“My eyesight’s getting worse. And I lack the confidence. Besides, I have my bus pass.”
“Then you’ll need to sell. No point having the car sitting outside the house doing nothing.”
“Sell it then. The old rustbucket’s no use to me.”
“Can you not sort that out?”
“Don’t you already sell motorcars? Besides, cars are a man’s domain. You’ll know what you’re talking about when people come to view the beast.”
And just like that, his mother had landed him with yet another task. Both sat in silence as the limousine moved painfully slowly down the road. Leonard focused his gaze out of the window, through the tinted glass, watching the real world go by. Once the funeral and other arrangements were completed, he would need to sit his mother down and have a serious talk about the future.
At the crematorium chapel two miles outside Drayton, the car park had already half-filled. His parents—both humanists—had specified cremation with non-religious ceremonies when their time came. Entering the small hall to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata felt entirely fitting. Ending the service with his father’s choice of song provided a glimpse into his rare sense of humour. He had chosenMy Wayby Frank Sinatra, which would undoubtedly raise eyebrows as well as causing a few stifled giggles.
Insisting on speaking first, Leonard struggled to come up with anything meaningful to say about his father and left the heavy lifting to the medical professionals his father, Professor Colin Day, had worked alongside, those who also had—very clearly—been good friends.
“My father and I were not what you would call close. But I believe we shared a mutual respect. One thing he taught me, something that has stayed with me throughout my life, was the importance of ambition, hard work and perseverance. My father personified those qualities and, although I didn’t follow in his footsteps academically, they have served me well in business. I will miss you, Father, your patience, sound advice, and your wisdom. Wherever you are now, I hope you rest well.”
With a quick nod to the celebrant, he returned to his seat alongside his mother. Fortunately, the former chancellor provided a long, polished and heartfelt eulogy, which compensated for Leonard’s concise effort. When the curtains closed around the coffin and the Sinatra classic began, Leonard breathed out a sigh of relief. At a nod from the celebrant, he took his mother’s arm and led them through a side door out to the chapel gardens.
For the next half hour, stood next to his mother, he listened to awkward, often repetitive condolences from people he had never met and thanked them for their kindness.
At one point a woman around the same age as his mother came up to introduce herself. Leonard recognised her as the woman who had planted herself in the pew behind them, and throughout the ceremony had muttered muted words to herself. At one point Leonard had turned around, ready to glare, thinking she might be talking on her mobile phone. Instead, he’d seen she had her eyes closed, hands clasped before her mouth, grasping a purple lace handkerchief to her lips and talking to herself.
Although Leonard could immediately see the resemblance to his father—the same grey eyes, straight nose and angular face—he had never met the woman before. Maybe her grey hair tied back severely in a bun accentuated the facial features. By her side a bald, heavily overweight man in dark glasses, around the same age as Leonard but with less family likeness, slouched untidily, giving off an air of boredom and indifference.
“Geraldine,” the woman said to his mother, producing an overly sad smile before thrusting out a black-gloved hand. “My condolences on your loss. And my apologies we haven’t been in touch more. I know you don’t share our faith, but I hope you don’t mind that I prayed for my brother’s soul throughout the service. He is in the hands of Our Lord now.”
Leonard’s mother rarely displayed emotion but appeared to stiffen at the outstretched hand, before accepting the gesture. Once connected, and somewhat affectedly, the woman brought her other gloved hand to place on top of their clasped hands.
“Thank you, Millicent,” said his mother, her awkwardness apparent, especially in the way she pulled her hand away.
“Leonard, this is your Aunt Millicent. Your father’s sister. And this is your cousin, Matthew.”
Taken aback by this new knowledge, Leonard nodded a welcome, before being pulled into a tight hug by the aunt. While holding him, she whispered in his ear.
“God bless you, Leonard. We’ll speak later.”
After another tight hug, she pecked a kiss on his cheek then let him go. The cousin, Matthew, stepped up, nodded and shook hands weakly, his fingers cold, damp and chubby. Leonard likened the handshake to clasping a pack of freshly opened sausages. Matthew also seemed incapable of making eye contact. Noticing other people waiting to pay their condolences, his aunt and cousin stepped away, before being swallowed up by the small crowd.
“My father has a sister? And I have an aunt and a cousin?” asked Leonard as an aside to his mother before the next well-wisher stepped up. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Millicent, the ‘pious, pompous, poodle’ your father used to call her. They live in Clifton, Bristol in the south. I had to invite her but didn’t think she’d come, being as he stipulated a humanist ceremony. You know your father’s views on any form of organised religion. Before you were born, he asserted his opinions at a family gathering—without me, thank goodness, because I was carrying you at the time—and harsh words were spoken. That weekend he came home and told me his sister no longer wanted anything to do with him or us. Not sure exactly what happened, but I know he felt a sense of relief, said he didn’t want her kind of fanaticism infecting your childhood. So we cut all ties. We’ve only met them once since, at your grandfather’s funeral. You’d have been mid-twenties then, living in London, busy working hard. And you have—had—three cousins. An older cousin, Luke, who passed away years ago, and Matthew and Mary, the twins. We still get a Christmas card from Millicent each year, something your father used to open, read aloud, and then, with a snort, cheerfully rip up and throw in the bin.”
Although Leonard knew his father’s views, he never imagined him to be a man who would let them come between family members. Whatever happened must have been severe, especially if he told his wife and son none of the particulars.
Once everyone who could come filled the Red Lion for the post-funeral gathering, Leonard felt grateful to have his cousin Eric attending, even though the conversation wasn’t exactly riveting. Standing in one corner of the room, among other regulars, they could chat in virtual peace. Most of the twenty-something mourners who attended turned out to be college employees, current and former. A few came up to introduce themselves again, but most knew his mother well. The way she flitted from one small group to another, he guessed she enjoyed the attention. One minor consolation was him not having to stick by her side for the whole afternoon. Eventually she settled into a small booth chatting with Eric’s mother, Aunt Marcie. Both sat red-cheeked nursing large glasses of red wine, a plate of sandwiches and sausage rolls between them.
When Eric excused himself to use the toilet and get more drinks, Leonard stood awhile on his own until someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned around to see the solid frame and, frankly, handsome face of Adrian Lamperton standing before him. Adrian eyed Leonard’s chest uncomfortably but stood his ground, eventually meeting Leonard’s eyes. Absently, Leonard realised the man must have been marking his time to speak to him.
“You’re Leonard Day?”
“I am.”
With some uncertainty, Adrian held out his hand in greeting and Leonard was met with a firm handshake, his hand enveloped by Adrian’s much larger, coarser one.
“Look, you probably don’t remember me—”
“Lamperton. Adrian Lamperton,” said Leonard, letting the hand go. “We both went to Cranmer High.”
