The Crying Game

My name is Olivia Lomax and I’m a Professional Mourner. It’s a very subtle way of explaining what I do, what I’m drawn to, which I can only describe as a compulsion, a need, to attend the funerals of people that I don’t even know. To immerse myself with the mourners, the criers, to feel their grief. It’s not a role I get paid for but I treat it seriously as in I prepare myself beforehand, do my research so to speak, although it’s very rare that I’m approached or asked alarming questions. When grief shows its ugly face, most mourners don’t recognise an imposter.

There’s quite a ritual to being a Professional Mourner, a preparation, which I find soothing and calming, something I seem to need since I’ve become a widow, a young widow at that, for I was only thirty-six years old, two years ago when Arnie was killed on the road by a drunk driver. He’d just had his 40th birthday. A man in his prime.

The ritual goes like this. First of all I make coffee, hot and strong, and inhale the heady aroma as I place it on the occasional table at my elbow. The next step is to rustle through the local paper, a pristine folded newspaper pushed through the letter box by a boy eager for his pocket money, to find the Family Notices, all the time getting a kick out of the acrid smell of the ink that coats my finger-tips with its bluey-black sheen. Sometimes it’s just a name that catches my eye, sometimes an age, someone particularly young or particularly old, someone around my own age, or sometimes there’s no specific reason for my selection of “the one”, except perhaps an anxious feeling deep in my gut, an increase in the beat of my heart or the rising of the hairs on the back of my neck.

That’s what I’m doing now, sitting in the front room searching through the list of names, bug eyed, the coffee cooling beside me, whilst the day beyond the window streams in bright and sunny, falling across the carpet in long golden bands. Glancing up I see crimson October leaves prising themselves from the trees to drift on the breeze and coat the lawn so it resembles one of those new wall to wall, or fitted as they call them now, multi-coloured carpets. I hear the gabbled voice of a DJ from the wireless followed by the haunting strains of “Telstar”, its musical notes seeming to dance in the air, it’s just so good.

A name jumps out at me as if it’s been emboldened with dark type, and the thought, that’s the one, flashes through my mind. Elsie Naylor, aged 76, beloved wife, mum, grandma, aunty and sister, will be very sadly missed. I feel a pleasurable tingle in the tips of my fingers at having found her. Isn’t that what they say happens to tarot readers when they find the right card? The pleasurable anticipation that something is about to happen, but can’t for the life of them think what it could be. Why her though? Why Elsie Naylor? She was neither very old nor very young … and the funeral is today which is usually a big no no. I like to give myself more time before the event, but the feeling was there, and that was enough for me, no doubt about it.

It’s not a new thing you know, being in the crying game. Oh no! It’s not an invention of the swinging sixties by any means, although some of the young people nowadays seem to think that the world begins and ends with the sixties, that there’s never been a time like it, with their outlandish fashions and make-up, their music, and their “life is for living” mantra, oh not forgetting their alcohol and their drugs. Totally forgetting I think about all the men that didn’t make it back from the war in the not so distant past. Yeah, what happened to “life is for living” then eh?

Getting back to being a Professional Mourner, there are other names for it, you know, either a moirologist or even a mute or a sobber, a wailer or a crier. It goes back much further than today, to ancient times, to times when a packed funeral was considered to mean something, to show the status and worth of the deceased. There’d always be a woman following the coffin (men were deemed unfit for the job as they were supposed to appear strong and unwilling to show emotion like grief), crying loudly and tearing at her hair and clothes in a frenzy as, apparently, in some countries, over the top mourning is a sign of respect.

Or in the case of mum’s brother, Uncle Leonard, who was a great fan of attending funerals after his wife, Loretta, died young like Arnie, said, “It was the food for me. I always got a good meal out of being a Professional Mourner.” He was the same as me though, never got paid for it, wouldn’t dream of taking money, but just did it for the ritual, the company, to see that he wasn’t the only one who had experienced loss and heartache, and that it happened all the time, every day.

Now that I’ve made up my mind and have picked “the one”, I dress carefully in my good black coat over a black dress, shiny black shoes, black stockings, a string of pearls for tears strung around my neck. Always a nice touch I thought, the creamy white of the pearls amazing against the starkness of the black. I even perch a little black hat on my mane of dark hair, a veil hanging from its brim over my eyes and my mouth, adding an air of mystery and allure.

Letting myself out of the house, I tip tap along Ilkley’s busy High Street, past the wide open doors of the cafe’s and the shops, as I make my way to the local parish church. I arrive just in time to see the hearse pull up outside and several men dressed in black suits get stiff backed out of the car and with great skill, take the flower laden coffin onto their shoulders, swaying slightly from side to side as they make their way along the short gravelled path to the church entrance.

More black cars arrive and a man who I take to be the widower unrolls slowly from the back seat like a length of liquorice supported on both sides by young women who I take to be his daughters. They’re followed by two men who could be their husbands, or boyfriends or indeed their own brothers, it’s hard to tell as they walk steadily behind with no linking of arms or hands. All their attention is on the old man, the widower, who puts up a shaky hand to remove his trilby hat as he ducks through the massive doorway into the church.

Inside it’s cool and shadowy after the brightness outside and there’s a dampness overlaid with the sweet smell of incense. Lozenges of coloured light, blue, red, yellow and green, fall through the stained glass windows onto the tiled floor. I slip into a pew at the back and watch as the black suited men place the coffin at the altar and the man flanked by the women and the two other men take their seats at the front, bowing their heads deep into their laps as they sit down. I notice that the widower man’s shoulders shake as if he’s crying, his drooping grey head, without its hat, fragile and sad.

A tall blonde man is sitting in the row behind them, good looking in a Hollywood arty type of way. His profile and floppy hair similar to Robert Redford in that film “Barefoot in the Park,” (a film that makes me feel insanely jealous of Jane Fonda), although this man wears thin gold rimmed glasses. I wonder where he fits in to this scenario. Someone with his looks, where’s his place in the family? Does he know the widower, the daughters, or the sons-in-law? He must know the deceased or he wouldn’t be here. Although, I think with a nasty prick of conscience, I don’t know her and I’m here but at least I sit far back in the church, not near the front with the family. He appears to be alone. I narrow my eyes as I look at him, wondering, surmising. Yes, are you getting it now? That there’s a lot more to being in the crying game than most people could ever know.

“Every time I attend a funeral, I think of Arnie and tell myself that there were never any bad times, but really I know that isn’t true.”

***

One of the women approaches me at the wake, one of the women I’d seen supporting the widower as he stumbled into the church. I’d been afraid of that for I’d felt her eyes following me for a long time. She’s small and dumpy with a blonde bob framing her chubby face. Her eyes are red rimmed and her lipstick smudged somehow onto her front teeth. Juggling with a plate of food and a drink, she holds out her hand and asks, “How did you know my mother? I’m so very curious.” She puts the plate of half eaten food on a nearby table but raises the glass to her lips and takes a deep draft of something very dark and aromatic.

Startled, I hold out my hand to shake hers. My heart thumps uneasily as I stammer, “Well, I …” The fleeting thought, “why didn’t I do my homework?” rushes through my mind before it closes down to a terrifying blankness and all I can do is stare at the face that looms in front of me, the expression hopeful. All at once I feel the pressure of a warm hand on the small of my back and a voice says, “I’m sorry to butt in here but it’s me that knew your mother, not my wife here. I asked her to come along with me, moral support you know -“

I feel his gaze on me as he carries on speaking, his voice smooth as silk. I take a sneaky peak upwards through my fringe to see it’s the man with the Robert Redford blonde hair, the man that had been sitting in the pew just behind the grieving family. His hand stays firmly on the small of my back, hot and scorching, as I stand rooted to the spot, my heart thumping into my ears. I try to keep my head down so the woman can’t see the bright red blush that I know is staining my cheeks.

“Oh, I see,” gushes the woman, gazing up at him as if he’s a God, “Well, how do you know my mother then?” She sounds warm and interested, her head held to one side, as she holds out her hand and they shake heartily. People ebb and flow around us to a background of hushed chatter and the chinking of glasses and plates.

He gave a small dry chuckle and said, “She was my teacher, the best teacher I ever had. If it wasn’t for her, there’s no way my English grades would have been so good.”

“She would have been so pleased to hear that,” said the woman. “She devoted her life to her teaching, thought about retiring for years but couldn’t, didn’t want to let go …”

“She was very good,” he re-affirmed.

“I’m her daughter, Sheila, by the way,” said the woman, “And I followed in her footsteps. I’m a teacher too.”

A voice sounded from nearby, “Sheila, Sheila, where are you?” And then catching sight of her, “Oh, sorry to interrupt but Dad wants you.” It was the other woman, a virtual clone of Sheila, same hairstyle, same lipstick, but younger.

“I am sorry,” she said to us, “But I have to go. Thank you so much for coming.” She held out her hand again, limp this time as if it was fed up of the whole thing and wanted to hide away somewhere alone.

“Come darling,” he said, “Probably about time for us to go too?”

I give a stilted nod as, with his hand still on my back, he steered me towards the door and pushing it open, we stepped out into the earthy October day, where colourful leaves shook on the trees, a vibrant backdrop to the china blue sky. I felt too warm in my thick black coat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before I could voice my humiliation at what had just taken place, “I just had to intervene - “

“Yes,” I butted in, “Thank you, I didn’t have a clue what to say.” I looked up at him for the first time, stretching my neck because of his height. My heart raced again at his extreme good looks, at his floppy blonde hair and bright green eyes shielded only slightly by the wire rimmed glasses. “But did you really have to say I was your wife?”

He gave a small grin, “Sorry, first thing that came to mind.” And then frowning a little said, “Are you a professional mourner?”

I started a little at that and said carefully, “What makes you think that?”

He shook his head slightly as he dug his hands into the pockets of his long overcoat that he wore over a smart black suit. “Well, you didn’t seem to know anybody there. If you’d known the deceased surely you’d have answered, um, what’s her name?”

“Sheila?” I said.

“Yeah,” he smiled, “Sheila’s question?” He took a gold cigarette case from the breast pocket of his dark overcoat and took one out, placed it in between his lips. I couldn’t help but stare. “Just a thought,” he said when I didn’t reply. “There’s nothing wrong with being a professional mourner. I know loads of people do it, paid and unpaid.” He proffered the cigarette case towards me but I shook my head. He took a deep drag, turning his head away from me as a long funnel of grey smoke spiralled into the air.

“You do?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure I do. Hey, I haven’t introduced myself. Nick Jackson.” He held out his hand.

“Olivia Lomax.” I took his hand and gave a stifled gasp as a feeling like a jolt of electricity coursed through my body making me shiver.

“Are you cold? How about we grab a cup of coffee from somewhere? There’s a few nice coffee places around here, Ilkley is renowned for Betty’s? I’ve got time before getting back to work.” I caught a slight southern burr in his accent unlike mine which, even though I was from this part of the world, was a soft Yorkshire unlike some that was hard and broad.

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” I said, shaking my head adamantly, “I have to go.”

He took another drag of the cigarette, spiralling the smoke over his shoulder before turning to face me, his green eyes sparkling in a shaft of sunlight behind the wire rimmed glasses, “Got a husband waiting at home?”

“No,” I said, “Um, ah, my husband died - “

There was a short silence before I said again, “I really must go.” I turned away as he threw the fiery red cigarette stub to the ground and crushed it with his shiny black shoe. A cool breeze blew around my legs like ghosts making me hunch my shoulders to my ears. Cars honked and tyres screeched on the busy road. The greasy smell of pizza and freshly brewed coffee hung in the air.

“I’m sorry about your husband. Look, if you change your mind about that coffee, or even a drink sometime, let me know.” He held out a business card which hesitantly I took and placed in my handbag, clicking the large clasp shut with a snap.

“Thank you,” I said formally, putting out my hand and shaking his. “You rescued me from an embarrassing situation.” I turned and began to walk away, my heart thumping, wondering if he would call me back, insist on taking me for that drink, half hoping that he would. I glanced once over my shoulder to see him still standing there, staring with narrowed eyes, another cigarette drooping from his mouth. He raised his hand in a wave as I hurriedly looked away from him and walked away quickly, my heels tip tapping along the High Street.

***

The phone was ringing when I got home. I picked up the black Bakelite receiver and pressed it to my ear, “Hello? 5184.”

“Livvie darling, Jo here, how are you dear?”

I smiled at her husky voice, loud and clear despite the background noise of chinking glasses and chatter, the thump thump of some song playing, Jo no doubt with a squat glass of dark liquid in her hand and a cigarette in a long black holder clasped between two fingers. Jo my best friend since school. Joanna Jenkins until she married Stuart Lynch six years ago.

“Oh I’m fine, where are you?”

“At a simply delightful little get together for work - a meeting with a twist would you believe?” She giggled childishly and then took a deep drag on her cigarette, the sucking sound clearly audible in my ear.

“Wow, I wish I worked where you did.” I don’t know why I said that because I didn’t really. Sitting behind a desk day after day selling advertising space wasn’t my idea of fun. Jo seemed to thrive on it.

“How many times have I said I could put a word in for you? But you will insist on carrying on Arnie’s business. “Precious Pastimes” indeed! And then of course there’s your somewhat shady dealings with funerals.” She giggled again.”

“Hey “Precious Pastimes” is a lucrative little business, and as for the funerals, I think I’m going to stop that. It’s been two years now since Arnie, it’s time I think.”

“Hey, stop that!” Jo’s voice was muted now as if she was holding the receiver away from her ear.

“Jo?”

“Sorry Livvie darling, just trying to hold off some guy who’s hitting on me …” Her voice became muted again, “Leech!” I could hear a man’s deep tones, “Hey lady …don’t call me that …” and then a silence, “Jo?” Some guy always seemed to be bothering her, married or not.

“Sorry about that. Look Livvie, reason I’m ringing, I’ve got somebody I’d just love you to meet …”

“No,” I said straight away, “No more blind dates, Jo, they’ve all been disasters, I don’t need another one!” Always assuming it was a man and not a woman that Jo wanted me to meet.

“This is different, you wait til you see this guy, he’s gorgeous. You must meet him, Livvie, you just must!”

“No!”

“You owe me one, Livvie -”

“No I don’t!”

“Yes you do. I smuggled cigarettes to you - when you were inside - and the blade, if I’d got caught, wow …”

“Ssh,” I hissed, “Somebody will here you! And anyway, isn’t that what friends do?”

“Yeah, at a price … it’s payback time … tomorrow night Livvie, The Grove, 8 o’clock on the dot … you’ll be blown away …okay?”

“Okay,” I said slowly, reluctantly, “But this is the last time …”

“You won’t regret it,” she said breezily as she hung up and a buzzing sound like bees had somehow got into the receiver sounded through my ear. I placed the receiver carefully back into its cradle, disgruntled and annoyed with Jo for making me cave in again and go on another of her blind dates. She’d set me up with so many men since Arnie died, I’d lost count but, yeah, she was right, I did owe her, a taboo subject which I’ll talk about later. I can’t at the moment, it’s not a good time but fear not dear Reader, all will be disclosed soon.

In the bedroom I shrugged off my good black coat and carefully hung it back in the wardrobe and then changed my outdoor shoes for fluffy mules. Clattering down the stairs I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. I was in desperate need of coffee. It lit with a satisfying hiss, the little blue film spreading wide as I placed the kettle over top of it.

My mind wandered back to the man at the funeral, Nick Jackson, and with a start remembered the business card he’d given me. Retrieving it from my bag, I scanned it eagerly, the little cream square with its thick black print. The following words formed before my surprised eyes, “Nick Jackson is Charlie the Clown … the great addition to any party, whether you’re a child or an adult. “Laugh at his jokes, be amazed at his tricks, cry at his sad expression!” Contact “Clowning Around,” to discuss all your party requirements - 3 The Rock, Ilkley, West Yorkshire, LS29 3ER. Tel: 0176 880870.

“Wow,” I thought, “I couldn’t be more amazed if I had seen his tricks.” Nick Jackson was the least likely man, in my book anyway, who’d spend his work time as a clown! Superman maybe. I could see him as Clark Kent ripping off his wire rimmed glasses and transforming into our super cult hero … but a clown? No way!

I stood stock still as the kettle boiled shrilly, filling the room with steam, looking into the middle distance, thinking hard about Nick Jackson, conjuring up his good looks and charm and maybe just being a bit put out that I hadn’t seized the opportunity today to go for a drink with him.