THE FUNERAL

I've written quite a lot of short stories and this is possibly one of the saddest.

Lollipop Lily had been the apple of her father's eye until she decided to live bang in the middle of the “red” district of town and sport pink curtains in her low-lit windows, and then, in his eyes, she became the worst creature in his Universe. The man who had proudly said things like this is my lovely daughter … she is perfect … I love her to bits ...had to admit to himself that she was flawed in the worst possible way.

The truth is, no man likes to admit that his daughter understands anything carnal at all, and many linger in that strange parental fog in which she is an eternal virgin, living in cloud cuckoo land. And Lollipop Lily's father had an utter and naïve belief in the total innocence of his daughter. To him she would always be the child she had once been.

And then she moved in to the red light district and as good as put up signs inviting men of means to come and see her etchings.

She was, in essence, one of the sweetest creatures to grace this good Earth, only she had a fondness for the flesh which was, to put it kindly, on the generous side. Added to a real need to increase her wealth without finding a rich husband (rich men, she had decided, were often rich for a reason, and that reason more often than not had to do with an unpleasant side-serving of selfishness) and knowing that everything has a value and her pretty cheeks quite a high one, she set about a career as a fancy courtesan.

Let's consider her for a moment. In her early twenties she was magnificent, and it was when she was at that age that her father's eye lost its apple. She had been blessed by her genes and Nature with two lovely long legs, the sort that don't terminate in emaciated thighs but continue for ever with a kind of fleshy glory the like of which stirs a man's basest hormones like nothing else can. And she had about her an intelligent wisdom that informed her that, excellent as those legs were, it's always best to keep something for afters, so she never made the mistake of wearing skirts or dresses that were very short.

Her hair was the sort that needed little attention to appear luxurious and have the appearance that she might have spent long hours having it dressed. She didn't. It was natural, mousy blonde and extravagant. And when she chanced to walk past a fellow that same hair dispensed an aroma that was both alluring and suggestive of an unbelievable cleanliness.

You want more? Her shape, atop those wonderful legs of hers and below that bouffant hair, was classical. And men, all men, like the classical shape in women, even women they are strangers to and will probably never befriend or speak to. There was never any debate as to whether she had augmented Mother Nature's best efforts with artificial enhancements of a silicon nature because she hadn't, and that much was delightfully obvious.

So the courtesan Lollipop Lily, despite being a fallen apple, had a great deal going for her.

And, men and nature being what they are, she soon found she had more friends and acquaintances than a girl could ever hope to cater for, and that despite a list of fare that was expensive, to say the least, she was never alone.

The consequence of her beauty and social trading situation was that her bank account became somewhat bloated. She was still short of thirty when she knew that whatever she needed she could get merely by writing a cheque that would be honoured without question.

And she was still short of thirty when she discovered something about the world she lived in that was to haunt her for the remainder of her days.

Her father passed away.

She knew that people died, though maybe not parents. She knew there was sickness that could carry a person off at any age, but it didn't afflict parents. And she had known with a certainty that was based on less than the weight of the air she breathed that one day, sooner rather than later, she would make peace with he who had treasured her during the growing years. They would be friends again one day. They had to be.

And suddenly it was too late.

The news arrived that her father had passed away. That he was no more than fragmented memories in a fragrant bouffant head.

She found herself taking charge of “the arrangements”. She told her mother not to worry, she could do it, she owed her dad that much. And after all, she had accumulated the wealth to afford the best.

She set about making it the king of funerals. She ordered the church, the most celebrated in the county, she worked at the ceremony, and although the precious man had left her a few notes she ignored them.

She paid for a graveyard plot. She arranged for the finest of coffins with the glitziest of shining handles.

This was to be her tribute. Her apology. Her way of making amends.

She explained to the clergyman who was to speak the eulogy all she knew about her dad. She spoke glowingly about the man he had been. The things he had said. The way he had smiled. His pride walking in public with his daughter, the girl with the long, long legs.

And the service ran according to her plan.

And afterwards, her mother, weeping like the bereaved do, shook her head, more in sorrow than in anger.

“He would have hated it,” she stammered through her tears. “The church, the graveyard plot, the coffin, the hymns, everything.”

“But mummy!” exclaimed Lollipop Lily, shocked.

“He lost his faith in God when the devil took you and turned you to sin,” wept the mother, “didn't you read his notes? He wrote that he wanted the simplest funeral, with any trace of God kicked out of it. And if there was a Heaven, though he didn't believe in it, but if there was, he wanted to go to Hell!

“Because he believed it could only be in Hell that he'd ever meet up with you again...”

Author's Note

I've called this fiction because the characters never lived, but I'm prepared to bet there are some who recognise the concept behind it