‘And now Henry’s father, Raymond, will say a few words.’
The man, who looked like an older version of Henry, made his way slowly to the lectern. His slumped shoulders made him look shorter than Henry, but the resemblance was uncanny. He’s quite tanned, thought Rita. They must have just come back from some exotic holiday. Rita was pleased that Henry didn’t have the huge belly that Henry’s father sported. He leaned heavily onto the lectern and when he spoke there was a screech from the microphone and he swiftly stepped back, mumbled an apology and started again. When he opened his mouth again Rita thought his words were as beautiful as a bird song.
‘Standing before you today to bid farewell to our son Henry is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Words cannot describe the sorrow and loss that I am feeling. There’s so much to say but words just won’t come.’
He broke off and the congregation blew their noses in sympathy.
‘To have lost Henry is heartbreaking and to have lost him as we did, so suddenly, well it has come as such a shock to us all. His life was far too brief. Henry was a kind person and a loving husband.
‘My family wishes to express our heartfelt thanks to all those who have given their support, compassion, and love throughout this very difficult time.
‘I know in my heart that he would not want us to grieve for too long. Rather, Henry would want us all to remember the good times we all shared with him and not to dwell on the tragedy surrounding his passing. All his friends are here today.’
I hope these aren’t all my friends, thought Henry. Surely, he’s going to read out cards from the people who couldn’t make it, but even Henry couldn’t think who they would be.
‘We are grateful that you are here to show your love for Henry and to share in the loss that we will take a long time to recover from.’
Rita lowered her head. A single tear slid down her cheek and she tasted its saltiness. It was all too awful. When she looked up, Henry’s father was finishing his eulogy.
‘Goodbye, my son. You will live in our hearts forever.’
He then began to cry. It was more than crying, though. It was the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope. The vicar helped him down the steps and Henry felt that his heart would break. If only Rita would rush to the front and shout, ‘Henry isn’t dead. He’s right here with you.’
But, of course, Henry knew they would drag her out, heels scraping on the hard floor, her cries getting more muffled and his dad crying even harder.
The congregation blew their noses and wiped away tears in sympathy with Henry’s father.
‘Let us take a few moments to reflect on our own memories of Henry and what he meant to us,’ said the vicar.
Rita wished she had more memories of Henry that she could reflect on, except just those she had of the past few hours. Nevertheless, even though there were so few of them, she knew she would treasure them forever.
Chapter Fifteen
Henry wished he had the ability to climb inside people’s heads and hear what their memories of him were. He couldn’t imagine the milkman had that many memories, if any at all. Good Lord, thought Henry, I don’t even know the man’s name and yet here he is, bold as brass, at my funeral. Henry imagined the only memory he would have was of the day Henry asked for skimmed milk instead of full fat. Then there was Helen. She’d barely said good morning to him the past five years. She’s going to struggle to find a memory, thought Henry. Imogen sniffed several times and Henry turned his attention to her. Cynthia passed her a pack of tissues. I imagine she’s thinking ahead, thought Henry bitterly as he looked at his mother-in-law. No doubt planning her daughter’s future with a man she’d consider far superior to Henry. Just wait until she learnt he wasn’t really dead. That was the problem. How did Henry stop all this and get things back to normal? He couldn’t possibly be in that coffin, not if he was standing right here. It was all too ridiculous. He turned to Rita.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ he said.
His legs led him past the congregation and towards the coffin. To his horror, he saw that Helen was glancing surreptitiously at her mobile phone again. She’d managed to disguise it cleverly inside the order of service she was holding.
‘Shameful,’ said Henry loudly. His voice echoed around the church but not a soul looked up. They were all busy with their so-called memories of him. He stopped and looked curiously at Imogen. She’d aged, he noted. Poor Imogen, if only he could let her know that he was okay and not dead at all, but just stuck somewhere, but exactly where he didn’t know.
‘Imogen,’ he said. ‘Can you see me love. It’s alright. I’m not really dead. This is all a bit of a farce.’
Imogen dabbed at her cheeks and turned to meet the eyes of the lone man who sat a few rows behind her. Henry followed her eyes and struggled to remember where he had seen the man before. Clearly he knew him, else why would he be at his funeral. He did look familiar, but for the life of him, Henry couldn’t place the man at all. Imogen now gave the man a weak smile and he smiled back. Something quivered in Henry’s stomach. ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he told himself. ‘Stop overreacting’ but something about their shared look made Henry’s heart beat a little faster and caused a pain to stab at his chest. His jaw twitched and it took all his effort to pull his eyes away. With a heavy heart, he continued past the vicar and towards the wicker coffin. He could open it easily enough, he figured, but the outrage and the shock would no doubt make the papers the next day.
‘Lid of coffin opens during funeral to horror of mourners.’
It would draw attention to his predicament though. Henry decided that perhaps it was best not to. It would be rather inconsiderate of him to put the fear of God into everyone, and the truth was Henry wasn’t too sure that he wanted to see his own body either.
The service was continuing. He looked back to where Rita was sitting and saw her anxiously watching him. He gave her a reassuring wave and began to walk back to his seat.
The congregation had risen to sing a final hymn. The pallbearers marched past to collect his coffin. Rita’s anguished face mirrored Henry’s. He must try to stop them, but how?
Imogen touched the coffin with her fingertips as it passed and then burst into uncontrollable sobbing.
‘Oh, Imogen,’ said Henry, rising from his seat.
Cynthia took her daughter by the arm and gently led her through a side door into what, Henry presumed, to be the vestry. The vicar nodded sympathetically as they passed. Henry quickly followed. Cynthia opened the door and Henry hurried in behind them. Except, he could now see that he wasn’t in the vestry at all, but in his own living room, albeit a very different living room.
