"I get the heebiejeebies carrying coffins too. C’mere and I’ll do a double bow on this, yer man will have found enough volunteers by then eh? I’m Ruth by the way, I don’t know you, do I? Are you one of the Rafferty’s? You’re tall and fair like the Rafferty’s".
"Mark. My name’s Mark, hi, lovely to meet you Ruth." The double bow tied, I take her hand and give it yet another lingering shake, in flirtation this time, not in peace. A quick glance up and I see we are off the hook as six overly burdened shoulders have begun a slow parade behind the long black hearse creeping forward in front of them. Keeping hold of Ruth’s hand I pull her up with me. We both stand looking on with guilty smiles at the receding coffin, bobbing above a mob of heads now that the church has emptied.
"That's not a bad day for it, it usually pishes down or blows a gale when I go to funerals". I cringe at my crude turn of phrase, not exactly romantic, or fitting to the pious environment.
"Aye, or both! I’ve lost more brollys in graveyards than I can count. Were you at Joe Rafferty’s funeral last year? The wind nearly blew the priest into the grave on top of Joe, he was all over the show, almost lost his wig! Think it was a wig, if it wasn’t it should have been, it had no business being called hair, I swear, it was like a giant steel grey walnut whip".
"With or without the nut on top?’"
"Sure his big nut was under it Mark!’". I bellow out a hearty chuckle, then pause to enjoy the sound of this pretty, witty, chatty girl's laugh. It wheezes and yet tinkles like a bell at the same time, her gorgeous wonky eyes creasing up at the corners. Mistaking my sudden silence for respect, she claps a hand to cover her mouth, mortified.
"Oh bloody hell, I’m laughing at my Aunt's funeral! I’ll be excommunicated from the family!"
"Think you’re safe, they won't have heard you, that last lot must've been athletes, look at the distance they’ve covered, fair play to them." I nod toward where the throng have stopped on the road just beyond the church gates, admitting defeat and preparing to stow Agnes into the back of the hearse. A light wind swirls from nowhere, blowing early autumn leaves around our ankles. Grabbing the excuse to touch her again I lightly place a hand on her glossy brown hair.
"C’mon Ruth, I’ll keep your wig on for ya, lets go!’" Giggling, we zigzag wildly up the front drive of the church toward the carpark, her nudging my ribs, half heartedly shaking my hand off her head. Coming to a laughing stop I eye up the only two cars left. My silver Ford Fiesta at one side, and a bottle green and wood veneered Morris Minor on the other.
"Is THAT your car?" I ask, pointing to the motoring relic, unable to match it with this modern and rather smartly dressed girl.
"Ha! No, it's probably that auld Fr McPriestyBob’s car. Aw shite! That’s my lift right there, nice of them to wait for me." she points forlornly at a shiny black limo disappearing over the hill and out of sight. Abandoning any chance to catch up with my workmates, to sink a pint or five for our dearly departed boss, I find myself offering her a lift to the graveyard.
"C’mon, hop in, you can save me getting lost, I can never find this graveyard the first time." Or anytime.
Miraculously, despite a fifteen minute journey filled with constant and distracting laughter, we make it to the graveyard before Agnes has disappeared down into her new resting place, but only just. Ruth bolts out of the car and runs to join her family already gathered at the graveside, her shout of thanks carries to me in the light gust of wind that has reappeared. I walk to the edge of the crowd sprawled out, huddled in small groups respectfully balancing between graves, new and old. Too far away to hear the service, I’m alerted to it ending by the backs of heads turning into a sea of faces looming toward me. Carried along by the mass exodus I reach my car just as the first of the limos carrying family pass by. I pick out Ruth’s shiny brown hair in the back of one and allow my shoulders to slump in disappointment.
A lingering trace of her zesty perfume fills my nostrils as I feed into the line of cars slowly rolling out of the graveyard. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. At a loss for what to do next I blindly follow the convoy and mentally kick myself for yet another missed opportunity in life . As the long straight road turns into a T junction everyone is turning right, so I join them. A wavy red tail of blinking indicator lights then snakes off to the left, into a small, tired looking hotel, and for want of any other ideas, I follow it in.
The pungent scent of vegetable soup and stale beer greets me as I enter the function room. A line of hungry mourners has already gathered at the buffet tables at the back, so I head to the bar and order a pint of Harp shandy and contemplate my next move. A pang of guilt hits me as the barman refuses to take payment, informing me it’s a free bar for funeral goers.
"Hey, you made it! All by yourself too, good boy!" Ruth is suddenly smiling up at me cheekily, both hands balancing a tray of sandwiches and cups of treacle coloured tea.
"Hold on a wee minute, I just need to go feed and water the grannies, get me a glass of white wine there Mark, cheers, back in a tick!"
True to her word she returns, before her wine has even been poured. We take a seat on the stools lining the bar and her knees clash against mine as we both turn to face each other. Worried she will disappear again I decide to go straight for it.
"So Ruth, I know this isn’t exactly the best time and place, but, would you like to go out for a proper drink some time?" I watch her face and those green pools light up, but no sooner has her mouth joined in to smile back at me, it straightens into a serious expression.
"Mark I’d love to, but i’m actually seeing someone. Well I was. No, I am. He's actually mmm... Ach it’s complicated, sorry. To be honest, we’ve been seeing each other on and off for about three years. To cut an already long story not so short, I gave him an ultimatum over a week ago and he's been in a big silent huff ever since, the idiot. It's not like he isn't old enough to know better. Definitely old enough." Those smiling eyes, to my horror, suddenly fill up, big glassy tears threatening to spill.
"Ah jaysis! Quick, distract me, I’m an ugly crier, tell me about you! What do you work at? A big lad like you... Let me guess, a fireman?" she bravely chokes out a weak laugh through her tears. Crushed with disappointment, but trying to look cool about it, I keep it light.
"Nah, nothing so glamorous i’m afraid. I scribble for a living. A draughtsman. Just moved to a small family firm recently, not too far from here actually."
"Oh? Who's that? I’m a PA for a team of architects in Belfast, I might know them, it’s a small world". Her face brightens up a fraction, then tears build again.
"Boyd’s Designs?"
"Ha! Boyd’s? Seriously? You work for Billy?"
"Well, did. I did work for Billy, erm, ya see, I’ve a wee confession. Funny story really. Ok so, i’ve never actually met your Aunty Agnes. I was at the wrong church today. Did you know there’s another church called St Patrick’s on Cushdun Road? What’s that about? I wonder if any of Agnes’s mourners ended up..."
"DID work for Billy? Who else was buried today Mark? Tell me!" She bolts up straight in her stool, the knees that had been pressed so cosily up to mine suddenly nudge into me, hard, my stool swings almost full circle. I grab the bar with both hands, poised to push myself back around to face her again.
"Billy. It was Billy Boyd. I’m sorry, did you know him well?" Silence. I spin back to face an empty stool, and Ruth slumped to her knees on the grubby old carpet, anguished tears flowing freely now.
I guess she did know him well. Small world indeed.
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