Perfectly Ordinary People(8)

As for Dad’s side of the family – or rather Grandma Genny’s side – only six people turned up. Her cousin, ‘Aunt’ Ethel, wore a shockingly inappropriate floral dress which she later explained had been Genny’s favourite (so wearing it was a sort of tribute). Grandpa Chris (the deceased’s ex-husband, and Dad’s father) came with a friend called Igor who, when he managed to stop crying for long enough to speak, sounded Polish. There was an elderly, old-school gay guy called Tony wearing jeans and a billowy, black satin shirt, and his partner, Glen. Glen looked sober and sophisticated, while Tony seemed to be channelling Elton and Liberace simultaneously, so they made an unlikely couple. But in a way it pleased me that they were there. It gave a hint that living in Brighton had brought a little diversity to my grandmother’s life. A bit of diversity that, it crossed my mind, wouldn’t have done my father any harm to experience more frequently.

Finally there was a youngish woman who’d worked for Genny in some business she’d owned and who, judging from her copious tears, had very much enjoyed the experience.

The service was short and non-religious, which was what Grandma Genny had wanted. If I’m honest, it’s the sort of funeral I would have requested for myself, but ultimately I found it a bit sad. I mean, evidently it was sad – it was a funeral. But a bit more celebration of life and a little less weeping over death wouldn’t have gone amiss. Perhaps it’s just the Irish in me, but since that day I tend to think the Mavaughns of this world have the right idea. Music, alcohol and dancing. That’s how I want to be sent off.

Anyway, it was over quickly – too quickly really. Grandpa Chris declined to speak – he was too upset – and when Igor tried to replace him, he too broke down. Ethel only said about thirty words but managed to make them moving all the same, saying that Grandma Genny had been the best friend anyone could have and that having a friend like that for life changed everything. I thought of Gina and wished that I’d brought her along, and cried.

And then before I’d realised what was happening, the coffin had vanished, we were out in the sunshine, and everyone was bumming cigarettes off Harry.

When he offered me one I declined and commented that it would feel a bit inappropriate ‘considering’.

Tony, to my left, was ostensibly involved in a different conversation with Ethel, but he overheard and spun to face me. ‘Oh, take the damned cigarette, hon!’ he said. ‘Smoking was one of her great pleasures in life. She smoked right up to the end. She’d love to know that everyone was puffing at her funeral.’

Ethel nodded and a tear slipped down her cheek. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Even when she had to take the oxygen mask off for a puff.’

And so, partly because of the peer pressure, but also because I fancied one, and no doubt because, despite the cancer and everything, I secretly aspire to Grandma Genny’s devil-may-care attitude, that’s exactly what I did.

Afterwards we ended up in a local pub but even there the atmosphere seemed strange. The Irish contingent continued to smoke, laugh inappropriately and drink in the pub garden, while Genny’s side of the family chatted respectfully at the bar.

Dad flitted back and forth between the two groups as if he couldn’t decide where he felt the most at ease, or more precisely, where he felt the least ill at ease, and I quickly gave up on the smokers and squeezed myself in at the edge of the indoor group, hoping to get a word in with Grandpa Chris. But he was – and this was something I’d forgotten until that moment – an incredible raconteur. So though you could sit and listen to his tales – because there was nothing he liked more than an audience – it was almost impossible to engage him in any kind of meaningful conversation.

Jake came in to fetch fresh drinks at one point and I commented on his suit. Generally speaking, Jake had terrible dress sense, so it was a relief to see him wearing something decent. I hoped this was Abby’s influence.

‘That is a nice suit,’ Grandpa Chris agreed, rather cheekily opening Jake’s jacket by the lapel to take a peek at the label inside.

‘Jesus, it’s Moss Bros, OK?’ Jake said.

‘It’s still lovely, Jake,’ I said. It was deep blue – almost black – with a very subtle purple and burgundy check. It looked like it had been pretty expensive.

‘It actually wasn’t,’ Jake said, when I told him this. Then, ‘Abby helped me choose it. We thought it was dark enough for a funeral, but, you know, OK for afterwards as well.’

‘I think you’re right,’ I told him. ‘Good choice.’

I turned back to try to speak to Grandpa Chris then, but it was too late because he was already in full flow with his next tall tale.





Interlude.

Tall Tale #2: The Disgruntled Employee.

Did I ever tell you about the place your grandmother worked after the war?

It was the first job she found on arriving in England, out in East London, in a factory. Actually, I say factory, but it was more of a sweatshop.

It was owned by a rich, mean, old Sikh guy called Rashid and there were about fifty women working there who sewed twelve hours a day, six days a week.

But old Rashid was a bit of a bastard, and he used to treat those women like slaves. They weren’t allowed to pee more than once each shift – that’s once in the morning and once in the evening – and if he thought they were working too slowly he’d take away their chairs and make them stand.