The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

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СКАЧАТЬ place in our family clearly defined. Rose, the eldest, the brains; Fleur, the youngest, and with her perfect heart-shaped face, the beauty. When we were young, Rose was the quiet, studious one – secretive, even. Fleur was an open book, bouncing off the walls with energy and crazy ideas. When Mum talked about me, she’d smile and say, ah Daisy, my middle child; well she’s different, she’s the dreamer. I certainly felt like I was dreaming that day. Saying a final goodbye to Mum didn’t feel possible or real.

      ‘A good turn-out,’ Anna whispered as she looked around. ‘There must be well over a hundred people here, and it’s standing room only at the back.’

      ‘I don’t know who they all are. A lot of Mum’s friends have already died,’ I replied.

      ‘Good,’ said Anna, ‘then she’ll have someone she knows to show her round when she gets to the other side.’

      ‘Maybe,’ I replied. I was glad that I’d talked about death with Mum and knew that she didn’t fear it. She was always a positive soul, endlessly curious, her nose often in a book and – in latter years – her laptop. She was very computer savvy, Queen of the Silver Surfers, forever googling, ordering on line, booking weekends away in foreign resorts or spas until she was no longer able to travel. Every autumn, she’d signed up to learn a new skill. Over the years, she’d done life drawing, learnt Italian, flower arranging, Indian cookery, tango, yoga, meditation, to name a few. When she wasn’t doing one of her courses, she played piano, painted watercolours, created a wonderful garden and home to entertain her large circle of friends and pursue her many interests. I wished that I was like her in that way, but I knew I’d felt jaded of late, disappointed in some aspects of life which had made me cynical and, at times, rather sad.

      Music began to play, Adagio by Albinoni. The hum of conversation faded and everyone stood as the pallbearers began to make their way up the aisle carrying Mum’s coffin. It was covered in masses of white roses and gypsophila, her favourites. It was the most poignant sight I’d ever seen and, with it, the finality of her death hit me hard. My knees buckled and Anna put her arm around me, steadying me.

      The vicar took his place at the front and signed that we should all sit down. As I looked at the closed coffin, I felt wracked with grief that I couldn’t see the dear being that was in there for just one more moment. I wished that I’d been with Mum at the end, been able to hold her hand one last time. I told myself again that there was no way I could have made it, but it gave me little solace. Too late, I thought, as an avalanche of emotions engulfed me: guilt, loss, sadness, anger but also, somewhere in there, relief that Mum wouldn’t have to suffer years of decline and incapacity. She’d been frail the last time I saw her, struggling to see as well as walk. ‘Old age isn’t for sissies,’ she’d said.

      Rose had asked if I wanted to do a reading but I’d said no. I didn’t think I could have kept it together. Clearly Rose and Fleur felt the same, because it was Hugh who got up and read ‘Miracles’ by Walt Whitman, in his confident public schoolboy’s voice, followed by Martha, the friend Mum had made in the retirement village.

      ‘Who’s she?’ Anna whispered as she walked to the front with the help of an expensive-looking walking stick. Although elderly, she was a tall, striking woman, impeccably turned out, her hair dyed a subtle ash blonde, her nails a not-so-subtle red.

      ‘That’s Martha.’

      ‘She’s fabulous. Looks like she might whack anyone who got in her way with that stick.’

      I didn’t know much about her, apart from the fact she’d been a Bluebell Girl in Paris when she was younger, then married a consultant and lived in the Far East until her return to England ten years ago to be nearer her son and daughter.

      Martha read ‘A Song of Living’ by Amelia Burr then, finally, Mum’s oldest friend and neighbour, Jean, got up and read ‘Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep’ by Mary Elizabeth Frye. I’d known Jean all my life; she was like a sister to Mum. I was moved to see the effort it took her to walk up to the front then talk about Mum in her familiar Scottish accent. An image of her as a young woman in tennis whites popped into my mind. Mum was mad about tennis too, and she played most weekends with Jean and her late husband Roy, whilst Rose, Fleur and I sat on benches by the courts and stuffed ourselves with cucumber sandwiches and lemonade. I’d always liked Jean. She was full of life, shared Mum’s sense of humour, but was smart too. As well as bringing up her family, she’d studied gardening, ran a very successful landscape design business and written and sold many books on all aspects of the subject long before it became fashionable. Now here she was, an old lady with white hair, slightly bent with age.

      After the reading, she went on to speak fondly about Mum, her sunny outlook, her love of her daughters, and for a few moments she brought Mum’s image, sharp and bright, into the chapel. A memory from when I was little flashed into my mind as Jean spoke of Mum’s lifelong love of pranks. If ever Rose, Fleur or I went out of a room to get something, Mum and Jean thought it hilarious to hide behind the curtains or sofa, so we’d return to an empty room and wonder where everyone had gone. They were still doing it when we were teens, much to our embarrassment.

      And then it was over. Twenty minutes and time’s up. Twenty minutes to sum up a life, then she’s out and the next one’s in. That can’t be it, can it? I’d thought. Eighty-seven years of a full and well-lived life ends with a few readings, a bit of music, a eulogy and a couple of lines from the vicar.

      Doors at the back were opened and sunlight streamed back in. As the ushers motioned us to leave, a track began to play over the loudspeakers. ‘Wish Me Luck (As You Wave Me Goodbye.)’ Typical Mum. She would have wanted to leave us laughing, and it was that reminder of her sense of humour that brought the tears.

      *

      The gathering after the funeral was held at an old pub near Hampstead Heath where Rose had booked an upstairs room.

      ‘Weird to have a party where the guest of honour is missing,’ said Anna as we walked into the bar area, where a buffet had been laid out and which was already full of people drinking, talking, catching up.

      ‘True, and Mum did like a party. She’d have liked this, to have seen all her nearest and dearest in one place,’ I said. I wasn’t in the mood for making idle chatter, though: my sole aim there was to find Rose and Fleur. I knew that they would have been grieving as I had, and hoped that we could be some comfort to each other.

      Rose was on autopilot on the other side of the room by a window, organizing, greeting, making sure people had drinks. I glimpsed Fleur over at the bar on her own, her back turned. I tried to make my way over but was waylaid by various people offering condolences and sandwiches for which I had no appetite.

      After a short while, I saw Rose go out in the corridor.

      ‘I’m going to go and find Rose,’ I said to Anna.

      ‘Good. I’ll wait here,’ she replied, and she plonked herself down next to an old dear who looked like she didn’t know a soul.

      I found Rose alone in the kitchen area. ‘Rose, can we talk?’

      She barely looked at me. ‘Not the time or place,’ she said, then proceeded to issue an order to a waitress. I felt gutted by her response.

      I went back into the main room and looked for Fleur at the bar, but she’d disappeared so I went back to Anna.

      ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

      I shook my head. ‘Rose is too busy and I think Fleur may have gone. She never was one СКАЧАТЬ