With that she snatched up her coat and handbag, and almost wrenched the back door off its hinges in her haste to get home.
‘That’ll just be us for tea then,’ said Bertha matter-of-factly, getting up and bustling over to pick up the kettle that was now whistling merrily on the stove.
Her face showing her fury, Aidy hissed, ‘I can’t believe that woman was expecting me to
pay
Arch’s brothers to pall-bear for Mam. The bloody gall of her!’ Then she paused and sighed. ‘Oh, Gran, as much as she irritates the life out of me, I hope her stomach ache isn’t serious. It’s funny, though, we had cod last
night from the same ’monger she uses and Arch never complained of anything when he was here earlier. And I’m all right …’
‘Well, it might not have been caused by summat she ate so much as summat she drank,’ said Bertha dryly as she busied herself with her task.
Her tone of voice had Aidy looking at her suspiciously. Instinctively she knew her grandmother was somehow involved in Pat’s sudden stomach problem. ‘Gran, just what did you give Mrs Nelson?’
Bertha turned to face Aidy, a satisfied expression on her face. ‘Well, I thought she looked a bit grey around the gills, and to me that’s a sure sign of constipation. Out of pure kindness, I put a dose of senna in her tea.’
Aidy gawped. ‘So that’s why it tasted bitter to her? Gran, how big a dose did you give her?’
‘Enough to clear the blockage of an elephant! Well, yer can’t deny she’s a big woman, so a normal dose wouldn’t be of any benefit to the likes of her, now would it?’ There was a twinkle of mischief in Bertha’s eyes when she added, ‘And with a bit of luck, lovey, we won’t see her ugly mug again until after the funeral.’
Aidy couldn’t help but laugh, despite the circumstances. Her grandmother deserved a medal for getting the interfering Pat out of the way, allowing them the freedom to arrange her mother’s funeral the
way they wanted. ‘Mam would have split her sides over this one, Gran,’ she spluttered.
Putting a pot of fresh tea on the table, Bertha nodded. ‘She certainly would have. That woman was the bane of Jessie’s life, thinking she had every right to boss us about ’cos you was married to her son. Jessie only tolerated her out of respect for you.’
Bertha began to giggle then, a moment’s relief from the heartache of her daughter’s sudden death.
A while later they made their way through to the parlour to begin their vigil, both to some extent dreading the ordeal, but equally determined to use this special time to talk about the good times they had shared with Jessie, their own good fortune in having the likes of her for a mother and a daughter.
I
t didn’t seem right to Aidy that the day of her mother’s funeral should be so gloriously sunny. A perfect summer’s day, in fact. It should have been icy cold and bleak, the way she was feeling. She knew the rest of the family agreed too.
The service had seemed never-ending to her. There had been times during it when she had had to restrain herself from shouting out to the Vicar that her mother did not need her earthly sins forgiving before God would accept her spirit back into His Kingdom. Her mother would never wittingly have done wrong against anyone. Jessie had been a good woman who had done her best to raise her children after her husband had abandoned her and left her destitute. She had been a loyal friend and neighbour, and would help even a stranger in need if it was in her power to do so. Now standing tightly packed in by neighbours around the graveside, it was unbearable to Aidy to think of her mother resting inside a box six feet
under. In only a few short minutes they would be expected to say their last goodbyes then go on their way to get on with their lives. Aidy wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her mother, not ready to get on with her life without Jessie in it, and she knew that neither was the rest of her family.
With sisterly protectiveness she looked in turn at her brother and two sisters. Flaxen-haired Betty was a gawky nine year old, her childish face already showing the signs of the good-looking woman she would become. She was openly crying, periodically wiping away the river of snot that was pouring from her nose, using a sodden handkerchief. Aidy’s heart went out to her. She was desperate to gather the young girl in to her arms and offer her comfort, but it would have to wait until the Vicar had finished talking.
Next to her stood Marion, eight years old, chubby and mousy haired. She was clutching her favourite doll which had long since lost its hair and one of its legs. She was staring into the grave, at the coffin holding their mother. Despite having it explained to her as best they could, she couldn’t quite grasp what death actually meant. That she wouldn’t physically see her mother again. Marion believed that her mother was asleep inside that box, and when she wasn’t tired any more she would get out and come home. How Aidy wished that was in fact the case. Since their mother’s death Marion had started to wet herself,
mostly during the night but occasionally throughout the day too. The fact that she now had her legs crossed made Aidy fervently hope the child could hold herself until the ceremony ended, and avoid the acute embarrassment any failure would bring.
The girls’ grey school skirts and white blouses might have been cast-offs from the better off, acquired from a charitable organisation for a few coppers by her mother, but both of them looked smart and tidy, and a credit to the mother who had done her very best for them.
Aidy then cast a glance at ten-year-old George, his usually unruly brown hair parted down the middle and flattened down with help from Arch’s Erasmic hair cream. The slogan on the label boasted it would keep every hair in place, but it was failing to do so as strands of George’s were sticking up already on his crown, like a peacock’s tail fanning out. To outsiders he came across as a hard nut who was not afraid to use his fists in defence of family, friends or himself, but to his family George was a sensitive, thoughtful and honest boy, fiercely protective of them all.
Aidy knew he felt uncomfortable wearing the borrowed suit very kindly offered to them for the day by a neighbour, Miriam Liberman, who was well aware George wouldn’t possess one. The suit had been made for her son for his Bar Mitzvah last
year by a kindly uncle on her husband’s side, himself a tailor with a shop on Cheapside in the market place. The son was shorter than George by a couple of inches and not as broad, so the jacket was tight and the trouser legs finished above his ankles, but regardless Aidy felt his mother would have been proud of how handsome he looked. His face was mask-like, however, and Aidy knew that it was taking him all his strength not to break down in front of the rest of the congregation. Men didn’t cry in public. In George’s opinion he was a man, so he didn’t cry either.
Next to George stood Bertha, Arch’s arm hooked through hers for support. Despite the heat she was dressed in her best black woollen coat and twill dress underneath, thick black woollen stockings and sturdy black lace-up shoes. Her best black felt hat was on her head, the bunch of plastic cherries that had decorated it removed for this sober occasion.
Arch, as always, looked striking in the only suit he possessed. He’d last worn it for their own wedding five years ago, totally unaware that the next time he’d put it on it would be for such a sad event.
The sudden death of his mother-in-law had come as such a shock to Arch that he hadn’t given a thought to how Aidy’s grandmother and her siblings were going to continue without her. Aidy had outlined her own plan to him at her first opportunity the next
day. Like herself, she knew it wouldn’t be easy for Arch, abandoning the home they had worked so hard to make nice, hoping eventually to raise their own family in it when Arch finally got his promotion at work. But in the circumstances there was nothing else they could do. He had put his arms around her and assured her that he would support her as best he could in anything she undertook. Family was family. She had never loved him as much as she had done then.
Having recovered sufficiently from the ‘help’ Bertha had given her for her supposed bout of constipation, Pat Nelson stood next to her son, black dress pulling tightly over her huge bulk. It was not yet apparent whether she was put out by the fact that only one of the suggestions – or, in truth, instructions – she had issued for the funeral had been taken up, that of Arch being chief pall-bearer, but Aidy knew she would certainly let them know if she was displeased, at the first opportunity. She appeared to be grief stricken but Aidy knew she had been jealous of Jessie on many counts: her still youthful looks, her likeable disposition, and because Jessie lived in a bigger house in what the locals perceived to be a better part of the area. So in truth, Jessie’s death was no real loss to Pat, and knowing her greediness as she did, Aidy knew her mother-in-law would be desperate for the service to end and the wake to start
so she could take her fill of the food that was on offer. Arch’s work-shy father hadn’t come, but then Aidy had known that he wouldn’t as the time of the funeral overlapped with the beginning of the lunchtime session at his local pub. He’d put in an appearance at the wake, she had no doubt of that, as there was beer on offer for the men.
At least fifty people besides themselves were present. Jessie having been as popular as she was, it was known that her funeral would be well attended, but even so none of the family had expected quite so many to take the trouble to pay their respects, not forgetting there were also those who would have liked to have attended but couldn’t, due to the fact they couldn’t afford to lose pay taking time off work.
Since word had got out of the death, a steady stream of people had called at the house to express their condolences. Aidy and Bertha had lost count of the number of pots of tea they had mashed between them and packets of Rich Tea biscuits they had offered. It was comforting to know that so many people were genuinely mourning the loss of Jessie, but all the family would be glad when today was over so they could begin the long process of rebuilding their own lives without her.
A short while later, as the bereft family made their way back to the house followed by the rest of the congregation, Aidy noticed Marion no longer had
her doll with her. ‘What happened to Janet?’ she asked.
Looking up at her with large innocent eyes, Marion said, ‘I didn’t like the thought of Mam being down there all on her own, so when no one was looking I threw Janet in to keep her company ’til she wakes up. She’ll give me Janet back when she comes back home, won’t she?’
Swallowing down a lump in her throat, Aidy tenderly patted the top of her sister’s head. ‘That was a lovely thing to do, Marion. Mam knows how much you love Janet, and I’m sure she’ll look after her for you.’
An hour later back at the house, showing no sign that she’d recently suffered a stomach upset so bad it had seen her virtually commandeering the outside privy for the last three days, Pat Nelson barged her way through the throng of mourners, packed solid in the small back room and kitchen, and advanced towards Aidy. Pat was balancing a plate piled high with food in one hand and a brimming glass of sherry in the other. Despite the fact that Aidy was already in conversation with Miriam Liberman, expressing her gratitude for the use of her son’s suit which she would endeavour to return in the condition it was lent in, Pat rudely interrupted with, ‘You didn’t use Snow’s for the funeral like I suggested.’ It was very apparent she wasn’t happy about this fact.
Politely excusing herself from Miriam and taking a deep breath to steel herself for the confrontation she knew was to come, Aidy turned to Pat and responded lightly, ‘Gran and I liked Clatteridge’s better, Mrs Nelson.’
She gave a haughty sniff. ‘Jessie’s death policy must have paid out well if yer’ve got money to throw around. I know Clatteridge’s are much dearer than Snow’s. The money you’d have saved using Snow’s, you could have put to good use.’
The truth was all the firms had quoted around the same price but Aidy and Bertha had found the people at Clatteridge’s to be the most pleasant and understanding to deal with, which was why she and her gran had settled for them. ‘Mam’s policy was to pay for her funeral, Mrs Nelson, and that’s what we used the money for.’
Pat cocked an eyebrow in surprise and said sardonically, ‘Well, as long as you’re happy yer got what yer paid for. I know a bloke that works for Snow’s, and as yer related to me he’d have made it his business to mek sure you did.’
Oh, so that was why Pat had wanted to insist they use Snow’s. She would have got a backhander for bringing in their custom.
Aidy’s mother-in-law rammed a whole sausage roll into her mouth. Not caring that she was spitting out pastry flakes, she said, ‘I’m glad to see Arch was chief
bearer, but his brothers are really hurt you shunned them.’
Through clenched teeth Aidy responded, ‘We never shunned them, Mrs Nelson. Mam was very fond of the lads we asked, had watched them grow up from babies, and they were fond of her in return. I know she would have wanted them to be given the opportunity of being her pall-bearers, and they’d have been upset if they hadn’t been.’
Pat pulled a face. ‘Well, to me, family comes first. And as my Arch is married to you,
we
are family.’ She then prodded her fork into a piece of ham on her plate. ‘I see you didn’t bother with ham on the bone then? And I can’t find any tongue …’
‘It
is
ham on the bone, Mrs Nelson, only we got the butcher to slice it up for us, for convenience. Mam didn’t like tongue. The food we chose was what she liked.’
‘Like she’s here to eat it!’ Pat scoffed. Then added, ‘I was looking forward to that tongue. What butcher did you use?