Small Mercies

"Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh."

I tried to go to bed early last night, but when you're someone who struggles to sleep in the first place, it's never going to be easy. This was how I came to be sitting on my windowsill at half past three this morning, throwing coins at a couple of cats that were yowling in the back garden.

Mum knocked on my door just before eight, yelling at me to get up.

"We're not going to be late!" she screeched, and stomped off downstairs.

I thought about telling her that I'm never late for anything, that I've been doing full-time work for more than six years and have never been pulled up on my punctuality. But it seemed pointless. She was still hysterically normal, and liable to make some casual and incredibly sick comment about death by way of reply.

So I dragged myself out of bed and got ready without comment, a process that was somewhat slowed by the fact that a) I went out and got drunk with my cousins last night, and b) I could no longer get into my suit.

"I'm twenty-five!" I muttered to myself, unable to comprehend the evidence of my own eyes. "How the fuck can I still be growing?"

But I am, and the suit that fit me perfectly two years ago looked like some kind of comedy outfit, with sleeves that ended just below the elbow and trousers that wouldn't fasten.

Remember kids: Unemployment makes you fat.

I quickly came up with a substitute pair of trousers and swapped my suit jacket for a long leather coat. I wasn't sure grandad would entirely approve of my turning up to his funeral looking like a gangster, but there was no time for fucking around. We were already late.

Though not as late as my older sister. Cath's tardiness is near-legendary, and today was no exception. Mum, Steve (my stepdad) and I were supposed to follow the funeral cars to the church, but because of Cath's bizarre reliance on the Thameslink Thunderbolt from King's Cross to Borehamwood, we ended up having to drop mum off early while Steve and I went to pick her up. This resulted in us screaming through Borehamwood at something like two-hundred miles an hour in order to get to the service before it started.

Which we did, and with time to spare. So much time, in fact, that we even managed to get ourselves involved in the Pre-Funeral Mingle, which is that strange time when you stand outside the church and play Spot The Family Member You Haven't Seen In Ten Years. I got much nodding and smiling done, and even managed to keep my laughter in check when one distant aunt remarked, "My, haven't you grown!"

I'm not going to describe the mechanics of a Catholic funeral. You're either familiar with them or you're not, and I haven't the inclination to go through the motions of a ceremony I have little time for. I'm not a Catholic. I was never baptised. I don't believe in God, and I think that organised religion is one of the world's great evils. I may talk about my relationship with God another time, but let's leave it out of this story, eh?

The church service passed without incident, though I was somewhat disturbed to look over at my little cousin, Robert, and see him bawling his eyes out. He's roughly the age I was when my father died. The relationship isn't as close as that one, I know, but he's already a really introverted kid. When you're just hitting puberty, events like these can make or break you.

Sheena (my aunt and Robert's mother) was rather curt with me as we filed out of the church. I don't think she approved of the fact that I didn't take the Holy Communion or kneel when requested to. It may have been the fact that I was the only one who didn't go down on my knees at the first time of asking. At the second, quite a few people joined me in remaining seated. Whoops. I guess I could have explained that my intent was not so much to undermine the Catholic Church as to see off my grandfather in my own fashion, but I'm not sure she'd have got it. This, after all, is a woman that sent her kids to a Catholic school. I consider that a crime.

Then we were off to the crematorium, and the part of the day I was dreading the most. I think Cath may have sensed my discomfort, because she raised the subject in the car and then immediately dropped it, going off on a wild tangent about what songs Steve and I would want played at our funeral. Steve plumped for Hendrix's Little Wing, showing far more taste than stepfathers are allowed. I went for After Hours, by the Velvet Underground, one of my favourite insomnia songs and a sure-fire hit at any funeral.

And then, finally, I was back in the place where my innocence began to die.

The South Chapel at Garston crematorium is neither large nor spectacular. It's a small room that would seat about thirty people on uncomfortable benches. Decoration is sparse, and the colour scheme is basic. White, brown, and gold, in order of prominence.

The coffin was brought in and laid just behind a set of parted curtains, and I knew then when the moment of tears would be. When those curtains, slow and automated and so fucking final, draw closed, that's when you truly realise that someone is gone, that you're never going to see them or speak to them or hear them laugh again.

God, memories. I was only fourteen. Sitting in that same chapel beside my sister and trying not to cry.

It wasn't his day, though. I was reminded of that by the sound of my mother crying, and I glanced up to the ceiling, blinking water out of my eyes and trying to concentrate on what the priest was saying.

The service was short and sad. The curtains were closed and my grandad departed to wherever it is you believe people go when they pass on. He'd have approved of the send-off, I think, and that's all that really matters.

We stumbled, all of us, out of the crematorium. A little grief-stricken, a little choked. I caught up with mum and put an arm around her. She cried into my shoulder and it was enough, I think. Enough to release the hysteria for her, enough for me to show that I care, even though I'm so fucking awful at showing it sometimes. Something of a catharsis, that moment, and it made the next part just that little bit easier to bear.

The three of us walked away from the others and over to the memorial plaques. Just me, my mother, and my sister. My real family. The ones I've grown up with. The ones I understand. We found my father's name and stood there awhile. Small talk gave way to silence. A few more ghosts were laid to rest. We walked back.

That was the end, really. We all went back to Sheena's house and had a few drinks. I caught up with my relatives and endured all the jokes about my unemployment and my drinking and smoking. I wasn't really listening, to be perfectly honest. I felt a weariness I haven't felt in a while. I felt drained, empty. I stayed a few hours and then slipped away and home, where I fell into a deep and untroubled sleep as soon as my head found a pillow.