First published in A Wing and a Prayer. A Collection of Writing from Waterford Regional Hospital. Published by Comhairle, 2004.
The clanging of the bell cut through the frosty morning air as the funeral procession wound itself out the church gates and onto the main street of the town. Like some strange, misshapen animal – bulging here, thin there – it crawled along, its only sounds an occasional sob or cough and the clacking of its many feet on the road.
The people of the town were waiting. Older women clustering together in doorways in twos and threes; men leaning against the windowsills, hands in their pockets; young mothers standing respectfully on the footpath with children clustered around their knees. Everyone was wrapped in coats and scarves against the cold. Whispered chats ceased as the procession passed by; caps were taken off, heads bowed, beads pressed through fingers.
Two elderly women nodded at one of the men at the front of the procession as he passed by.
“Look at the face of that poor fellow,” one of them whispered to her friend. “Who is he to the departed, Lord rest her?”
“That’s Paddy, the brother,” came the hushed reply. “You’re right, he looks terrible. He must be taking it bad, the poor divil.”
The grey-haired, ashen-faced man they referred to was a pitiable sight, trudging along with the rest of the family at the head of the procession. Deep lines, almost like gashes, dragged down the corners of his eyes and mouth. Despite his good suit and overcoat, he had a thrown-together look about him, as if he had dressed unthinkingly. Every so often he glanced down at a small piece of paper that he clutched in one hand.
The short walk to the graveyard at the other end of the street was soon complete, and the tolling of the bell was now overshadowed by the sound of gravel crunching underfoot outside the cemetery gate. The mourners began to file slowly into the graveyard after the coffin. A middle-aged man, a doctor in the town, who had been observing the grey-haired man for some minutes, went up and walked beside him.
“That’s a lovely thing you’re doing there Paddy,” said the doctor in a respectfully low tone of voice, nodding towards the man’s hand. “Bringing a photo of yourself and your sister with you. Look at the two of you smiling away in it. That must be a while ago now?”
The man nodded, seemingly unable to speak.
“A lovely memory for you to cherish,” murmured the younger man.
To his shock the man’s face crumpled and loud sobs began to burst forth from him. Other mourners turned at the sound and cast sympathetic, understanding glances. Mindful of the man’s privacy, the doctor drew him aside for a minute, letting the crowd pass.
“Ah Doctor,” said the man through his tears as he fumbled for his handkerchief, “You’re very good, but you don’t understand.”
“How do you mean?”
The man coughed out another sob. “The last time my sister and I spoke was thirty years ago, just after this photograph was taken. We had a row and never had any contact after that. When we heard the other day that she was taken bad, I rushed in to Ardkeen with the rest of the family, but it was too late. She was too far gone to say anything to her.”
The doctor nodded understandingly. It was not the first time he had heard a story like this. He waited until the sobs subsided and the man, embarrassed now at his show of emotion, heaved a deep breath and straightened his cap.
“That’s better now,” said the doctor gently. He hesitated, then curiosity got the better of him. “Paddy, what on earth was it you and your sister argued about?”
The man folded his handkerchief carefully. “Do you know, Doctor,” he said, putting the handkerchief back into his pocket, “I can’t for the life of me remember.”
(c) Orla Shanaghy, 2003 and 2007
