I knew I should say sorry. ‘Sorry, Angela.’
‘Fortunately, you’re yesterday’s news. The media circus has moved on. A county councillor has been accused of taking six million euro in bribes and a man in Knockcroghery murdered his best friend yesterday. I have to go. Bye!’ And she left, leaving a whiff of antiseptic after her. I liked that smell. She was always clean.
As she was getting into the car, she called out, ‘Oh, and we’ll have to do something about Christmas. You’ll come to us.’
The initial phone call to the glazier was not as difficult as I imagined. I practised a few times before I lifted the phone. The directions to the house were the most difficult part. There would be a call-out fee of €80 since I lived so far out of Roscommon and then I’d have to pay for the glass and the time spent to fit it, and I would have to measure the window and call them back. The woman’s voice was pleasant and foreign, though I couldn’t place it.
I measured the window and called the lady back. This time, her attitude was different, and because I couldn’t see her face, I could not tell her mood. She verified my name and the address again, and then asked if I was the daughter of Thomas Diamond.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Alex will be there in the morning about ten a.m.’
Alex arrived promptly, fitted the window and was gone in less than an hour. He barely spoke to me and I stayed in the kitchen. I counted out the cash and then he said, or mumbled, ‘I’m sorry about your father.’
‘I shouldn’t have tried to burn him. That was a misunderstanding.’
He said nothing more and got into his van and drove away.
11
Tuesday 19th December was the funeral service. I drove myself to the church despite Angela’s offer. She said it was normal to travel in a cortège behind the hearse, but I couldn’t see the point. Two guards stood at the gates and kept the photographers at bay. Contrary to what Angela had predicted, I was still news. I noticed people with mobile phones holding them up towards me as I approached the church. The whole village must have shut down because everyone was there. I didn’t know most of their names, but I recognized all the faces.
I wore the black coat that Mum had worn for funerals. I had a green dress on under that （also Mum’s） because she’d been buried in her black dress. I also wore my black boots and a red sequinned beret that Dad said was for special occasions. I’d worn it once when we went to Fota Island Wildlife Park when Mum was alive. That was a good weekend. But this was a special occasion too.
The faces I recognized all wanted to take my hand and shake it. I snatched it back each time, but then Angela was by my side. ‘Shaking hands is a way of them sympathizing with your loss. Please try and let them. Nice hat, by the way. I think your dad would have approved.’ I had seen funerals on television. I knew shaking hands and crying and blowing your nose were expected. I asked Angela for one of her pills.
I let my hand be shaken by about forty people then. In the middle of it, Angela hissed at me, ‘You’re supposed to shake their hands too.’
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like all these people being there. I’m sure some of them barely knew my dad, but they all had something to say about him.
‘He was good to us when Mammy had her breakdown, God rest her soul.’
‘He always had his eye out for a bargain.’
‘If it wasn’t for your dad, I’d be in the river,’ said one rheumy-eyed old man. I knew that Dad had very occasionally seen patients of Mum’s when she begged him back in the day.
Nadine led me away by the elbow. I don’t mind people touching my elbow. ‘Some friends of yours have come,’ she said and I didn’t know who she was talking about, but behind the mob of locals, I spotted Abebi and Maduka and their mother and, I assume, their father.
I ignored the other mourners and went straight over to them. Mr Adebayo said, ‘My name is Udo and you’ve seen my wife, Martha. I want to offer my condolences and to apologize for my children trespassing on your property on Saturday. Maduka admitted on the way here that his friends broke your window. Please let us reimburse you for your costs.’ He spoke fast. I think his accent was Nigerian. So, the children were not adopted like me. Maduka’s face was tear-stained.
Martha spoke then. ‘We have warned them never to bother you again.’
‘You don’t have to pay me for the window. It’s already fixed and paid for. The glazier was scared of me. I think the boys were worried that I’d put Abebi into the incinerator. Not their fault.’
Here I was, talking too much. And then I did something else unusual. I put my hand out and rubbed Maduka’s face. ‘They are good children. I don’t think their friends were. Sean and Fergus.’ I have an excellent memory.
‘I’m not allowed to play with them any more,’ said Maduka. Martha muttered about them being a bad influence.
‘I thought the least ours could do is come here to show how sorry they are about everything,’ Martha said. Abebi let go of her mother’s hand and looked up at me. ‘We are doing the nativity play on Thursday. I’m playing the Virgin Mary. Will you come and see us?’ I was considering the invitation when we were distracted by the arrival of the hearse.
I tried to think what kind of mess was in the coffin. Poor Dad. I should have called Angela that day. But he should have written ‘Open on the Day I Die’ on the envelope. In capital letters. Underlined.
Everyone in the churchyard went quiet and Angela guided me to the back of the hearse where they were unloading the coffin on to a clever fold-up trolley. We walked behind the undertakers and followed them into the small, pretty church. Nadine told me she had organized flowers. I thought it was a waste to buy flowers for a dead man but I also knew not to voice all my thoughts. The ruddy-cheeked vicar came to shake my hand. I put them both in my pockets.
He had asked me to visit him the night before, but I told him over the phone that I didn’t like meeting strange men. He reminded me that he had met me several times when I was a young girl when I used to go to church with Mum. I told him he still qualified as a strange man, so he agreed to discuss the arrangements over the phone. He asked some questions about Dad and I told him the answers.
‘Our numbers are dwindling every year. I don’t suppose you would consider attending, even on an irregular basis?’
‘No,’ I’d said, ‘it’s very boring.’
The church was stiflingly warm. I don’t think it had ever seen so many Catholics in it. I was an Anglican technically, but Dad and I agreed some years ago that we were atheists.
We took our seats at the front pew, Nadine and Angela on either side of me. Mrs Sullivan, the postmistress, and Maureen Kenny and her husband, the butcher, stood behind us. Ger McCarthy stood in the pew opposite ours. I had never seen him in a suit before. And he was clean-shaven. I looked for Maduka and Abebi but they must have been down the back.
It was the usual boring stuff except that the coffin was in front of us. The vicar made a sermon about how my father had been such a big part of the community, which was a surprise because Dad avoided the community as much as I did. Angela made a speech in which she remembered my mother and said that no matter what mistakes had been made after my father’s death, he would be proud of me today. There was a smattering of applause after that, and I knew Angela was right, because Dad often said how proud he was of me. I grinned at Angela.