George 3

Family, friends, please accept this intimation and meet at the crematorium of St Mary’s...

George senior stands outside the crematorium, dressed in the dark blue suit he last wore two years ago, to the wedding of Joseph, his only living son. Patricia, his wife of a quarter of a century, from whom he separated pleading utter indifference two years ago, leans on his arm. She holds a worried tissue in her tiny fist.

Fifteen or so guest, mostly members of their extended family, emerge from the crematorium. It is a spectacularly bright spring morning.

George senior squints up at the sun. 
“Ashes…”

In his head, he repeats the word, once, twice, as if doing so will give him a sign about what to feel. Then something breaks within him. An unexpected sensation takes over. A nauseating lightness from head to toe. Still with his head raised towards the sun, he closes his eyes and focuses on the fiery red glow on the screens of his eyelids.

A hand grips his shoulder. Uncle Tony.

George opens his eyes. 
“He wanted to be a singer.”

“You what?” asks Tony.

“He said he wanted to be a singer.”

Patricia leaves them and walks over to the mumbling group of relatives.

“What?”

“He told me a few weeks ago.

“Fuck you on about? I don’t know…”

“Neither do I...’ George looks up and closes his eyes again. “I never have. Never.”

Tony takes out his tobacco tin and quickly rolls an unfiltered cigarette. He takes a long drag, closes his mouth to hold in the smoke for a moment, then exhales.

“They’re coming over, George,” he says.

“Fuck‘em. I can’t bear ‘em. Let’s go for a walk."

They walk along the gravel path to the adjoining cemetery. Gravestones of sootblackened sandstone and lacquered granite lean at all angles. Some have collapsed completely, or vandals have kicked them over. 

George walks down the slatternly rows with Tony by his side, picking out the words.

He tries to imagine himself as a boy, fresh, soft-skinned and without spite. Nothing.
“A fucking singer.”

“George, come on…”

“It’s a fucking joke. It’s our fault, Tony. He couldn’t handle it. Why did he have to be so fucking... thick?”

“Come on, mate...”

“You know I’m right Tony. Your lot's just the same.”

“George, don't start...”

“Ah fuck off, Tony, don’t get precious. You know it as well as I do. It's shit heaped on shit. Never ends."  

“He didn’t know what he was doing. It was the drink. It had already done its damage. I know. I know what it’s like. To hit rock-bottom. Some can't hack it. It’s what happens. Round here...” 
Tony takes another deep drag and shakes his head. “It’s too much...” 

“You’re right there, lad,” says George.