Before I Die, page 7
Elizabeth shot her a sideways glance, surprised. ‘And why wouldn’t she be? She took care of him for the past three years, didn’t she? She must be devastated.’
Maureen somehow doubted that. Her attention was diverted by Dolores herself making her brisk way to the front of the church. As she passed Elizabeth, she reached in and touched her arm in a sympathetic movement.
‘Hola, Elizabeth. You know I am so sorry about your dog. Such a thing to happen. You are all right, yes? Not too upset?’
Elizabeth looked stricken, caught off guard, and paused before answering, ‘Thank you, Dolores. Poor Bailey. Yes, it was a shock. For you, too, of course. I know you were fond of him.’ She straightened her shoulders and resumed her usual common-sense tone. ‘But of course, he was twelve; that’s old for a Labrador. It was unexpected, though. I miss him.’
Dolores patted her arm and broadened her glance to take in Maureen. ‘And so, here we all are to say goodbye to Frank. It was his time, yes?’ She nodded towards the coffin at the top of the church. ‘Very sad.’ Emitting an appropriate small sigh, she continued on her way.
Maureen’s critical eyes followed her. Dolores’s progress through the church was punctuated by waves and nods and brief conversations with the older funeral attendees. To Maureen, she seemed practised and fake, like a con artist at a charity event, dispensing charm to the gullible marks. Everybody’s helpful best friend. How was it, Maureen asked herself as she watched the performance, that only she could see through it? And, while she was asking questions, how was it that Dolores seemed to have no friends of her own age? A woman of what, early forties at most? Wouldn’t you expect her to have friends, a boyfriend perhaps, some social life among her peers? She filed the question away as one more part of the puzzle that was Dolores.
The priest walked briskly up to the altar and began some preparatory ‘hrmphing’ and clearing of his throat to silence the mourners and mark the beginning of proceedings. Without preamble, he launched into the opening prayer, his words echoed by the subdued congregation. The church fell silent as the ceremony proceeded, only the murmured responses of the congregation and their synchronised shifts to and from their knees providing occasional counterpoint to the priest’s practised solo performance. The woman identified as Frank’s niece gave a short reading in a barely audible voice.
Maureen’s attention drifted as the familiar notes of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ followed. She had seen too many funerals. Her thoughts went to her late husband, who had been buried in the midst of a deluge. It had seemed fitting to her mood at the time. She was glad, though, that Frank’s departure was accompanied by bright spring sunshine. She focused on good memories of her friend.
As the final notes of the psalm echoed and dispersed, a noisy crash from the church door heralded a late entrant, followed by the sounds of somebody’s stumbling and disorganised progress to a side pew. The commotion served to energise the mourners, their collective body language moving from somnolent to alert as their ears strained to identify the nature of the disturbance. Maureen resisted the temptation to look around, but Elizabeth had no such inhibitions. Craning her neck for several seconds, she turned back with eyebrows raised and mouthed, It’s the son, to Maureen. The service continued.
Some shuffling in the family pew preceded the second reading; then Dolores rose, a piece of paper in her grip, and made her way to the lectern. Maureen’s heart sank at the choice of reader, but, with difficulty, she focused on the ceremony, reminding herself that it was Frank’s farewell; she must not be distracted by thoughts of his abusive carer. Unlike the previous reader, Dolores had a strong and carrying voice. She launched with enthusiasm into Ecclesiastes 3:1. ‘A time to kill, a time to heal… a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces. A time to seek, and a time to lose…’
Maureen’s narrowed eyes followed Dolores as she stepped back to her pew, flushed with success at completing the task. A time to hate, she thought in fury, remembering Frank’s last visit and his distress, then stopped herself. It was not the place for such thoughts. A time to be silent though, that was one Dolores could have taken to heart, under the circumstances.
The Gospel reading followed; then the priest stepped forward for the homily.
‘Dearly beloved,’ he said, speaking with that shamanic, rising and falling inflection often adopted in sermons. ‘We are here today to celebrate the life of Francis Mahon, a much-loved husband and father, an affectionate uncle and a good neighbour and friend, now sadly departed from us, but surely raised up into everlasting life.’ He paused for effect before proceeding with his prepared theme.
‘Francis was blessed with many gifts, as we all are. God gives to each one of us a special gift, He leaves nobody out. And Francis’s special gift was the gift of longevity. Francis had a long life, and a long life is a very great blessing. It is a blessing not given to all. It was given to Francis, for he lived past the age of three score years and ten; indeed, he lived to be eighty-one years old, a great age, and a great blessing, indeed.’
‘I don’t think this priest knew him,’ Elizabeth muttered to Maureen. ‘He only arrived here a few months ago. From up north somewhere.’
Her companion nodded and risked a response. ‘Frank wasn’t much of a mass goer, to be honest. That priest can’t think of much to say, can he?’
‘And he takes his time saying it,’ said Elizabeth, face downwards. ‘I hope I don’t get him when it’s my turn. Now Father Sheridan, he used do a beautiful funeral.’
At the altar, the priest continued with a mournful air, oblivious to the assessment of the critics.
‘Longevity,’ he droned, ‘longevity is a very special thing indeed and a very special gift. It gives us time. Time to reflect. Time to pray. Time to prepare ourselves for the Eternal Life. Francis was a devout person, a good person. He had time to pray and to think of eternity, and of the eternal life to which we all, someday, may go…’
In the congregation, a certain restless shuffling and coughing suggested that the priest’s address was successful in evoking a sense of the slow passage of time. Maureen had closed her eyes and was near sleeping when an angry shout echoed against the building’s stone walls and made her jerk upright and look around. Michael, dishevelled and wild-eyed, was standing at the back of the church, his anger making no discrimination between priest and mourners, friends and acquaintances, as he hurled words like missiles down the length of the building.
‘You didn’t even know him, did you? Bloody old hypocrite, up there talking shite about prayers… He was my father. What do you know about it? What do any of you know about him?’ Michael was unsteady on his feet. An usher was shushing him and trying to lead him towards the exit, but for every three steps forward he achieved, two were lost as Michael swivelled back to resume his rant. It was only with the aid of two mourners that Michael was led out of the building, his voice fading as the heavy doors closed behind him.
Back at the altar, the priest, who had watched the proceedings with grim patience, resumed the ceremony. Like any experienced performer, he kept things on track, but he had, for the most part, lost the attention of his audience, whose minds were considering the scandalous behaviour of Frank’s son rather than dwelling on the efficacy of prayer and the prospect of eternal life. When the moment came for the faithful to take communion, some were roused to walk with stiff reverence to the altar. Nodded half-greetings were passed between neighbours and acquaintances as they crossed one another on their way up and down the central aisle.
The Mass moved to its inevitable conclusion. As the coffin bearers stepped towards the casket, those in the pews stood and stretched discreetly, murmuring to their neighbours, but falling silent again as the coffin was carried down the church and out to the waiting hearse. Elizabeth blessed herself with a brisk motion as it passed, then, never one to hang about without purpose, made her way into the aisle and back towards the exit. Maureen retrieved her handbag and followed her into the chill morning air.
11
Outside the church, a small crowd gathered, awaiting Frank’s final journey to the graveyard in Deansgrange. The coffin had been loaded into the hearse, and the Shaw’s Funeral Home attendants loitered around the vehicle, checking the time at intervals. Some among the assembled mourners took turns to step up to Frank’s niece, who was accompanied by Dolores throughout the occasion, to offer their condolences. The rest of the time they talked amongst themselves, for the most part about Michael.
‘I think, you know, he was drunk,’ said Carmel in shocked tones. Then, trying to be kind, she softened her observation. ‘I suppose the poor fellow was upset. After all, he found the body, and Frank was his father, and he’s alone now, and he seems to have some problems…’ She trailed off, anxious to avoid further discussion on the matter.
Elizabeth had no such qualms and gave her view in fierce and condemnatory terms.
‘It’s a disgrace. That scut has no respect for his poor father, to behave like that. And as for drunk, I’d be surprised if drink was all he’s taken... would you just look at the state of him, over there, and to turn up like that, for a funeral…’ Her final snort signified both disgust and that words were inadequate to convey her disapproval.
Maureen followed her gaze to where Michael sat, hunched and into himself, on a low wall at the edge of the car park. Although at first inclined to Elizabeth’s view, she was shifted from it a little by the observation that Michael was crying. Despite his lanky frame and dilapidated appearance, he looked oddly childlike as he rubbed his eyes and covered his face with his arms. Maureen was reminded of Frank’s description of him as a boy. ‘Our bright little fellow,’ wasn’t that what he had said? There was nobody left now to remember that child, or to care what became of the adult. In a movement that surprised Maureen as much as it did her companions, she stepped across the carpark towards Michael.
Up close, Michael reeked of alcohol, tobacco and sweat, mixed with other, less identifiable odours. He glanced up as she came close, then dropped his head back into his arms. She stood for a minute, uncertain, then addressed his unresponsive shoulders.
‘Michael? I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry about your father. He was a good friend. I know he must be a terrible loss to you.’
Her words elicited no immediate response. It was only as she turned to leave that a voice emerged from his encircled arms. Its tone was not encouraging.
‘Yeah? And what do you know about anything?’
Maureen hesitated before replying, ‘I know he cared about you. He talked about you the last time we spoke.’
Michael lifted his head a little and appeared to think about her words. He met her eyes for a second, his face a study in misery, and seemed about to speak, but then, with a muttered obscenity, he dropped his face back into his arms. Maureen decided to make an exit. He was clearly still the worse for wear from whatever drink and drug mixture he had taken, and she didn’t want to become a target for his anger. She slipped back to her friends, who were looking on in astonishment.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Maureen, why would you even go near that fellow?’ Elizabeth was disapproving. ‘He’s a drug addict. You’re too kind for your own good, but believe me, people like that just aren’t worth it… don’t you be wasting your time on them.’
Maureen nodded, but didn’t respond to the advice. Elizabeth, as she knew from experience, saw the world in very simple terms. In any case, she had no intention of speaking to Michael again. She had said her piece, and that was that.
Dolores provided a diversion from that conversation, as she came up to their little group to thank them for coming. Once again, Maureen was struck by her implicit ownership of Frank’s funeral. She had, despite the presence of a son and a niece, adopted the role of chief mourner. Nobody else seemed to notice, however. Elizabeth even commented on Dolores’s kindness in organising things. Dolores acknowledged the compliment with a gracious wave of dismissal before moving on to the subject of Michael.
‘Maureen, you are talking to Michael just now, yes? That is not good. He is… you know –’ she tapped her head and pulled a face ‘– loco, bad news. Look what he did in the church. And you know, he found Frank? Well, I tell you, that is very strange. Very strange. There is Frank, dead in his bedroom, and Michael, he was there, sneaking around, stealing things as usual.’ Her voice took on a warning note. ‘There is a lot to know about that, you will see. But I cannot tell you any more. What does he say to you, anyway, Maureen?’
Maureen digested Dolores’s account of Frank’s death. If Michael was there stealing, that was bad, of course, but what else was she hinting at? What more could there be? She pulled her thoughts back as she saw that Dolores was looking at her with an expectant air, curious about her conversation with Michael. ‘Well, he said nothing, really. I just told him how sorry I was about Frank. He does seem to be in a bad way, all right. Tell me, what did Frank die from, anyway? Do they know?’
Dolores’s face took on a secretive expression. ‘Drugs. The wrong drugs. But this is not for you to know, Maureen. Always you ask too many questions.’ She took the sharp edge off her comment with a big laugh, but Maureen felt the pushback in her words. Questions were for Dolores to ask, not the other way around. She wondered whether Frank had had any chance, before he died, to confront Dolores. It seemed likely he had not. Nothing in her behaviour suggested that she had been fired. Since Dolores wanted the subject changed, Maureen decided to oblige.
‘Poor Frank. And he seemed all right when he called to my house just the day before, on Thursday evening. He had all sorts of plans for the future. Did he talk to you about them?’ Maureen’s eyes were fixed on Dolores, keen to see her reaction. She learned nothing. Dolores turned a bland face towards her.
‘Frank visited with you on Thursday? I did not know this. He must have walked. Maybe this is his problem, the reason he is dead? He should not be out in the cold at night. It would not be good for him, with all his problems. He was every day more confused. Maureen, you should have called me to come and get him. You know about him, how he is all the time sick.’
Maureen recoiled at Dolores’s words and their clear note of blame. A shiver of guilt ran through her. Perhaps she should have… no, not called Dolores, not under the circumstances, but maybe called a taxi and insisted Frank took it? Could Frank’s visit to her have hastened his end? The thought of Frank, confused and sick, taking the wrong medications, made her feel shaky. She could feel Dolores standing close beside her, and looking up, noted that her eyes, alert and watchful, were paying close attention. Was it just Maureen’s dislike of Dolores that made her think there was a glint of malice buried in their depths? It reminded her that, whether or not she had been thoughtless, she was fully sure that Dolores’s bullying and hounding had hastened Frank’s death, one way or another.
The hearse attendants had climbed into the shining black vehicle and were starting the engine. Dolores said her goodbyes to the three women. She was going to the burial in the hired limo, along with the niece. Michael was not mentioned. Elizabeth had come in her car and offered to drive both Maureen and Carmel. They accepted with relief, since the cemetery was some distance away.
As they made their way to the parking place, Maureen noticed that Michael was at the door of the limo and in the process of climbing in. She would have liked to know how Dolores reacted to that, but she didn’t need to hear to know that it would not go down well. She guessed, though, that Dolores would not be able to deny Michael a lift to his own father’s graveside, not with the niece there as a witness.
At the graveyard, the final prayers were said, and those mourners who had travelled to the burial, a smaller group than the funeral attendees, began to disperse. Dolores passed by, reminding them that there would be sandwiches at the local hotel. Carmel and Elizabeth responded with delight to the invitation. It had been a long morning; they looked forward to an hour or two of warmth and sociability in celebration of Frank’s life. Maureen did not intend to go. She felt exhausted. She had lost a good friend and needed to be alone to think about it all.
Waving a subdued goodbye to Elizabeth and Carmel as they joined the throng of hungry mourners heading for the hotel, she stayed for a minute longer beside the open grave. She was not alone. Michael stood a few feet from her, head down and shoulders slumped. She decided not to linger. One brush with Michael was enough. As his head lifted and turned towards her, she nodded to him, adjusted her handbag on her shoulder and prepared to leave. It was a minimum gesture of politeness, whatever he was, or had done. To her surprise, he spoke.
‘That was a load of crap, that funeral. Do you think he would have liked all that? Some old bollix priest who never met him going on about age and saying his prayers? Seriously?’
His voice was bitter, but less slurred than it had been. Whatever he had taken was wearing off, Maureen surmised. She considered her answer. ‘Well, it’s true, he wasn’t very religious, but he was still a Catholic, even though he criticised some things… and there had to be a ceremony after all, something to mark his passing.’
Michael shook his head, but didn’t counter her argument. His thoughts seemed elsewhere. Maureen hesitated, then turned to leave. His voice stopped her again.
‘She killed him. I’m sure of it. That evil bitch, Dolores. And she’s trying to pin it on me.’
Maureen was taken aback. ‘Michael, you can’t say that sort of thing. She wasn’t nice to him, I’ll give you that, she’s a terrible bully of a woman, but you can’t just accuse somebody –’
‘She accused me. More or less. Screaming ‘what have you done?’ when I found the body. Trying to grab on to me as if I’d killed him.’
‘She did say you had no business being in that bedroom.’ Maureen’s response was tart. Whatever Dolores’s faults, Michael was no saint either. He had caused great upset to Frank, too. His actions shouldn’t be left unchallenged.
