Fionnuala has an aunt from Monaghan who passed away recently and we went to the funeral. Genghis came too and I could see his narrow eyes as he sat in the back seat.
I zoned out after a while as I drove through the picturesque countryside with its cute little hills, neat hedges and gleaming villages.
Fionnuala and Genghis chatted away about what their relations were up to and how many kids they had; arming themselves for the small talk ahead.
All of a sudden, we drove into thick fog and I had to slow down dramatically; but it soon lifted and we got to the chapel in good time.
It was a strange congregation that we met. The aunt in the coffin was elderly so there was no dreadful sorrow; but her husband had predeceased her and I saw the black suits in the front row and felt for them.
“Three sons,” Fionnuala told me. “One in Connecticut, one in Bolton and one at home. All so different. We hardly know them.”
I looked at them again. They were even different physically. One big, one small and one medium-sized; but all now orphans.
The choir (which I couldn’t see) sounded old and wheezy, as did the organ, but the combined sound was mesmeric: Soul of my Saviour, Abide with Me and Make Me a Channel of Your Peace had me drifting away, thankful I wasn’t sitting at the front in a dark suit and borrowed tie.
I met the three lads on the way out and was surprised by their bright mood.
“Ah, you’re the famous Fionnuala’s better half,’ the biggest one bellowed as the others shook my hand, laughing.
“Appreciate your presence,” the American one boomed. “Staying for drinks?” the little one play-punched me.
The graveyard was about a mile and a half away and as we all lined up behind the hearse, I wondered was there relief for these boys.
The two that lived away were now free to stay away and was the one at home free from a burden? Were they genuinely happy? At their mother’s funeral?
“Your cousins are in a party mood.”
Fionnuala barely looked at me. “They have shed plenty of tears and will shed plenty more.”
I wasn’t so convinced, as I saw them guffawing with some woman, but as the cortege crept along up the hill, the mist from earlier descended again and they disappeared softly.
Then, bizarrely, the hearse began to make an unusual noise and smoke puffed out of the exhaust. Mixed in with the fog, the garb and the southern setting, it was like a scene from The Wind That Shakes the Barley.
The hearse coughed up more smoke and then the noise all stopped and there was a conflab. I looked over, stunned, the bonnet open and some men poring over the engine.
Everyone stood around clumsily, never having been in this predicament.
Genghis came over. “It’s red diesel in the engine. The undertakers have been using laundered fuel and it has lay down on them.
“They don’t have another hearse and they’ve ruled out a tractor and link-box so we will have to lift her. C’mon you.”
The hearse coughed up more smoke and then the noise all stopped and there was a conflab. I looked over, stunned, the bonnet open and some men poring over the engine
I stared at Fionnuala. “It’s over a mile – it’s too far.” But there weren’t many young men and I had to line up with the mis-matched sons and Genghis and off we went.
It was a torrid affair, the coffin cutting into my shoulder like a knife, as we shuffled on steadily and lumpily, the sons now silent as ice picks.
There was definitely a sense of relief when we saw the graveyard gates through the gloom and as she was laid to rest, my legs trembled so much that I almost fell in with her.
Her exhausted sons just watched with grim, sorrowful faces.
Rest in peace.