Wednesday 31st May 2006
Lizzie woke up. Today was the day. Her father was going to be cremated and she wasn’t there. But it didn’t matter, he had died already. It was just his body, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t feel anything. He was everywhere, she had said to Brigitte, he wasn’t right there in the church, not right there in the crematorium. He probably wasn’t on Earth at all. They could say goodbye to him here, couldn’t they?
Couldn’t they?
Still, it was a significant day and it meant looking nice. It meant washing one’s hair and dressing up. It meant getting up, not lolling about in bed although you had work to do. Lizzie got up at 8:30; it was early for recent weeks, showered and washed her hair. You couldn’t be depressed today, you had a commitment. You had to get out of bed.
It was important to look good. There was hardly anything in the wardrobe that fitted her any more, since she had recently put on some weight, but she had made an effort to do all the washing yesterday, so the wardrobe was at least full. Everything was several years old and falling to bits but there were some dark clothes that she could still manage to squeeze into. At least a skirt and t-shirt, and some tights without holes.
It was also important to be on top of things. Lizzie started work at 9:30 and then at 10 o’clock Brigitte called. She asked how Lizzie was. Lizzie said, good. Much better. Brigitte said, I can tell you are much better then last night. She had called last night. Lizzie didn’t have a lot to say since last night. She said hum and hah a lot and was really pleased that Brigitte was on the other end of the phone. Silences were also good. Brigitte didn’t really know what to say either. She told Lizzie about her sister and brother-in-law, who were staying because her aunt had died and they couldn’t decide whether to go to the funeral. Everybody’s dying, Lizzie said. Nobody can decide. I don’t go to funerals, Brigitte said.
She worked until twelve o’clock. She tried to phone customers but they were all in meetings and couldn’t speak. Could she phone later? Lizzie wanted to scream, My father died! I’m busy this afternoon! But that would not be a way to win or keep customers. Unfortunately all the nice customers who would have understood that were not calling, they didn’t need Lizzie this week, last week or perhaps even next week. Lizzie wanted to tell somebody, anybody, my father died, he is being cremated this afternoon. There was nobody to say it to, nobody except Brigitte, and she knew it already.
Lizzie wanted to go out and shout it on the street. She cried very hard. It was a permanent kind of crying, the kind where you use lots of tissues and realize eventually that your nose is blocked. And when you look in the mirror, you are surprised that your face is so swollen, that your eyes are so red. Lizzie found it hard to recognize herself.
She suddenly remembered that she had to return the lawnmower. She had completely forgotten. She had borrowed the lawnmower from Herr Heydrich, Ela’s father-in-law, the afternoon before. She had been in the street where Herr Heydrich lived because she went there every Thursday to give English lessons to David Steinmetz, the nice Jewish boy whose family wanted him to get a good grade in English at school. And she had been a bit early the day before, which had been Thursday, and she had thought, I could go to Herr Heydrich’s and ask him if I could borrow the lawnmower again. Maybe he likes wine, maybe I could ask him if I could borrow the lawnmower and offer to bring him a bottle of wine in return.
So she had rung Herr Heydrich’s bell on Thursday, the day before, and Herr Heydrich had come down, and Lizzie had said, Hello Herr Heydrich, it’s me, Lizzie, Ela’s friend, and he had said, Well, she’s not here you know. And Lizzie said, I know, but can I borrow the lawnmower? And it had been no problem, Herr Heydrich had loaded it into the car, and Lizzie said, Do you know the Steinmetzs? They live right here in this street. I go there every week and give English lessons. And Herr Heydrich had said no, but then he had told her about his new girlfriend. Although he was 75 he went to the fitness studio three times a week and had got himself a new girlfriend and she had been married to a Greek gentleman who had died and now he was learning Greek at night school because she had lots of friends in Greece. So they went there on holiday regularly.
Do you speak Greek? He asked Lizzie. No Lizzie said. But she kept smiling and flirting with him a bit, because she really appreciated his lawnmower. She needed to make the garden nice for the day when her father was going to be cremated. And she asked him, do you drink wine? And he said, Don’t start with that, don’t bring me wine. I was in the Pfalz two weeks ago, with my girlfriend, and we bought several bottles of wine there. He said.
Ah Pfälzer wine Lizzie said. So he liked the Rhineland-Pfalz wine.
So now she needed to take back the lawnmower. Wills had mowed the lawn the evening before and as soon as he had done that Frau Hirsch had come out into her garden next door because she had seen Lizzie touching the flowers and the plants, and she knew Lizzie talked to the plants. That had been embarrassing, because Lizzie didn’t actually open her mouth to talk to the plants, but somehow old Frau Hirsch knew it, standing at her closed, curtained windows, watching everything, and she knew Lizzie touched every plant every day and talked to them. And one day she had said to Lizzie, You talk to your plants, don’t you Frau Kortmann? And Lizzie had said, Why, did you see me? But Frau Hirsch had just smiled, her secretive, knowing smile.
Now old Frau Hirsch came out, while Lizzie was talking silently to her plants and trees, and asked her, in her secretive, knowing way, how are you today, Frau Kortmann. And Lizzie said, My father died, and Frau Hirsch said, My deepest regrets, Frau Kortmann. And she complimented Lizzie for Wills, on how well he had mowed the lawn and cut the hedges. As if that were important, but in old Frau Hirsch’s world, that was very important.
Lizzie loaded the lawnmower back into the car and drove back to Herr Heydrich; she had bought an expensive wine from the Rhineland-Pfalz and hoped that he would be there to accept it. Otherwise she would have to leave it inside the grass container of the lawnmower in a plastic Walmart bag. It wouldn’t be quite the same as giving it to him.
But Herr Heydrich was there when Lizzie rang the bell. He came down to the garden and he wanted to tell Lizzie all about the fitness studio and his Greek lessons again. He asked Lizzie three times whether she had managed to unload the lawnmower without any problems. Lizzie told him three times that she had. She tossed her hair and hoped he liked girls with long hair. So that he would lend her the lawnmower again in the future. So that Wills could continue to mow the lawn and so that Frau Hirsch would not complain to her landlord. He followed her out into the drive, for no reason whatever, and Lizzie said that she hoped he liked the wine and opened her car.
Are you often here in the street? Herr Heydrich asked and Lizzie said, yes, every week, almost every week. I go to the Steinmetzs. And Herr Heydrich said, you can come by any time and borrow the lawnmower. He said, shall I wave you out of the drive, out of the gate? and Lizzie said, No, I’m OK, and Herr Heydrich said, Yes, you are a capable woman, I’m sure you can drive a car.
It was one o’clock and she had not eaten yet, but there was a MacDonald’s DriveIn on the way home, and with just only a few minutes wait it was possible to acquire a Cheeseburger there.
“I have to be at work at four o’clock,” Bina sighed out. Lizzie guessed she had woken her up. She had come back late the night before, with Louisa, and Louisa had stayed the night, although Lizzie had still not met the elusive Louisa, but she guessed they had gone to sleep very late. And now Bina had to work in the afternoon, at the restaurant where she waitressed after school and at weekends.
“OK,” Lizzie said.
She went upstairs to Wills’ room. A discreet knock. Wills was still in bed. He, however, had no excuse to still be asleep, but likewise had no reason to get up. Wills did not seem to have a life that she could relate to. Unlike Bina, who worked hard and played hard. His unreliability drove her to distraction.
“Uhjmhjm?”
“Hi Wills. I just wanted to say, I’m doing this thing for my father at four o’clock. If you have time.” Time! A commodity that Wills had in abundance.
“It’s OK,” Wills said. “Yeah.”
Children (and other people) can be simultaneously reliable and unreliable. It depends on the matter in hand.
It was two o’clock Central European Time. Lizzie became increasingly nervous. It was going to start in an hour in England, at 3 o’clock CET, a service that lasted maybe 25 minutes, then everyone bundled into cars and off to the crematorium, which would start an hour later, at 4 o’clock CET. How would she get through the whole thing all by herself? Not even the children seemed to care. She couldn’t even have a beer to calm herself. Lizzie wanted to be completely sober. No one was here, no one to put an arm around her, no one to understand.
She would need flowers. And a candle. There was a candle in her room, a birthday present, from some person Lizzie could not even remember, at least five years old. Never lit, in pristine condition, because Lizzie hated candles. Lizzie fetched it down. That would do. A yellow candle, covered in flowers, fat and tall, that would be fine. Disgustingly ugly, but a candle nevertheless. Lizzie looked out into the garden. The rose bush was in full bloom, plenty of pink roses. And the small new rose tree, some dark red roses. Lizzie cut five of these roses and placed them in a small vase, next to the fat yellow flower candle, both on her favourite Japanese coasters. Apart from these, the living room table was empty.
She had chosen hymns, two hymns, “For all the saints, who from their labours rest” and “Now thank we all our God”, and the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi, and had printed all of these out twice, and had written the Our Father out for Wills, who did not know it in English, and had placed two copies of everything on the table next to the roses and the candle. Now everything was ready.
Now everything was ready except Lizzie.
At the piano she found her old school hymnbook. Maybe if I play one of the hymns. Maybe just to know I have the right tune. Maybe just to get me in the mood to sing it.
There were so many hymns in the old book, Lizzie wondered why she had chosen just those two. Golly, there were so many old favourites. She remembered how they had sung a jolly tune every morning in Assembly at School. Old Miss Davis at the piano, bashing it out. How everyone had appreciated it so much when it had been one of the old favourites. How she had been so proud to sing for the school, Prendergast, in London. How miserable she had been when they had had to move, how she had never been happy in their new environment. How the four years she had lived there had been a prolonged nightmare. The more she played, the more she did not understand exactly whom she was crying for. But the more she played, the more she did cry. Onward, Christian Soldiers. Abide With Me. The Lord’s My Shepherd. He Who Would A Pilgrim Be. We Plough The Fields And Harvest. And so on. And so the memories, and so the father who had been lost.
The windows and doors were open. The neighbours must think I have gone religious potty, Lizzie thought. On and on. Keep on playing. Play it out.
It was just before three o’clock that Lizzie was played out. It had been enough. Enough now. She stood up, made a cup of coffee. She felt calmer, much calmer than she had felt for a very long time. It was about to start. Everybody else in her family was about to have something that she would not have. This was, everybody had told her, the thing that you must have, the thing that you will regret for the rest of your life that you did not have if you were not there.
It is OK, Lizzie thought. I’m not there and it is all right.
She stirred her coffee and went down into the living room. The back door was open and the sun was shining. The lawn was mowed and the hedges were cut. The garden looked beautiful. Lizzie had spoken to her plants and they had replied. They were blossoming. Even old Frau Hirsch had complimented her on them.
Lizzie took her coffee out into the garden. Their service, it was about to start, she thought. She went to the end of the garden, to the gate, which was slightly open. Something drew her to the gate, to the path outside the gate, the path that ran along all the backs of the houses, from somewhere to nowhere, to nowhere was a sort of spinney at the end, at the back of the gardens that led to the next property, a kind of no man’s land.
Lizzie went out of the gate, onto the path, to the left was the spinney. The sun was bright and something from the spinney seemed to be shining, seemed to be beckoning to her. A young woman was walking from the spinney towards her, along the path, a dog in front of her. I don’t want her to see me, Lizzie thought, standing here with my coffee on the path. She will think I am crazy.
She turned and went back into the garden, closing the gate. I will wait until the woman has gone, Lizzie thought, with her dog, maybe I will go out onto the path again afterwards. Who goes out here with their coffee cup?
But when the woman had passed by, Lizzie did return to the path, and the spinney was bright and strong. There is nothing in the spinney, Lizzie thought. I will not go there. What is there to see? It is bushes and trees, and plants, and at the end there is a gate and nobody is there. There might be rats and mice, there might be bats and wasps and bees, I will not go into the spinney.
The spinney was strong, overwhelming. I will not go there, Lizzie repeated. To the right, from the path, there were four small trees, with two benches beneath. Lizzie had never been to the benches. She had never seen anybody sit down there. Who should sit there? Everybody here had their garden, nobody needed to sit there. Nobody who walked by with their dogs would sit on the benches. They did not wish to be seen by the people who lived here, dwelling on their benches. The benches, fourteen years old, had never been used.
I will go to the benches, Lizzie thought. That way, I can still almost see all of the spinney through the trees, I can see if there is anything important that I need to see. I will sit on the bench and wait, with my coffee.
She sat down on one of the benches, in the center of the bench. She sipped her coffee. I can see the spinney from here, Lizzie thought. Almost all of it. I can see if there will be something in the spinney.
It was just about three o’clock. The service would be starting now. She sipped her coffee. She felt very calm, very peaceful. She could not remember having felt this way for oh, since… well, maybe since she had been little. Their service would be starting now and everything was fine here. She had not expected this. She had expected to be hysterical.
She saw her father. He seemed to be moving slowly, and she did not actually see him coming towards her. Rather she felt that she saw him in fits and starts, and she was not sure that she really saw him at all. Suddenly he was there, but not always, just sometimes. He seemed to be coming from the direction of the spinney. It seemed as if he were in front of her, but not always, only temporarily, only sometimes, as if a film had a fault. As if the television had broken down, and it was only possible to have reception intermittently.
Lizzie stayed very still. She sipped her coffee. Was he really here? She said, Hello Dad. And then she heard his voice. The voice she had not heard for years, not the voice that she had heard in recent times. His old voice, her father’s voice of her childhood. She could not hear what he was saying. It was as if he were mumbling. Just mumbling, but she could not hear him clearly, not a clear word. And slowly, very slowly, his vision faded, the vision she had intermittently of him coming towards her, so that she was no longer seeing him in front of her, but rather it seemed that he was beside her, sitting on the bench next to her.
Lizzie looked down next to her on the bench, looked down to see if she had left him enough room. She was sitting in the middle after all. But she jogged to the left a tiny bit, although she thought, if he didn’t have enough room, he wouldn’t have sat down at all.
He was still mumbling. Lizzie was crying quietly now, very still. She sipped her coffee. She said, Hello Dad, again. She remembered now the times when she had been little, when they had gone up to London together, all the things they had done together. She was happy she had a tissue, to mop up the tears. She said, Daddy, they are not going to mention anything about all that, in the eulogy. I read the eulogy, Lucy sent it to me. They didn’t say anything about the things we did. I wanted to tell that Daddy. All the things we did together. All the things you did.
His voice was becoming clearer, no longer mumbling. He was speaking now so that Lizzie could understand. She remained very still, sipping her coffee.
He said, “Hello lovely. How are you?”
“I’m fine Daddy. What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know, I’m here and there. I’m going around everywhere.”
“You must be very busy. You should be at your funeral service.”
“Oh, you know. We’ve got time. You see that bird. You see how it flies up to that branch like that? And listen to that wind. Listen to that. Listen to all these things.” His voice was very soft, like it always used to be.
Lizzie listened. Everything was very quiet, no planes, no cars, no dogs, no people, only the sound of Nature, only the sound of the wind, the trees, the birds. Lizzie felt a complete peace, a calm, it seemed now like a peace that she had never felt. She wondered where everyone had gone to. Where all the noise had gone to.
He said, “Listen, my girl. You have to put all that anger behind you. You know, all the anger you have, you can’t live with it. It isn’t doing you any good. Forget it, you only have one life. You have to live your life without anger.”
He said it very slowly, and Lizzie listened, and as she listened she was angry, but it made sense, and the more she listened, the more sense it made, and the more she listened, the less angry she was.
“Don’t be angry with them,” he said. “You only have one life. Don’t be angry in your life. You’re wasting your life, my girl.”
They sat in silence. Lizzie sipped her coffee and cried. She looked straight ahead, watching the spinney, its brightness, convinced there was something in the spinney that she needed to see. Maybe, if she went to the spinney, he would be there. How could he be here? Perhaps he wasn’t really here at all. He must be in the spinney. Not here.
She sat very still. She did not look to her left. He could not be here. She was imagining everything.
Dad spoke again. So he was here. He actually was.
“Your mother… you know your mother actually loves you,” Dad said.
She doesn’t, Lizzie thought. I won’t say anything, because I’m not going to argue with you now, when you came specially to visit me, but I think you’re just saying that.
“She does,” Dad said.
“OK,” answered Lizzie. He is just trying to comfort me.
They sat in silence.
“See… the wind,” Dad said. “See those trees?” The trees were bowing gently in the wind and the birds were very loud and Lizzie wondered again why nobody had yet appeared on the path.
“Bina… and Wills,” said Dad. “You have to look after them…”
Lizzie never said Bina and Wills. Groups of people, you got into a kind of schema of how you said their names together, Lizzie always called them Wills and Bina. That way around. Never Bina and Wills.
“You know, lovely,” Dad said. “This life you’re leading. All this drinking and smoking. You have to stop this you know. Have to cut back a little. Not doing you any good you know.”
They sat in silence and Lizzie sipped her coffee.
“I wish I could make you a cup of coffee Dad,” she told him.
“Oh I don’t need a cup of coffee.” He laughed, in the old Dad way.
“Listen to those trees,” he said. “Listen to that Nature.”
Lizzie listened. There really wasn’t anything else to listen to. The Nature was so loud. She wondered how you usually only just heard the noisy, man-made stuff, when Nature itself was so busy.
But the spinney was still beckoning. Maybe, maybe if she actually went into the spinney, she would actually see him. She wanted to see him so much. “I want to go to the spinney, Dad,” she said.
“We don’t have to go,” he said. “There’s nothing there.”
But there must be something there. “We should go,” she insisted.
“We can go for a little walk if you want to,” Dad said.
Lizzie stood up. She started to walk slowly towards the path, with her coffee cup, Dad walking slowly along with her. When she reached the garden gate she said, Excuse me Dad, and placed her coffee cup inside the gate on the lawn. And then they started to walk together towards the spinney. And Lizzie walked next to the path, along the grass, so that Dad could walk along the path, and after a few moments she realized how slowly she was walking, along the grass, not at her usual pace, but slowly, as if a slow Dad were walking alongside her, and slowly they walked together towards the spinney. And still she did not turn, and still she did not see him.
Lizzie walked carefully into the spinney. Dad remained outside. There was a small path, a path that normally you could walk into, but in the summer was completely overgrown. There were bushes, trees, plants, shrubs all preventing anyone from entering the spinney. It was difficult to see the path. Lizzie trod cautiously along the path at first, battling against the bushes, the trees. Then she tried to run, pushing against the undergrowth, there are rats here, there are mice here. Maybe bats will fly out from above. They will get in my hair. Ahead, she could see the gate, that was her goal. Lizzie forced her way through the growth, there must be something beyond the gate.
But there was nothing. Nothing. Only the gate, only the view into the next property, on the other side of the next undergrowth.
Lizzie was scared now. She looked back. It was the same horrible way back. Her father had not come with her. He was standing and waiting, beyond the spinney. She heard him call, Come on Lizzie. Come out of there. There would be mice, rats, bats. There would be other awful things. How will I get out of here? Lizzie thought. She turned and ran. Ran through the undergrowth, pushing at the trees that blocked her path, jumping over bushes and plants that rambled over the tiny way, crying, Daddy, Daddy, I’m scared, help me, help me.
And then she was out. She was out of the spinney. And Dad was there now, he was there, and he said, Lizzie, I told you, I told you long ago, don’t be scared of things you can’t see. Don’t be scared of things you can’t see. Only of things you can see. You didn’t see anything, did you? No rats, nothing?
No, Lizzie replied, I didn’t see anything. No rats. But Dad was there now.
See, Dad said. Let’s walk back now. He was on her left side now, and his presence was comforting, as it had always been, and she was comforted by him, as she had always been.
“Why did you go into the spinney?” Dad asked.
“I had to, Daddy. I thought there was something important.”
“There was nothing important,” Dad said.
It was important that I understood that you are really here with me.
They sat again on the bench.
Lizzie waited for the sounds of the world outside, but she heard only the birds, the trees, the wind. And the silence. Had it always been like this?
They sat quietly and Lizzie was calm again, very calm. Dad seemed to be absorbing the environment slowly.
“You know,” Lizzie told him, “I guess it’s about time, they’re going to take you soon to the crematorium.”
“Ah yes, the crematorium.”
“Then you’ll be burned,” Lizzie replied. “They’re going to push you in and that’s the last of you.”
Dad laughed his little Dad laugh. “This old body’s been through so much,” he said. “I suppose it can go through that as well.” He laughed again.
Lizzie smiled. “I suppose it can,” she responded.
It was just after half-past three. “They’re going to take you Dad,” Lizzie told him. “I should be off.”
“Not yet,” Dad said. “We can stay a little longer. We still have time.”
She heard a dog, turned and saw a woman coming down the path. They had had over a half-hour of no interruption. This was clearly a signal.
“I think we should pack up, Dad. Will you be here again, if I come again?”
“I’ll be here, Lizzie,” Dad said. “I’ll be here on the bench, it’s nice here. You come again, we’ll have a little chat.”
“Goodbye Daddy.”
“I love you Lizzie.”
She was at the gate. “I love you too Daddy”, she whispered to the wind and picked up her coffee cup.
“Gran?”
“Lizzie? Is that you?”
Lizzie climbed into Gran’s bed. She put her cold feet up against Gran’s warm legs.
“Golly,” said Gran. “I’ll tell you what. Eh? I’ll tell you what!” She laughed quietly.
She put her right arm around Lizzie and Lizzie cuddled up.
“Can I have a soft-boiled egg for breakfast, Gran?”
“You can have a soft-boiled egg,” Gran said sleepily. “But only when my tummy’s rumbly. Not yet, it’s still dark, Lizzie.”
Gran was cuddly and warm. She was also wearing a pink nightie. “You wake up very early, Lizzie,” she said. “Alarm clocks not in it. Eh? We should sleep a little bit longer.”
“I can’t help it,” Lizzie replied. “It’s so exciting when you come.”
They lay in silence.
“Will you tell me a story about Daddy, Granny? About when he was little.”
“Yes,” said Gran. “I’ll tell you a story… about John… and Mary… but first we’re going to have a little sleep now.”
“Can we play Gin Rummy this morning, Gran? I think I’m really good now.”
“Now, can you do that shuffle I showed you? Eh?”
“I can shuffle now. Please can you tell me a story? Your tummy’s rumbly. I think you need breakfast soon.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. We’ll have breakfast soon.”
“With an egg.”
“Yes, with an egg.”
“But first you have to tell me a story about Daddy.”
Sigh. “Yes, all right. You know, your Daddy was a good boy. But sometimes he was a naughty boy. John was sometimes a little bit naughty. And do you know what he did, once, when he was eight years old? He…”
”There was a delay,” Mary said when she called Lizzie a week later. She had driven up to her brother’s funeral and due to misdirections to the village church had arrived at exactly two o’clock. “We thought we were going to miss everything but we got there just in time, when they started the service. That only took twenty minutes, it was extremely short! And then there was just chaos when the trip to the crematorium started. Just chaos! It took ages to get everything arranged, who was going in what cars and whatnot. But there was some kind of delay in getting the coffin off… and I don’t know what happened.”
It was a very short ceremony. Lizzie was surprised at how little time it took to sing two-and-a-half hymns (she had not been able to find all of the text of The Lord’s My Shepherd, although it had seemed like a good additional hymn before they had started) and to say four prayers and to read one eulogy. It almost seemed as if it was over before it had begun.
And once she had finished, Wills stood up, and Lizzie stood up too, and Wills put his arms around her and hugged her very tight and said, I’m so sorry. And Lizzie cried and cried again, and hugged Wills very close, and now it really was the end.
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