Why not lie? Most lovers do. 1

Short story – part one

TIGHT for time, harassed by white vans, manoeuvring an unwieldy bicycle - this was no reflective prelude to a funeral. The lights ahead went red and Amanda smiled grimly. Marion herself would have avoided all this. Would have consulted a bus timetable, made allowances and taken a paperback. Dear Marion! Confined to her chipboard coffin and alone with her dead thoughts somewhere else in north London. Perhaps sighing towards the same destination in a genteel hearse.

A Peugeot cut in, aiming for a left turn and Amanda braked as hard as she might, squeezing the outmoded, rod-linked brakes: cursing the male clown at Jed’s Cycles who’d sworn the two-wheeler would suit a woman. “See the full-size chainguard. Keeps your nylons clean,” he’d said. No mention of the top-heavy design.

An uphill stretch and the crematorium’s ridiculous chapel came into view. A building for secular occasions that had shrunk in the wash. The pitiful steeple, fashioned by an uninspired carpenter and bolted on some lazy summer afternoon. Dear Marion! Why did you choose to die in November?

Having chained the bicycle to the imitation lych-gate Amanda looked again at her watch and realised she’d misread it. She had quarter of an hour to spare. From inside the chapel seeped an amateur recording of I Did It My Way.

I too-ook the blo-ah-ows...

Here, corpses were processed like logs in a sawmill. The crematorium was booked solid for the next three weeks, as if death had become suddenly fashionable north of Dalston.

Devon arrived by taxi, wearing mute black. At what point did one acquire  clothes specifically for funerals? But then Devon was employed by an aviation company with hints of a high salary. Quality control, whatever that was. Amanda imagined Devon sliding manicured hands along the smooth flanks of an airliner and murmuring approvingly. With nothing black in the wardrobe Amanda wore the tweed two-piece she kept for fortnightly departmental meetings. Quickly the jacket had become baggy but it had cost too much to discard. She justified keeping it on the grounds that certain aristocrats – at least in fiction – wore tweed at weekends.

Devon’s blonde cloche must have been styled that morning. She glanced around at the loiterers waiting for Marion’s incineration. Leaning, she said to Amanda: “I’ve been meaning to ask. I thought those who did themselves in were damned. Not allowed this fol-de-rol.”

“The crematorium is run by the borough council. It’s non-denominational. In any case Marion’s sister has hedged her bets by bringing in a Humanist.”

Devon shuddered. “Squalid.”

“Are you saying you’d favour – what was it? – fol-de-rol?”

“My parents are Catholics. I don’t suppose I’d have any say in the matter.” She smiled reminiscently. “But the music appeals. And the sense of certainty.”

“I’m surprised,” said Amanda.

Devon laughed, took Amanda’s elbow and guided her towards a side door that had just opened. At another corner of the building those who had just made their observances towards another corpse were streaming out and lighting cigarettes. Devon said, “We seem to have avoided talking about death. Can’t think why. None of us has led what you might call blessed lives.”

This time Amanda shuddered. But only slightly. Finally Marion’s death was becoming a reality.

The Humanist wore trainers and spoke estuarine, his style truculent. “I’m dressed casual ‘n’ there’s a reason. We’re here for what we can remember of Marion Darlington. The stuff in that coffin is no longer important; can’t be insulted by me not wearing a tie.”

The Humanist cleared his throat and for one horrid moment Amanda feared he might now spit. “We won’t be talking about souls flying business class to heaven because Marion didn’t go in for them fancies. Since she isn’t here we’ll concentrate on what she’s left us. The bits and pieces of her life. I’m standing in for Marion’s sister, Teena. Reading out what Teena remembers.”

He stared at his audience angrily. “But this group, this meeting won’t work if some of you don’t break in with your own stuff. Proof that you’re here.”  His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Proof you’re ALIVE.”

Amazingly, people did. Some in tears. To the point where Amanda herself stood up shakily, her voice strangled. “I’d... I’d like to speak. Perhaps controversially.”

A collective sigh agreed this was acceptable.

“Marion... my friend Marion ended her own life. There’s no secret about that. There was an inquest and the local paper reported it. I suppose it’s important we know these things, that sudden deaths are investigated. The verdict was ‘Suicide’ and I wouldn’t argue with that.

“Things were different when I was younger. You didn’t say, ‘Suicide’ and leave it at that. You tacked on: ‘While the balance of the mind was disturbed.’ I’m glad that’s been retired. I never liked it.

“But there may be others here who remember those words. That judgment, or whatever it was, doesn’t apply. Marion had a difficult life, definitely suffered, but she was always clear-sighted. When she decided on suicide I’m convinced she thought it through. I could guess why but that isn’t the point. Whatever the reason I’m sure it was important. And that matters. Marion didn’t die in any sort of mental fever; dying made sense and so... she died.”

Afterwards, outside the chapel, women with uncertain faces glanced at Amanda, looked away, made up their minds and tip-toed towards her. Most were incoherent. Death as such is rarely discussed that close to a crematorium; the euphemisms run out too quickly. One woman, much older, walked over briskly, touched Amanda’s arm, said, “Twas a comfort.” And left.

Devon was waiting with a people-carrier taxi capable of accommodating the bike and they travelled in silence to the pub where lunch had been ordered. Amanda was left behind as Devon strode purposefully to the bar. “Two gin and tonics. Large ones.”

Silence as they gulped at their drinks. Devon looked distractedly down at her soup, just served, and pushed it away. “And now we are only two. Were you surprised?”

“I thought she’d recovered. She always spoke thoughtfully, seemed composed. But the court case was delayed two years. So late.” Amanda paused. “It was pretty grim.”

Devon was signalling to a waiter, making circling movements. “Ah yes. You attended. I was at a conference in India. It would have been three grand down the Swanee.” She took Amanda’s hand. “How grim?”

“I’m not sure I can... He was allowed to ask her questions in court. Horrid personal questions. Was the sex consensual? Did she... enjoy it? The courts have stopped that now. She looked on the ragged edge.”

“And the bastard got one year suspended. Bastard!”

Lunchers nearby held their knives and forks in abeyance at this audible damnation. Unaware, Devon and Amanda looked into each other’s eyes. Reached for their fresh drinks the moment they touched the table.

Amanda said, “Has The Haven found new premises yet?”

“They’ve pulled down half the street. Jill, Haven’s treasurer, waylaid me at the office. I was just back from India and wrote her a monster cheque.” Devon’s eyes wandered, unfocused. “Guilt money.”

Their salads were virtually untouched as drink dulled the need to eat. Quietly Amanda asked, “Did The Haven really help? You I mean.”

The glass was an inch away from Devon’s lips but travelled no further. “It was never intended to cure our ‘ailment’ was it? It was just a place to – reluctantly – discuss the undiscussable. With others of our ilk. And after that look to our futures. One thing: I can’t imagine that first year without your company. And Marion’s.”

The latter two words carried extra passion but Amanda didn’t mind. Whatever Devon had gained from the trio, she’d been a good friend to Marion.

Amanda said, “What a strange gathering we were. Nothing in common other than our hideous... qualification.”

“Which turned out not to be as rare as we thought.”

Devon appeared to sit up straighter, eyes focused. “Dear Amanda. I’m going to pay for this, I must. It could be our last meeting.”

Amanda stared horrified.

Devon laughed harshly. “No, I haven’t got enough of Marion’s guts to top myself. But I must do something. I thought I’d won when David was sent to Belmarsh for two years but he was out within months. I’ve seen him twice in Marylebone High Street. I don’t think he saw me. As you know, I’ve moved, but I’ve never felt safe!

“And so...?”

Devon’s smile was that of a death’s head. “I’ll be sharing with Zizi.”

“But...” Quickly Amanda adjusted her voice. “Have you explained why to her?”

“Oh she’s eager. ‘Bring it on,’ she says. It seems she’s never taken part in any LGBT demos or protests. Sees looking after me as a penance.”

“But what about the other side of things? Her gayness?”

Devon put down her drink, pushed it to the other side of the table, intending these acts to be decisive. “I’ve changed. Not so surprising I suppose. My pelvis wasn’t just unbearable, it was broken by my partner. A man. And I could see - through the pain – he enjoyed it. Worse, there was no warning. We’d been together for a year or two.”

Amanda stared at Devon’s dead face, realising  she’d never before noticed such absence of expression. Devon said, “I’ve been with men since. Restaurants, the theatre, National Hunt race meetings way out in the country. Decent, attentive, entertaining men who enjoyed my company. But it was no use. Sooner or later I’d start to tremble. To wonder: Where are you hiding... that... tendency?”

Amanda nodded.

Devon added, “I was never drawn to women. Not even at school when everyone else had crushes on someone or other. I’ve explained this to Zizi and she seems to understand. Seemed to suggest there’d be nothing physical.” Devon shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps she’ll see me as a sex challenge but would two women in a bed be the worst thing in the world? What I need is some peace of mind.”

She bowed her golden cloche down to the table. “Oh God, God.”

AMANDA had taken a whole day off for the funeral and rode back to her flat in Stoke Newington. It was early afternoon and she stood indecisively in the tidied-up kitchen, unfamiliar at this time of day. Taking off her coat was mildly daring, a temporising act, not knowing what might follow.

Sitting on the sofa she could almost touch the radio but wasn’t tempted to turn it on - the programmes wouldn’t be what she was used to. Unopened letters from charities lay on the coffee table. Amanda closed her eyes and imagined Marion’s cheap coffin on fire, the sides collapsing and eager flames surging in towards softer kindling. After a while she dozed.

To be woken by knocking. Through the distorting lens of the door's spyhole she saw a young, well-muscled man in a yellow boiler suit emblazoned Southern Logistics. If he was a threat he was well disguised.

“I’m opening the door,” Amanda called out, sliding the big bolt back.

He stood there cheerfully, on the threshold. “Your neighbour’s out, would you take delivery? It will save a trip to our depot.”

She nodded, reached vaguely for the bulky cardboard box but he was ahead of her. “I’ll do it, it weighs a ton.” Now it lay, part-blocking her short hallway, as he stared at the mechanisms on the back of her front door. “So that’s what took the time, all those gadgets.”

She spoke quickly, defensively. “The old door was rickety, I had it replaced. The carpenter recommended the lock and bolt system.” Painfully aware she should have said “we” - for security reasons.

“Much safer. Good idea if you’re alone. Whoops!” He covered his mouth comically like an infant. “I shouldn’t have said it, should I? Alone. You never know who’s listening."

His apology touched her. A nice sort of lad. “I wondered if it might draw attention. As if I’d got things worth stealing.”

He looked at her, assessing her vulnerability to crimes other than theft. His face softened. “Lousy times, eh? Ever thought of an alarm bell-push, somewhere near the door? Good and loud.”

He seemed to be reaching out.

“I might look into it.” Then spread her hands. “But where will it all end? I’d hate to look pathetic.”

Silence hung between them. Might he say she wasn’t pathetic? Might he..?

“Better a couple of locks than...” His voice faded then became crisp. “Thanks for taking the box.” He was gone and she was alone. Except for Shane and the immediate past.

It was not the first time a visitor had commented on the door. It had been installed six months after the divorce when Shane had ceased to make phone calls and had come a’knocking. Marion had urged it. But others had fingered the functional ironwork and looked doubtful.

 “Well-made,” said one of her Human Resources colleagues. “Very well-made.” As if being well-made were a defect.

Shane must have guessed the nature of the door from its outside appearance. He had left a slip of paper - “This barrier just isn’t you.” – which she had read repeatedly without understanding.

Continued in Part two, below.