It was an unmemorable day for remembrance. Not warm, but not cold enough to notice either; overcast but no dark suggestions on the horizon; the trees were in leaf, but Spring’s gaudy finery had long since been cast off. The quietness around the crematorium came not from a reverent hush, but from the day’s general disinclination to expend any excess effort. The gravel crunched intermittently as one by one cars crawled up the long drive and slotted themselves into the irregular formation building up in the awkwardly shaped car park. Central locking systems clunked and then the unhurried clumps of friends and relatives drifted along the path to the chapel. This too was in keeping with the prevailing atmosphere, being a low, square, brick-built building for which the architect’s concentration on function had been to the detriment of form.
James had felt it his duty to be there early, and so was waiting on the steps as each group arrived. There was a restrained mixture of smiles and tears as distant relatives spoke of their pleasure at seeing each other after so much time while their eyes reflected their distress at the circumstances of their meeting. When most of the guests had gathered, a functionary came out to tell them that the service would be in quarter of an hour, and if they cared to wait inside, there was a room with coffee and tea available. Feeling the need for warmth and comfort, even the temporary sort that emanates from a teacup, the party moved indoors.
In the waiting room, James moved from one conversational cluster to another, hovering unnoticed on the edge of perception. He’d never been one to command the floor, preferring to be part of the audience playing an appreciative but passive role; he saw no reason to change now. Many of the speakers were skirting the obvious topic and were instead catching up on family news: recent weddings; exotic holidays; the shameful behaviour of certain cousins (not present, of course). James listened for a while, but there was little new, so eventually attached himself to the group in the corner who were reminiscing about the recently deceased.
‘I can never forget those awful trousers he used to wear, you know, the green shiny ones that were too short for him. And when he sat down you could see those tartan socks that never matched! "They’re comft-able", he’d always say though. That was him; he was "comft-able", wasn’t he?’
‘Yes... I know what you mean... He just, sort of, fitted. Like your favourite armchair: a bit tatty, nothing special to look at, but lovely to curl up with and relax.’
‘Well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you!’
‘We did have some good times... and some bad ones, now and then. He could be a real moody bugger when things got him down... That time we got lost in North Wales: half past ten at night, not a road sign to be seen and us looking for a hiking hut in the middle of nowhere. We’d been delayed to start with and then spent ages driving around these tiny lanes in the dark with only this silly little map to help us. He wasn’t a loud sort, but I could see him building up this head of steam until he was near fit to bust! He wouldn’t ask for help though. In the end, I went and asked at a house with a light on while he fumed in the car. He got over it quick though; that was what was good about him. He didn’t hold anger or a grudge, and he could see the funny side after.’
The arrival of the priest interrupted any further conversation. Teas and coffees were finished or left standing and everyone filed into the chapel. James sat down with his family, and as the priest went through the opening formulae of the rite, he looked around and tried to feel what the others were feeling; gather the sense of their thoughts. The service from then on flowed over and around him but few drops of content reached his consciousness, until:
‘and now his wife, Christine, would like to say a few words.’
Christine had a clear voice, though today it was marred by hoarseness as she suppressed her feelings for long enough to speak.
‘Some people fall in love instantly as their eyes meet across a crowded room. We weren’t like that. For me, he was just a friend. But a friend who cared and helped and supported until one day I realised that sharing my life with him made me so content and joyful that I never wanted to be without him again. He was like this with everyone: his friends; his family; his children. Always helpful, never intrusive or judgmental. Supporting you, often without you knowing it, and working for your continued happiness. The pain of losing him is terrible, but I shall never regret that I have lived with someone who brought so much joy to this world.’
The curtains closed around the coffin and the congregation departed to the strains of anodyne organ music.
‘So that was my life’, James thought, and left too.
