The Funeral

Look like someone died.......

‘If I thought this was going to be easy..’

 

His voice trailed off to a whisper. The assembled gathering waited in silence. Glancing from beneath the mass of brown hair Nathan took a moment, head bowed, gripping the lectern, knuckles white, body tense. He paused before continuing.

 

‘Look; it doesn’t matter what I say, what anyone here says. We’ve made up our minds, and no eulogy, especially one like this, is changing anything.’

 

He looked up for a split second and watched a number of mourners shuffle uncomfortably, before casting his eyes down.

 

‘Margaret was difficult’

 

Nathan paused for a second and thought he could hear a vaguely stifled chuckle in the back.

 

‘She was an exacting, tenacious and some would say demanding person. Never one to suffer fools, or take the easy way round, she remained formidable to the last.’

 

The wind had picked up carrying the chanting voices, a mere half mile away behind cast iron gates, two foot thick security fencing and armed personnel, over this select group of hand picked devotees. A police helicopter circled overhead only adding to the sense of occasion.

 

‘What many of you may not know is her passion for jam making..’

 

In that split second a few people coughed, sneezed and could be audibly heard re-adjusting their attire.

 

‘Nothing would give Margaret greater pleasure in those rare weekends off from her day job, than getting down to the country, sending her other half to the market for seasonal fruits, half a hundred weight of sugar and the necessary accessories, before getting stuck in’

 

Sunshine had threatened all day. It was humid, slightly overcast and muggy. For anyone dressed in black; which was everyone it was proving to be an uncomfortable affair, shrouded in dread with little chance of a bright spell to break the monotony. In many ways a perfect description of any length of time spent with the deceased.

 

‘She was especially proud of her damson compote. A fine accompaniment to any occasion and reputedly quite popular down the local tea rooms of Chipping Norton’

 

He turned the page over and continued to read.

 

‘Now, many of you may feel she was a tyrant, incapable of feelings, devoid of humanity and bereft of any shred of goodness; and you may have a point’

 

He let the page slip from his fingers.

 

‘But for anyone who witnessed her behind a fold out table, preserves, pin cushions and hand stitched patch work blankets delicately displayed at any number of craft fairs; would have seen someone gentle..’

 

There was that laugh again.

 

‘Kind..’

 

Again but this time slightly louder.

 

‘Approachable’

 

Now someone else had joined them.

 

‘A bastion of goodwill’

 

More laughter, at least four of them.

 

‘A matriarch; mother, and pillar of the community’

 

He glanced up in those final moments to see the whole front row; fat, thin, tall and short, ugly average and glamorous alike, folded double, hands covering collective faces unable to contain the tears which coursed from beneath veils and dark glasses in equal measure. Nathan clenched his jaw and looked past the assembled throng towards the film crew, gathered a respectful distance away who felt his ashen face best represented the grief of a nation. As the camera continued to consume his image broadcast mute, the caption simply read:  Stop All The Clocks.