Funerals are my favourite. I can easily zone out of the soft soothing words from the pulpit, grab a discreet open eyed nap while the heady scent of melted candle wax, wood polish and the rich smoky incense at the Catholic shindigs waft around me. Being of no fixed religion I limit my houses of worship visits to when duty calls, like weddings, christenings and funerals. I hate crying babies almost as much as I hate smug happy couples, so funerals are my holy productions of choice.
While my big sausage fingers prod impatiently at my over priced, sweatshop constructed, mind of its own sat nav, I'm once again forced to pluck a random street number from my backside when prompted. St Patrick’s of Ballytorr is frustratingly like every other church I've Googled. Happy to appear all trendy and informative, with their online presence and jazzy websites, they persistently thumb their sacred noses at convention and simply don't bother with street numbers in their contact details. Not a one. They must assume anyone who needs to will just find them, feet and cars driven by the power of prayer. Being a total stranger to the town i've no idea how long or short Cushdun Road is. The giant white number 50 on my neighbours wheelie bin, carelessly abandoned on the shared driveway right in front of me, is as good a number as any. I can just hope for a conveniently ostentatious spire I can spot for miles.
One risky three point turn, a wonky reverse manoeuvre when I overshot the entrance, and I've made it, just as the priest is parading up the aisle with his posse of mini priest minions behind him. Or altar boys. Altar children? Even the Catholic church is not immune to the intrusion of equal opportunity laws, permitting the Toms, Dicks, and now Harriets, of the parish to carry the crucifix; be a human bible bookmark; ding the bell. I allow them to gain a bit of ground so I don't look like I'm deliberately joining the tail end of their solemn conga, then shuffle up as quickly and quietly as my slippy best dress shoes allow on the marble floor. The small church is jam packed. A speedy but thorough scour of the pews for a healthy man sized space has led me all the way to the second row from the front, the white lily strewn coffin within intimate touching distance. Two balding middle aged men and a young, attractive brunette are spread out along the left, but soon shuffle up to make space for me on the end of the pew. Brunette hands me an order of service with a warm smile. I take it and throw her the universal rolly eyes, apologetic 'Bloody hell! Thought I'd never get here!' expression, unfasten the bottom button on my suit jacket and settle in for the duration.
I barely knew my boss, having just started at the small family run drawing offices around two months ago. I'm sorely tempted to turn and have a nosy at the congregation, see how many of my new colleagues have turned up, but it's hard to do a discreet recce when plonked up front like Big Chief Mourner. I'm pretty certain of a decent turn out from Boyd's Designs though. They were all visibly upset when the news of his massive heart attack pinged around the office, like a ghoulish, doom laden pinball one morning last week. Billy was deemed firm but fair by everyone. He was certainly very understanding when I couldn't start my contract on the date he'd suggested. I’d my yearly 'Lads in Lanzarote' boozefest already booked for the first week in August, and Boyd's are one of the dying breed of local businesses in Northern Ireland who still insist on the traditional Twelfth Fortnight in July be taken as non-negotiable annual leave, plus a week in September, imaginatively titled The September Week. No choice. Building gets cleared, doors locked. Away and have a holiday for yourself. Mind you, they are also one of the last bastions of the wee brown holiday pay envelope. Tax free cash. So that eases any resulting inconvenience a fair bit.
As usual I forego the prayer option, stretch my lanky legs beyond the long kneeling stool and allow my mind to wander lazily, just as the final strains of the opening hymn begin to fade out. Brunette has nice ankles and dainty feet. White lily's smell like death. Billy hadn’t struck me as a lily kind of man. Billy. 12th July. Catholic church. Convert? How very Tony Blair. The priest's strong North West brogue breaks into my meandering thoughts with a tiny squeak of microphone feedback, and the show is officially rolling.
"We gather here today to celebrate the life of Agnes McCormac, who has now returned to her home with Our God, The Father." A panicked glance of neighbouring faces confirms it's my balls up, and not that of the priest confidently holding court ahead.
"Shhhhite." It's slipped out, in barely a whisper between gritted teeth, but the whole front row of genuine chief mourners turn, shocked eyebrows raised in my direction.
"Sorry. So sorry, it's just shi... shocking, still shocking. Poor Agnes. Sorry..." I indicate the end of my hushed apology with an 'I'm done now, dramatic emotional scene over, as you were.' raised palm. Mortified, I close my eyes like it's all too much. I want to keep them closed forever, or at least until the communion wafers have been doled out, final hymn sung and Agnes bloody McCormac has been shunted back down the aisle on the shoulders of her loving family, with the rest of the congregation following behind. It's too late to duck back out, find St Patrick's For Protestants, slip in the back, then offer my condolences to Billy's wife and sons, my new bosses... Isn't it?
What fancy tricks did old snake chaser Pat get up to in Ballytorr to be honoured with both churches named after him? And on the same road? Mind you, this is the backend of beyond, probably not many roads in Ballytorr at all, but still. Similar muddles must surely be common enough to warrant a visual alert of sorts out front. Bible shaped signage announcing name of deceased? Perhaps a photograph? Preferably taken when still alive. In fact definitely. As the perpetually undecided Clash are so fond of asking 'should I stay or should I go now?'.
I spot, rather belatedly, the personalised cover on the order of service and run my fingertips over it, as if in reverence to dear Agnes, but I'm really twisting my wrist, discreetly trying to read the time on my watch. Before I can see what the big hand on my trusty Sekonda is getting up to, a small scarlet fingernail tipped hand is covering mine, gently lifting it and opening the booklet, helpfully pointing out which part of the service the priest is now on. I look up to signal my thanks and become locked in a gaze with the warmest eyes in the prettiest face. I've never before seen the like of these two big bright green pools, with a dark golden sunburst emanating from their black fathomless cores. Mesmerising. My critical, borderline OCD brain notes that one is sat a fraction higher than the other, and it’s not immediately clear if both are actually focused in my direction, but one definitely is, and that’s good enough for me. Bye bye Billy, hello and farewell Agnes.
Aside from letting out a tiny snore, questionably disguised as a cough during the lull after communion, and holding up the sign of peace handshake chain by gripping onto Brunette’s tiny paw with my big sweaty one for a tad too long, I’ve survived the service without further disgrace.
Being the gentleman I like to pretend I am, I step back to allow Brunette to exit the pew before me, quickly blocking the escape of her two baldy buddies who try to slip out behind her. Reaping my reward I enjoy the view of her pert backside squeezed into a tight black skirt suit, walking ahead of me down the aisle toward the sweet relief of the wide open double doors. Old Agnes must’ve enjoyed her grub, the pallbearers have barely stopped blinking at the midday sun greeting us outside the dark stone church and an exhausted, staggering scuffle has already broken out. The ghostly pale head honcho in the long black frock coat and top hat is pointing a transparent boney finger at the first out of the traps, to take over the coffin carrying. Bloody hell, what if he picks me? I duck down as quick as a reverse jack in the box and tug on the lace of my right shoe, fingers fumbling with the stiff black cord.
"Need a hand there?" For the second time in an hour those vampy tipped fingers cover mine, one tug and the knot on my shoe is unravelled and lying, lace ends akimbo, on the dusty ground.
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