number on the screen. I pressed the call button as I slipped out of the bar into the quieter foyer.
‘Hi, Mark,’ Flynn said.
‘It’s not Mark, it’s Mel.’
There was a pause – presumably a shocked one – before he spoke. ‘Mel? Everything okay? Sorry, stupid question under the circumstances. I’m so sorry about your mum.’
‘Thank you. Look, I know we haven’t spoken yet and, well…’ I sighed. ‘This isn’t about that. I thought you’d be at the wake and you’re not and I know it’s probably because we haven’t spoken but you mean a lot to my parents and I know Dad really wants you here, so if there’s any possibility at all that you can get here, it would be really appreciated.’
I hoped that my garbled speech had sounded more like a polite request than an order.
There was another pause. ‘I can, but only if you’re sure you’re all right with me being there.’
‘I’m sure.’
