Brenda (Mavis)

Brenda

Brenda sits on the front pew of the crematorium. She’s glad that only her son and daughter-in-law can see her face. She sits, her back ram-rod straight, her hands in her lap, clutching the Order of Service and a balled up Kleenex. She is trying to focus on the words of the minister: “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed…”  She thinks, he wasn’t a dear brother and I’m not sure Almighty God will be at all pleased to find him rattling the bars of the pearly gates. The minister pushes the button that theatrically closes the curtains around the coffin. “We therefore commit his body to its final resting place; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” I wonder where it goes? Brenda thinks as she hears the sound of the cogs and a faint whirring sound as the coffin is lowered to goodness knows where. Presumably there is some poor soul collecting it somewhere in the bowels of the crematorium who will guide it on its proverbial last journey to be turned into ashes. Brenda is woken from this reverie by her son, who is signalling that they need to now leave. She realises she missed the final prayer and is still sitting like Patience on a monument waiting for nothing to happen. She gets up stiffly, and follows the minister’s directions to the side door. He reminds Brenda of a policeman directing the traffic. Of course, they need to get out sharpish before the next pitiful lot of mourners drift in and find themselves at the wrong funeral. People are dying to get in here, Brenda smiles to herself, pleased with her little joke. 

Outside, next to an arrangement of tired white roses and arum lilies, Brenda puts on a brave face and does the rounds, shaking hands, smiling, doing the dutiful sister bit. Her brother did not have any family of his own, and so there are only a few attendees: some colleagues from work and friends from the Conservative Club. There is to be no wake, as per her brother’s instructions, so before long everyone has drifted away. Brenda is dropped off at home by her son. She doesn’t want any company, and as civilly as she can, she insists that he and his wife get back on the road before it gets dark. She shuts her front door and leans on the hallway wall for a moment to catch her breath. And breathe. She kicks off her sensible Clarks shoes that she keeps for any formal occasion, and labours up the stairs to her bedroom. She changes into her pyjamas and returns her black dress to its yellowing plastic cover. That’s that, then, she thinks. She plods downstairs and into the kitchen. She hasn’t eaten much all day and settles for a somewhat over-ripe banana and buttered toast. She wavers between a robust cup of tea or a glass of prosecco, but opts for the latter, since, she rationalises, that the sun is most certainly past the yard arm. She puts her food and wine onto a small tray and settles in front of the TV. Ah! One of her favourites is on: Poldark. That will do nicely. Rummaging around behind the sofa cushions she finds the remote and settles down. She also finds a half-eaten Kit-Kat. Dessert! Brenda’s evening is complete. 

Mavis

Mavis is sitting at home watching Poldark. She is really not paying much attention and the scenes drift in and out without her catching the thread of the story. She is concerned for her elderly neighbour. Brenda is a widow, whose grown-up son lives many miles away. She is a crabby and ill-tempered old biddy at the best of times, but her older brother has died recently, and Mavis is concerned for her. She thinks that the funeral was today, and she noticed Brenda coming back, grim-faced and glum. She wonders if she should call in on Brenda, but reasons that she will not want to be disturbed. Poor Brenda. She has not done so well since her husband passed away –– how long ago now? It must be at least five years. Brenda has not grieved well: she has grown more cantankerous by the day, and Mavis often has to bite her tongue so that she does not respond in kind. Mavis reckons that the loss of her husband has been too much for Brenda to bear, and her son has been too far away to be of much comfort. 

Mavis has done her best, taking Brenda on trips to the cinema and bingo, making her a Victoria sponge or cheese scones from time to time. She’s helped with her shopping and errands to the library and post-office, but Brenda is rarely grateful and often complaining. Mavis worries for Brenda’s health: not so much her physical well-being (she is as fit as a butcher’s dog, if a tad overweight and a bit rheumaticky) but her emotional state, which seems to have gone rapidly. She knows that Brenda and her brother had a falling out years ago and tries to recall what that was about. Money, probably –– it usually is. Where there is a will there is a family. Something about a pair of antique porcelain dogs. Mavis racks her brains to try and remember. Ah, yes –– foo dogs? Is that what they are called? Nasty, ugly things: brown and green with bobbly eyes and fearsome teeth. Brenda keeps them in pride of place on her mantlepiece, but they give Mavis the chills. When their mother died –– donkey’s years ago –– Brenda and her brother had argued over who should have custody of the frightful creatures, and Brenda had won. But it was at a cost, since she and her brother had barely spoken over the years that followed. 

Mavis turns the TV off, since she has now drifted so far in her thoughts that she has indeed lost the plot. She decides to turn in early for the night, and goes to the kitchen to boil a little milk to help her sleep. Hot moo, that will do the trick, always does, she thinks. Poor Brenda. What will be going through her mind? She worries about the old lady as she makes her way up to bed. 

Brenda 

Brenda is in the garden. She enjoys the pottering about, dead-heading the roses and pinching out the side-shoots on the tomato plants. It’s a sunny day, so Brenda is wearing her ancient straw gardening hat, but hasn’t bothered with sunscreen. She was up with the lark; she has not slept well since her brother’s funeral, and she finds solace in her pretty garden. The garden was her late husband’s domain, but she has enjoyed taking over this little bit of heaven, and is quite pleased with her efforts to keep it up to snuff. At the end of the garden is an old copper beech tree, that provides welcome shade and a home to a family of chaffinches. In the greenhouse, she waters the basil and oregano plants, rubbing the leaves between her fingers to release their peppery fragrance. She thinks about her son. He hasn’t called since the funeral, and she doesn’t much care. They have never been close: he was a mouse of a boy, always had his head in a book, never any use at sport, she thinks. He’d won a scholarship to Liverpool, the first in his family to go to university, but their lives had drifted apart as her son made his way in the world, becoming a successful accountant and staying on in the North-West. Brenda doesn’t much care for his wife, either –– “She’s no better than she ought to be” –– she informed Mavis, “thinks she’s above having tinned soup for tea.” Brenda resents her son’s patronising way of encouraging his mother to eat more healthily and take a bit of exercise: “Comes around here, telling me I ought to walk more and eat more greens. What am I? A rabbit? Thinks I’m soft in the head, ” Brenda complains to her long-suffering neighbour. Having watered the plants in the greenhouse, Brenda makes a start on gathering a few vegetables for her supper. There are some tender runner beans ready to pick, and new potatoes she can dig up. She puts them carefully into her husband’s old trug and makes her way down the path to the French windows. Back inside, Brenda puts on the kettle for a cup of tea. She sits down at the kitchen table, and opens up the local newspaper. Her son has (for once) done something useful and put an announcement in the obituary column. There’s a good photo of her brother and some kind words about how he will be sadly missed. Without warning, a huge sob forms in Brenda’s throat, and quite against her formidable will, she begins to weep as if she will never stop. 

Mavis 

Mavis has been busy. Like “Rabbit’s Busy Day” in Winnie the Pooh, she thinks. She’d managed to work through several tasks on her imaginary list that just never seemed to get get done: a button to sew back on her winter coat (it was now July), sorting through her sock drawer to dispose of all the ones that were past darning, washing the bedroom curtains and re-waxing the kitchen table. Next, she needs to write a birthday card for her niece and wrap her present, but she decides to pop ‘round next door for a cup of tea instead. 

Mavis wiggles on her flip-flops and, armed with a packet of Jammie Dodgers, she knocks on Brenda’s front door. “Only me, Brenda”, she calls out. There is no answer, so, reckoning that Brenda will be out in the garden tending to her herbaceous borders, she nips around the side of the house, opening the gate with her spare key. Brenda is nowhere to be seen, but the French windows are open. Starting to feel a little concerned, Mavis steps through into the living room. “Hello? It’s just me, Mavis” she calls out. Still no answer. Hearing the kettle whistling on the hob, Brenda puts her head around the kitchen door, but the room is empty.  She turns off the kettle and wonders what to do next. Gingerly, she goes upstairs, calling out a cheery, “Hello?” as she gets to the landing. She checks both bedrooms and the bathroom, but still no Brenda. 

Mavis goes back downstairs and wonders what to do next. Squashing down a growing sense of disquiet, she decides to go back to the garden. All is quiet and undisturbed, but Mavis can just make out a sound coming from the copper beech tree at the end of the garden. It is Brenda. She is sitting with her back against the wide trunk of the tree, singing softly to herself: “How much is that doggie in the window? The one with the waggly tail…” In her hands she holds a small china dog. “Brenda?” asks Mavis.  Brenda looks up and smiles: “Is it tea-time, Mummy?”