Prologue
"The last dream of every dying soldier
I’ve seen you there
Flowers in your hair
The last king of every dying empire
Just let it die
Sit back enjoy the ride"
I never had grandparents. I barely had a father figure to hold on to for the past twenty years. I didn't even know I needed one since my mother always did the work for both. And yet...
I look up at everyone present. All the pub’s most loyal patrons are here, with their wives and a few children in tow; the tenants of the various apartments scattered around the neighbourhood, who would have no business being here, and the occasional customers. There are the business's neighbours: the greengrocer on the corner, the gossipy seamstress whose shop is the window next to ours, Rajivh from the phone shop and Evie from the minimarket down the street. There’s even my brother, who ran here as if I couldn’t face another loss alone. Looking around, it seems like there’s half the population of Swaffham gathered here, but instead we’re just the people Bradford has crossed paths with in his life. Everyone except the ones who have died. Or rather, they’re here too, except that their presence is testified by the gravestones with their photographs on. Old friends, comrades in arms and his beloved Harriet, who he spoke dearly to me on rainy nights, when the pub was empty, the lights almost completely off and melancholy was on his wrists. His eyes still watered when her name touched his lips and, even against my will, I couldn't help but feel a bittersweet pang in my stomach, as if his pain was partly mine, as if I had known her and loved her too. Bradford was that figure I didn't know I needed. He taught me so much, he gave me something.
I shove my hands in the pockets to hide my fists, looking away from the polished wood of the coffin and the flowers that have been placed on it. White camellias and yellow carnations, a few pale blue roses. It’s not at all the wreath you’d expect at a funeral, but I had no say in the matter. I tried to do my best in the hours after he passed, but it wasn’t my job to take care of all this. I would have done it without hesitation, of course. I would have done anything for him, but I would have torn Mabel’s last act of love for her grandfather.
My gaze slides quickly over the gravel around the open grave, over the first hints of green grass and her flat, elegant shoes. I trace my gaze up her pale, thin ankles to the hem of the skirt that swirls around her in the sultry breeze of this late July. It’s hot, but not hot enough to keep us from wearing dark clothes.
Mabel’s arms emerge from a three-quarter-sleeve shirt. She holds them close to her chest, as if to support herself. She wears a number of gypsy rings that make me wrinkle my nose at how tapered they make her fingers. Next to her, her father has almost the same pose.
My gaze suddenly changes direction when the priest asks if anyone here wants to say “a last goodbye to our deceased brother.”
In the silence that follows I can hear my heart pounding like a bass drum.
I wish I could shed a single tear, it would be appropriate after all he has done for me, after the good he has offered me without expecting anything in return.
And yet.
Mabel steps back, as if to make room for her father, and unexpectedly I find her a breath from my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I see her sharp profile, a little too hard with that curved nose and high cheekbones. Her hair is plastered to her cheeks. I’d only seen her a handful of times before today: at Bradford’s birthday parties, when she’d take a whole week off to be with him, take little trips to the seaside, and at Christmas. Every now and then he’d go to visit her in Norwich. He’d leave on the 7:11 bus, secretly excited like a child. I’d walk him to the station myself, then three days later I’d find myself having to pick him up in the evening, before my shift at the pub started. The way his eyes would fill with joy, with new life when his wonderful little Mabel made time for him was something I’d never seen before. As I said, I never had the privilege of grandparents, and she was the only granddaughter Bradford had. She was a part of him and his Harriet, and for that he loved her with all his heart, perhaps more than he had loved his son. For that reason, taking away her responsibility for the funeral arrangements would have been a wrong not only to her, but also to the old Bradford, to his still-too-vivid memory; so I waited for her to arrive. She stood before me in her pajamas, eyes honey-colored and puffy, hair in disarray. We looked at each other as if we had some sort of unfinished business, I don't know why; perhaps I was jealous of her grief, of the fact that she could express it, and she of the fact that her grandfather had kept her in the dark about his deteriorating health, involving a person who must have been a stranger to her. Nevertheless, she allowed me to be by her side while she took care of everything. In her own way, she made me feel involved, she asked my advice on a couple of issues, but again, I can't explain why.
Bradford had warned me: "My niece is not an easy girl, you know? But once you have her heart, you have the world." She has proven it these days. She has done her utmost to arrange everything to obtain a ceremony worthy of the man we are saying goodbye to.
I look at her fingers again.
She doesn't move.
She looks like a statue.
And yet...
When my eyes reach her neck I feel a tightness in my stomach, I hesitate for a second, then I meet the line of her jaw and the tear that is on the verge of falling. It fell silently, without anyone noticing her.
I hadn't seen her cry yet. I knew she had done it the night she returned to Swaffham, probably today before they closed the coffin, but I hadn't seen the actual crying till this moment. The instinct to hug her advances inside me, it makes my fists itch inside my pockets and I tell myself that, even if she needs it, I don't know her enough and I envy her too much to be able to act. I wish I could be allowed to feel what she feels, to share the void that Bradford left to dare a contact, to not make her feel alone since she isn't, but I keep quiet and remain in my place, distant as always.
Mabel suddenly turns slightly in my direction, as if she had heard the murmur of my desires. My heart sinks when I notice the vividness of her gaze. It is penetrating, so much so that I feel it pushing against my skin. She keeps her lips tight and does not take her attention away from my face, then one corner of her mouth tenses and finally I hear her voice again: «He decided to die just to make me your boss!» My throat goes dry, my eyebrows rise and, in her tone, I suddenly hear his. «Stubborn to this extent, incredible!» Without stopping smiling, she advances again, then takes another step and one more. In her sarcasm I can see an infinite sweetness, a war in full swing between suffering, resignation and that energy that also distinguished her grandfather - and I can't help but find myself biting my lower lip to hold back a laugh while she bends over and with those amused lips places a kiss on the wooden box.
God!, I sigh between thoughts, running my tongue over my canines, that asshole Bradford really gave me a tough nut to crack!
