Carole

In memoriam.

The petty cobwebs we have spun

Carole shuffles into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It’s early. The dawn chorus has barely chirped a note. Carole is weary. Bone weary. She hasn’t slept well and she’s feeling her age. The arthritis in her knees making its morning complaint, but she potters about the kitchen, setting out the breakfast things for a husband who won’t be down for hours. It’s barely light outside; the clouds are just starting to reflect the morning sun through a feeble drizzle. Carole looks out onto the grey-green garden, thinking about the day ahead. Her brother’s funeral is at 11am - hours to kill before then and little to take her mind off it. She takes in her reflection in the window. Old Mother Hubbard, she thinks. Beauty lost behind a hundred lines and years of neglect. Too late for the fancy night cream now. The kettle boils and she makes her weak morning tea, squeezing out the last drops before dumping the teabag in the kitchen compost bin. At the kitchen table, both hands around the mug, she sips her tea, and wonders about the day ahead. Everything has been carefully arranged, with family and friends to meet at the Crematorium just before the service starts. The nice funeral director (George) called the day before to go over the details; nothing to do but wait. Scrips and scraps of memory float by: their childhood home and games of hide-and-seek. Their Saturday morning trips to the cinema and Sunday afternoon walks along the promenade. Then life took over at speed, and before she knew it the kids were grown and she was holding her first grandchild. Her brother never married - strange that, but always a thoughtful, introverted man who lived his life in quiet dignity. Her husband has printed out a copy of the eulogy her sons have put together - she reads over it again. It’s a solid tribute, full of sympathetic observations and thoughtful anecdotes. Her brother would be sorely embarrassed, but there is nothing here that is undeserved or exaggerated. Carole remembers that she needs to give her outfit a press - she couldn’t face it yesterday, but now she needs to get it done. It’s the outfit she wore to her youngest son’s wedding, but she hopes no-one will remember that. She frowns as she takes it out of its garment bag - so frumpy and formless. Pale grey with a conservative print of darker grey and black. Sensible. Plain. Such a long way from the joyful colours and dizzy patterns of her teens. As she flattens the creases with the iron she wonders if she should wear the black suit instead. Perhaps that would be more appropriate for the occasion? But then, she hasn’t worn that for years. Probably peppered with moth holes by now. No matter. Her brother cannot see her now. She hangs the outfit on the back of the kitchen door and rummages in the hall closet for her “good” shoes. They are somewhat scuffed and worn, but these days she finds it hard to buy shoes that fit her comfortably. Again, no matter. No-one will be looking at her shoes, but she’ll give them a swift brush and polish anyway. There now. She inspects her ensemble. Fortunately, she skirt is long enough she can get away with wearing sheer socks instead of tights. Pop socks, they used to call them. Four pairs for £8 at Marks and Sparks. She’s not wearing tights for all the tea in China: nasty, clingy uncomfortable things. Anyway. What time is it? Her husband will be up soon, wanting his tea and toast. Funny how life turns out. Funny how it all turns into the dreary routine her mother warned her about. Funny how the conversations dry up and the silences stretch out. Carole can hear scuffling upstairs and toilet flushing. Time to put the kettle on again.

Once the breakfast things have been stacked into the dishwasher to await a full load, Carole turns her attention to getting herself ready for the funeral. She tucks a stray wisp of straggly hair behind one ear as she cleans her teeth, wiping condensation from the mirror with the cuff of her dressing gown. She frowns at the image that frowns back at her. Time it was, when her husband glowingly referred to her as the image of Audrey Hepburn. Now, he barely glances at her, and if he does, it’s with a strange look of surprise, as if he cannot quite fathom who this old woman is. Now, their separate thoughts have separate bedrooms. Not as the result of a major falling out. Not as the result of one of those soap opera arguments, where voices are raised and objects are thrown and neighbours are alarmed. No. It’s been a quiet parting of two lives under one roof. It’s as if the garment of their marriage gradually unzipped, and before they knew it, there was a scrubby patch of uncommon land between them that was rarely stepped on. Anyway. Carole smooths her steel grey hair into a meagre ponytail and pins it to the back of the head with a couple of hair grips. She wonders if she should make the effort of applying a little make up, but settles for a touch of lipstick – the same one she’s had for years and that smells of her mother’s handbag - a dusty mixture of cheap perfume and stale face powder. Back in the bedroom, she puts on her outfit, having carefully rolled up her sheer socks as far as they will go. She presses her feet into her shoes and plods down the stairs. Ready? Her husband asks, jangling the car keys. They shut the front door carefully behind them and are soon on their way at a steady two miles an hour below the speed limit.

By the time they reach the crematorium, several friends and most of their family have a gathered. Their teenaged grandson is sitting uncomfortably looking at his newly-shined shoes. His mother explains in hushed tones that he’s scared to go into the funeral. His younger cousin, fiddling with the collar of his starchy shirt, is asking his mum why they are waiting. He is shushed in reply, as no explanation could assuage this curious four-year-old. Carole smiles at him encouragingly and tells him that they will soon be able to go in. As if on cue, a hearse drives up, and four sombre men assemble to carry the coffin into the chapel. Carole and her husband hold back as the rest of the congregation quietly take their seats. Faint music begins and Carole follows her brother’s coffin up short aisle. As the service starts, Carole‘s thoughts begin to wander: she considers the wreath of lilies on top of the coffin and wonders if really her brother would’ve wanted those? She feels tears stinging, and barely registers the words as her oldest son reads the eulogy. She thinks about what her sons might say about her when her time comes. Her thoughts begin to expand, stretching outwards to the borders of her mind. Before she knows quite what is happening, she stands and walks slowly back down the aisle, barely aware of the eyes following her. Outside, she takes a moment to collect herself, drying her eyes with the hanky that she brought for such a moment. As she does so, she becomes aware of a small hand tugging at her skirt. Don’t be sad Granny, I’m here now, a little voice says, in a remarkably assured tone. Carole smiles down at her grandson. Of course you are. Let’s go for a little walk, shall we?