“Ok then, tell him his fathers dead.” She replied.
Instantly a feeling of guilt rushed through me Nana Terry and Granddad Ken had been divorced for years, but Terry had a million times more of a right to tell him than I did.
“Sorry, I didn’t know.” I said being sincere
“OF COURSE YOU DIDN’T BLOODY KNOW, I’M CALLING TO TELL YOUR DAD; YOU STUPID GIRL.” She yelled back down the phone. My feeling of guilt left faster than the speed of light.
“Well sorry for trying to be nice, I’ll tell him then.” I shouted down the phone. Before slamming it down and storming upstairs.
I calmed myself, I couldn’t tell dad this in an angry mood after all, his dad had just died.
“Dad?” I said to him as he knelt over trying to make some sense of an IKEA instructions booklet.
“Yeah? Pass the screwdriver.” I reached for the screwdriver and braced myself for the next part of the conversation.
“Granddad ken has died.”
*
Our car pulled in through the intimidating black gates with a gold plated sign that read:
“Middlesbrough Crematorium”
I looked around, although there were seven of us sat here we all felt the same; alone. The black monster we sat in rolled onto the crunchy gravel of a car park. All the cars were dark and matched the faces of the men and women that stood by. My nerves were getting to me; it felt like elephants pounding on my stomach. I stepped out the car and fell; I reached out with my hand to save me but moved my legs forward too quickly and ended up scattering bits of gravel onto a freshly polished Rolls Royce. My face grew red as my family scowled at me. I pulled myself up and stood by the side of the car waiting to know what to do. No one seemed to talk any louder than a whisper and I couldn’t hear a word, but as my family nodded with agreement I knew I was soon to be awkwardly embarrassed again. My dad stood by the end of a car about ten meters away, dare I go to see what to do. Those ten meters felt like a hundred meters to me, with so many people there, yet I couldn’t hear a word. I looked up, a medium sized building was dwarfed by a giant chimney, the chimney’s shadow covered, the awaiting mourners, the mourners were talking to each other, sombre conversations, remembering old times, meeting friends they hadn’t seen in years. They began to follow each other into the crematorium.
At the same time the third car arrived, we all began to move into the brick chapel. As we entered my nerves began to subside, the building was nice, there was comfy seats and a small stage with a long table going into a red curtain. Nowhere near as daunting or scary as I had imagined the chapel to be. There was a general mutter of conversation as we all took our seats, but it all subsided as some music started. It felt like a theatre with the red curtains and us all in suits and smart outfits, until the coffin came down the isle. Carried by my dad and his three brothers each with pale faces, the coffin sat on their shoulders, until they got to the table on the stage and they carefully placed it down, many people around us had tissues at the ready, many were already using tissues.
As the coffin carriers found their seats a priest stood on the stage and began talking about Ken’s life. I hadn’t realised how big the chapel was at first, but now looking around it was huge, nor had I seen the amount of people here there were well over a hundred. With that my fear returned to me, I had to read a poem, I was the oldest child of his grandchildren and it seemed right for me to do it, I had been fine with that, but was starting to regret it rather quickly. I returned to analysing the chapel four stained glass windows and three giant plain glass windows stood behind the priest colouring him in shades of purple and yellow, as the beams of multicoloured light shone down and pieces of dust flickered and danced in them, The priest moved over for my father’s brother, Martin to begin his speech.
Martin stood on a step to the far right, behind him lay another giant plain glass window and gave a panoramic view of a beautiful garden with little pebbles and even a small pond. Martin continued and I realised by how his speech grew faster he was nearing the end; and I was next. He finished his speech.
I shuffled in my seat. Suddenly I felt my face flush I was going bright red, and I needed to begin my walk to the podium. Everyone in the rows in front had turned round to look at me, and I could feel all the eyes behind me resting on my back. I got up, legs shaking. “Don’t stack it.” I said to myself I carefully treaded up the carpet isle. Each footstep felt like a lead weight on my foot, each step my brain begging me to turn around and run back to my seat. I reached the podium and placed the crinkled, sweaty piece of paper I had had clasped in my hand on the page holder. My eyes faced the guests. There seemed thousands of them, each one of them silently looking at me, ever waiting approval. I began the poem my heart thumped, like a metronome. My hands sweated and I fiddled with my sleeves, as you would do as a young child. I read out the words, making sure not to trip over them, I pronounced each word as if it was a life or death order, with preciseness and punctuation I began the second verse.
I began to relax. I looked around; the stern faces that had looked at me a minute before were now replaced with smiles. People’s faces weren’t filled with disapproving horror as I had imagined but instead upside down frowns. The words come out easier, like a song. I finish and step down from the podium. And my eyes cast upon the coffin, “Goodbye Granddad.” I whispered to myself before continuing on to my seat.
