Turning Forty (30 page)

The morning of the funeral Rosa’s up and out of bed early as she’s got a meeting in London she has to attend in lieu of her boss who is off work with the flu. It’s the first meeting of its type that she’s ever been to and the opportunity to network with people she doesn’t usually get to see means that she’s a bundle of nerves.

‘What if I say something stupid?’ she asks as she sits on the edge of the bed. ‘What if I just dry up and nothing comes out?’

‘It’ll all be fine,’ I reassure her, ‘I used to get like that when I first started chairing meetings but the more you do it the better you get. Just talk like you know your stuff – which you do – and they will all fall into line.’

‘Can I call you if I panic? I probably won’t but it would be good to know that you’re just at the end of the line if I really need talking off a ledge.’

‘Of course you can, but you won’t need to because you are going to be amazing.’

She seems suitably reassured, and after one last kiss she picks up her bag and leaves. For a moment after I hear the front door slam, I lie in bed as though I’m expecting her to return having forgotten some key item for the day ahead but she doesn’t. Even if she had my lying still wouldn’t have made any difference to the tang of deceit in the air. As I stand at the bathroom mirror waiting for the shower to heat up I study my face and while the steam starts to obscure my expression it does little to make me look less guilty.

41

‘How do I look?’

Standing on Ginny’s front doorstep I give her a twirl. I’d only got one black suit and that was in London. The only one I have with me in Birmingham is a dark grey Paul Smith that I’d only packed on the off-chance that if my resolve caved and I needed to go back to work I’d have an interview suit. ‘It’s not black but you have to admit it is pretty smart.’

Ginny smiles but it’s clear from her eyes just how much effort it’s taken. ‘You look very handsome,’ she says, ‘and I’m sure any woman would be proud to be seen with you. Good enough?’

‘You look really nice.’ It is the blandest of bland comments but given that my gut response had been to tell her that she looked incredible, I reason that for now nice will just have to do.

‘Thanks, it’s hard trying to work out what to wear to things like this. I always think about the day of Mum’s funeral and how I ended up in jeans and a top I’d been wearing for two days in a row because I couldn’t make up my mind between the three dresses I’d bought.’

I try to make conversation to distract her but if her half-mumbled answers to even the most basic of questions (‘What plans have you got for the weekend?’) are anything to go by she’s more than distracted enough so I leave her to her thoughts and she leaves me to mine until we find ourselves approaching our destination. It dawns on me when I was last here at this very cemetery.

‘This is where Elliot’s buried isn’t it?’ I say of our old friend.

Ginny pulls the car over and turns off the ignition. ‘That didn’t even register with me. What kind of person am I that I can’t even remember something like that?’

‘I forgot too.’ I’m aware we both tend to feel guilty about Elliot. ‘I don’t think he’d mind. I think he might even find it funny. Maybe we can go and see him later?’

‘We haven’t any flowers.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘He was never all that keen on flowers anyway.’

We park on the gravel car park between a white panel van and a yellow digger and as we climb out of the car Ginny looks towards the stream of mourners heading inside the chapel.

‘You worried?’

She shakes her head. ‘I’ve just told myself to grit my teeth and get on with it.’

‘The daily mantra for everyone our age.’ Ginny manages to raise half a smile. ‘Sometimes my jaw aches so much from gritting my teeth I think they might fall out.’

We enter the chapel behind a couple in their fifties who are walking with their arms round the shoulders of their two tearful teenage daughters. Ginny doesn’t recognise them. In fact she doesn’t recognise anyone at the funeral at all. We plant ourselves in the only space available on the third pew from the back. The elderly woman next to me smiles and offers me a Polo mint. I take one because it feels rude not to.

Ginny’s hand tightens round mine when the congregation rises to its feet as the coffin, followed by the immediate family, is brought into the chapel by pallbearers, one of whom must be her dad. How difficult it must be for her to see these relations after so many years, a relationship with them denied by circumstances brought about by her father. How odd it must feel to be at the funeral of your own grandmother and not feel a thing.

The service commences with ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, and as we stand I remember that my phone’s still on. I reach into my pocket and switch it off. After the hymn the vicar begins reading from the Psalms and this leads me to think about my own funeral, who I’d want there and what sort of music I’d like played. I make no firm decisions other than the following:

1. Even if I die at eighty I still don’t want Gershwin at my funeral

2. I’d like my casket to enter to The Rolling Stones’ ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’, thereby summing up the whole tenor of my life

3. If I die single (which let’s face it is highly likely given my track record) then I’d like Ginny to give the eulogy because she’d make a good go of it and at least wouldn’t get any of the salient facts wrong.

Twenty minutes into the service the vicar instructs Terry Pascoe to come up to the lectern to give the first of three eulogies and if he wasn’t obviously Ginny’s dad from his colouring, Ginny’s involuntary shudder would have given the game away. Terry Pascoe is a big man, bigger than I’d expected, and he looks uncomfortable in his suit as though he isn’t used to wearing one. His eulogy is heartfelt and I’m moved by the love for his much-missed mum that he conveys to the congregation. I wonder if he knows that Ginny is here too, and if so whether he is aware of the irony of a child talking about the love of a parent when he himself has made such a mess of loving his own flesh and blood. Part of me would take great pleasure in informing him because even though I’m not looking at Ginny I know that every word this man is saying is breaking her heart, reminding her of his absence from her life these past thirty years.

When the service is over the old lady offers me another mint.

‘Lovely service, don’t you think?’

‘Yes it was.’

‘How do you know the family? Are you related to them or is it on your wife’s side?’

It takes me a moment to realise that she’s talking about Ginny. ‘She’s not my wife.’

The old lady nods sagely. ‘It’s what people do nowadays.’

There’s no real point correcting her and anyway, I can feel Ginny tugging at me like she wants to make a quick exit and so I make my excuses to the old lady.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask Ginny, as we stand in the side aisle while people leave the chapel.

‘I’ve been better,’ she says. ‘But at least we can go now.’

‘Are you sure?’

Ginny nods. ‘I don’t know what I hoped for from today but I don’t think I’m going to get it. Sorry Matt, to put you through all of this.’

‘You haven’t put me through anything,’ I reply. We join the queue and file outside.

It’s a little after three by the time we pull up in front of Ginny’s house. She’d asked me several times if I wanted dropping off at Gerry’s but I insisted that I had some errands to run on the high street and that it would be easier if she took me to hers. I feel bad carrying on this lie now that we’re properly back to being friends but this doesn’t seem the right time for revelations. I’ll tell her about Rosa soon, and it’ll all be fine, and maybe if the stars and the moon are aligned correctly and I’m feeling sufficiently lucky I’ll tell Rosa about today, and I can get that off my chest too. How did my life get this complicated? How did I end up being involved with so many people who needed protecting from the truth?

‘Are you sure you won’t come in? Not even for a cup of tea or something?’

‘OK, go on then,’ I tell her and just then a silver Fiat Uno passes by and I catch the eye of its driver long enough to see that she’s female but I can’t remember where I know her from. Ginny calls me into the house and ditching all thoughts of the car’s driver I head inside.

42

Standing in Ginny’s kitchen as she brews two mugs of tea I scan the room for evidence of Gershwin’s occupation but instead discover signs that Ginny has been thinking about the future more than she has been letting on.

‘Are you putting your house on the market?’ I point at the large brown manila envelope on the counter in front of me emblazoned with the name of a well-known local estate agent.

Ginny glances at the envelope guiltily. ‘I was going to tell you, Matt, but it never seemed like the right time. Gershwin’s moving out of his place at the weekend and we’re seeing a guy about a mortgage Monday night. I can’t believe it’s all really happening.’

‘Have you found somewhere or have you just started looking?’

‘We’ve got our eye on a place in Kings Norton. It’s quite a big house compared to most we’ve seen – four bedrooms and a loft – and needs a lot of work but even once you factor in all the renovations it’s still going to be loads cheaper than, say, Bournville.’

I don’t know what to say. Places like Kings Norton feel like the suburbs, where you go to start a family, where you go when you’re done being young and all you want are good schools, decent gardens and off-road parking. I’d put good money on everyone in Kings Norton having a shed. It’s the sort of place that having a shed would be practically obligatory.

Ginny sets my tea down on the table opposite.

‘You look disappointed,’ she says.

‘Not at all, I think it’s a great idea.’

‘Do you really? I’m so excited about it all. I feel like I’m only just learning to live life properly.’

‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘I’m pleased for you.’

Ginny lifts her cup to her lips and blows across the surface. She takes a sip. ‘Have you decided what you’re doing for your birthday yet?’

‘Rosa’s sorting it all. Nothing too flash. I think we’re going to my parents’ on the day and then to the pub in the evening.’

‘Sounds nice.’ Ginny takes a sip of her tea. ‘I’m sorry we won’t be there, that’s all. Do you think things will ever get back to normal?’

‘I don’t know,’ I reply sincerely.

‘Can I be honest with you about something?’

I look at her uneasily but hear myself saying the words: ‘Fire away.’

‘That evening that Gershwin and I bumped into you and Rosa – I don’t know how to say this – I felt jealous seeing the two of you. You both seemed so happy, so together, I don’t know . . . it just took me by surprise.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I reply.

‘Because there is nothing to say. I made my choice and you made yours, and I don’t think either one of us would change things. It’s just a shame, that’s all. We were so close to getting it right that it’s hard not to feel a little sad at how it all ended.’

I don’t say anything after this and neither does Ginny. It’s as though having introduced reality into the proceedings there’s no way forwards and so we finish off our tea and I repeat my excuse about needing to go to the high street and gradually we make our way to the hallway to say goodbye.

‘What a day,’ sighs Ginny, putting her arms round me. ‘I would have been lost without you.’

‘I didn’t do anything. You were really strong all the way through and you stayed true to yourself and did the right thing.’

Ginny doesn’t seem too sure. ‘He’s my dad,’ she says. ‘The only close relative I’ve got left and I’ve just walked away from the only opportunity I might ever have to make things right between us.’

‘And why are you the one who has to make things right? He left you, not the other way round. Being a dad isn’t about having money, it isn’t even about getting things right all the time; it’s simply about being there for your kids when they need you. That’s all.’

Ginny hugs me tighter. ‘You’ll make someone a great dad one day, you know.’

‘And you’ll make a great mum, and if that’s what you want you should make it happen. Me and you, we’re the same. We’ve spent too long waiting for life to happen to us and not enough bringing things about through sheer force of will. We can’t be spectators any more, we have to get stuck in and start playing the game.’

‘Just what a girl needs,’ grins Ginny. ‘A nice sporting analogy! You’re right though, I do need a kick up the backside. I don’t know what I’m waiting for but if I wait too long I’ll miss it.’ She looks up at me. It’s a moment of intimacy, a moment of connection, but rather than speaking of sexual attraction it speaks of friendship and loyalty.

‘I couldn’t have got through today without you, which goes to show that some things remain true even after all these years.’

‘Like what?’

‘That when you’ve got your mates in your corner shouting for you, anything’s possible.’

It’s a little after four by the time I reach home. Taking off my suit I bury it at the back of the wardrobe before taking a shower. The best part of half an hour later I feel like a new man and throwing on my jeans and a top I begin work on the story of my day for Rosa while I prepare a vegetable pasta bake from a recipe in one of last weekend’s newspapers.