A FUNERAL | EDWARD Mc WHINNEY The funeral ceremony gave a moment for pause, the suspension of urgency and agitation. We sat in the cold church, a packed congregation of silent mouths but noisy minds, funereal stillness disturbed by a sneeze, a cough, a low burp, barely discernible. The breath of a freezing noon hung in the portals behind us and beyond that, it being December, icy air covered our city in a nasty mist. Mankind stirred beneath this veil, a rolling wave of evil and good. They would not hush, my thoughts, as with beatific aplomb the priest unfurled a yellow flag bearing a golden key upon the coffin. I'll tell you plainly, I began to think about what would happen when we got out of there, the people I hadn't met for a long time because you only meet them at weddings and funerals and I was looking forward to having a drink and something to eat while talking a load of nonsense. The hands of the priest, I mean the long, cold fingers and the slow movements, froze my blood worse than the air outside on the steps. His fifteenth century voice, dearly beloved, gathered before, and suddenly I saw myself up there on the altar under the scrutinising gaze of the congregation. Ladies and Gentlemen, I mean Dearly Beloved, I stand here naked before God of my own volition and freely confess that I once contemplated murder, there, over there, that man. Whip me with shiny leather thongs, scourge me at the pillar, garrotte me, place me on the rack. I confess to almighty God, mumbo jumbo, let unto you oh Lord, that man there, look, with the voice of a Pope and the head to match, the Lord is with thee, mumbo, and forgive us our trespasses, jumbo. With beatific aplomb I unfurl like a yellow flag with a golden key, my most shameful secret. The priest had a face made from candle wax. His eyes were stones, his voice that of a cyborg, passionate words drained of all passion by dint of daily repetition. A cloud of incense rose from the smoking device he clattered with alarming force against the beautifully stained box. The scoops of holy water he followed this action with congealed around gold fittings. I'll tell you plainly I was glad to get out onto the steps of the church, look around, see who I could talk to. An incongruous peal of laughter rang out from a group of young men gathered near the columns. Beyond them I saw Boris lighting a cigarette, letting the aroma flow up his nostrils. How are you, Boris, long time, no see? We shook hands, he had that wonderful air of calm, neither urgency nor agitation. Feeling as I do, like a man on the run from the Gestapo, it was good to meet Boris, who dedicates all his time to the repair of vintage cars and collection of same. My own puerile efforts at painting as an effort to stave off insanity stood pale and pitiful beside Boris with his head under the bonnet of a 1934 Bentley 3.5 litre. And as we drink a pint of Beamish together he describes a drive he took with his partner, Sadie, into the Vaucluse in a 1959 Jaguar convertible he bought from a widow in the U.K. It was Summer as they rolled with the hood back along avenues of plane trees, could have been 1961 said Boris, may have been for all we cared about the state of the world. I take refuge in small towns, I forget what has to be forgotten, the tragic mother's voice, her shoulders humped with terror, the lines of her face, cracked and broken, the eyes that seek a higher truth. One puny existence after another. The gods take the sledge-hammer to the soul, the youthful body of a son laid in the freezing ground, stilled beyond east or west, the hocus pocus and the fretful responses of a freezing congregation; we are gathered here, oh, Lord Jesus have mercy on this your servant, full of grace, blessed art thou among women, and welcome him to your kingdom, one voice over frozen ground, the congregation stilled into silence again. The weather was beautiful, said Boris, day after day of sun, wine, coq au vin, wayside taverns and small hotels in the Michelin guide. It's there under your feet, grasp it, don't let it go, the peasant heart doesn't question, all the answers written in timber and in stone, in the rose and in the stream. We were joined by Malachy, a fiddler in a folk group and a plumber by trade, a stump-like hand and a face characterised by outcropping bone and ancestral eyes that saw everything the day before he was born. It's there under your feet, grasp it, don't let it go. I did not weep for the deceased that day. But something idled in my heart, breath difficult to get beside the open grave, the coffin lowered, a feeling of suffocation as his mother and sisters dropped roses in the hole, one after the other, was it six of them, six petals dropping roses on a coffin? As I strolled towards the cemetery gates after the rituals I was joined by Malachy the fiddler, square-shouldered, upright and dark-eyed. He slapped me on the back and I thought not without envy that he was the kind of man who never wished for anything other than what he had, or to be anywhere other than where he was. I paused at headstones, read names and said to him in a plaintive whine, where are we going? We're going to The Rising Tide, he said, we're going to drink our fill. The mourners poured in. Noise levels rose over plates of sandwiches along the bar counter, estranged cousins saying hello, the jibes, the smiles, the wink of an eye. I'm not very good at family, I said to Nicola as her brother Joshua burst with unruly laughter at some joke before quickly blessing himself like a peasant saying oh, we shouldn't, then launched into another hilarious tale. An elderly uncle put his face near mine to inform me of a memorial service for his mother or mother's mother, maybe father's mother's mother, you know that drill. The windows were closed. The doors swung open now and then but seemed locked to me. I edged around and contrived a shadowy escape. I tripped on my way across the icy car park, cursed the imprisoning sky. There were no buses running because of the ice. I couldn't tolerate a taxi so I lunged like an escaped convict into the darkest streets. Their hair followed me like seaweed, their voices like seagulls, true meaning lost somewhere between unruly consonants and a freezing fog of vowels made indistinguishable by slippery decibels and icy tones. Edward Mc Whinney is neither all that young nor all that old. He lives in Cork, Ireland. Tip Jar | Bookstore | More by Edward Mc WhinneyWritersFund.htmlhttp://astore.amazon.com/contrary-20Edward-Mc-Whinney.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1shapeimage_1_link_2

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