Creative Writing 2: Gone

Bells joyfully tolled the hour as I reluctantly walk up the path towards Holy Cross Church, tugging at my stiff suit; the ridged collar choking me. My Mum gives me that look and I leave my clothes alone, following her wake in silence. The big red doors are flanked with mourners obediently dressed in black standing in silence; waiting. Family I haven’t seen in years, friends I didn’t know I had, here out of duty more than respect, all murmuring their mantra: ‘sorry for your loss’. Eventually we’re ushered in, the bright warmth of a beautiful summer’s day feeling in stark contrast to the cool gloom within. Smells of dust, old fabric and wood, mingled with the powerful fragrance of lilies, overwhelming my senses and making me nauseas. I focus on feet to block out what lies ahead. A tiled path of brick red diamond, worn to a polished finished through years of use, squeak under the soles of my shoes dispersing the thick silence. I don’t want to look up; to take in the scene, so I keep me concentration down as I take my seat - look anywhere by there! Dirty wooden planks made up the rest of the floor, marked and scared where pews had been moved and paint dripped during redecoration. Although it must have been a while ago as the white washed wall looked tired: scuffed and worn. Here and there are plaques in memory of those long since past: William Alfred Clark 1898-1980, Justice of the Peace, Churchwarden of this Parish; Revd David Bayford late Curate of this Parish who died Nov 28^th 1792 age 24 years and 4 month – why mention the 4 months? I try to image these people and how they lived, but I can’t seem to hold the thoughts. That smell! I can’t get over the smell! So musty, like an old persons home, making me want to sneeze. My legs are becoming numb and painful on the hard narrow wooden pew with its upright back. There’s a tatty cushion, but its padding is non-existent. I fidget to try and get more comfortable, but the wood raucously grates, disrupting the silence. I’m suddenly aware of eyes glaring at me, so I stop fidgeting, sit up straight and look forward for the first time. The vicar is already in full flow, but I’m not listening and the sound just echoes back out of my mind. There it is: polished wood and brass handles. Emotion immediately starts to well inside me I quickly look away again to stifle the throbbing in my chest. I look up to the high vaulted ceiling with its dark wood beams and deep red paintwork. To my surprise it seems to be littered with red and silver shiny balloons! There must be eight of more. I wondered what they were at first shining in the gloom – spot lights. No, they are definitely balloons. What occasion would have lead to balloons in a church? The whole place reeks of sombre formality: sit up straight and be quiet; best Sunday clothes; jacket and clean shoes. It’s hard for me to imagine laughter and frivolity sat here in the dusty gloom, especially now; especially today. I’m suddenly aware of everyone getting to their feet. The organist begins to play and voices start to sing in a monotone. A tug on my shoulder and slowly I rise too, glad to move my numb limbs, although now it’s harder to look anywhere else but ahead of me. I feel the grief rising in my stomach and swallow hard. I can’t cry. I won’t cry! I’m the man of the house now and men don’t cry! Desperately I tried to move my focus, concentrate on something else to remove myself from here and now. I notice a huge contrast in the decor around the alter, like great swathes of history had all been merged into one place: dark gothic like ornate carved wood, giving way to a teak 70s style balustrade and an ultra modern light wood sculptured table. Yet everywhere the fabric looks old and tired against the permanency of the wood: cushions faded from red to a warm orange; carpets worn to a dark shiny finish with constant traffic; a table cloth that was probably white now just looks creamy yellow with age, a lose thread hanging down. The hymn now over, everyone sits and I go back to concentrating on the floor; my shoes; my hands. I try to think of other things, but every thought is of the past – I can’t seem to escape it: a family picnic; fishing at the lake; being scolded for breaking the window with my ball. And in every memory he is there – my Dad. I miss him so much. I confront the coffin in front of me, veiled in foliage; the word DAD spelt out in white carnations hammers my anguish home. I can’t help it now. The tears start to roll down my cheeks like a monsoon filled river, my body convulsing as if in pain, I can’t seem to get my breath. I sniff hard to stop my nose running, adding to the mess of my face, and automatically go to wipe it with the back of my sleeve. A hankie appears in my view, held in a shaking hand, and I look to see my Mother’s face smile at me, her eyes glistening with tears. She puts her arm around me and draws me close to her.
‘It’ll be ok James, I promise.’ She whispered in my ear and, as I breathe her in and feel her warmth surrounding me, I know it will.