Making Up The Numbers

Sam fully expected Anita’s funeral service to be painful. Held in an airless church, mostly empty, led by a vicar who’d never met the deceased within the ‘on trend’ wicker coffin.

Digging out a black suit, Sam sighed at the shiny grease stain on the sleeve. On the cruise with Anita and Frank a few years back, a drunkenly rested elbow found a dish of olive oil. The last time it was worn. Too late to get it to the dry cleaners now.

It was raining, of course it was, meaning rummaging about under the stairs for an umbrella that worked, before venturing out to the car, which in turn was dripping with condensation after the passenger window was left open a few nights back. Promising on pain of death, Sam would be there making up the numbers. Sam’s words, not Frank’s.

Trudging through puddles against a keen easterly that soaked shoes and trousers, Sam reached the church porch with barely five minutes to go. Would it be rude to sit at the back? Handed an order of service, it was startling to see a photograph of Anita, smiling, and glowing with health. Quite unlike how she’d been at the hospice the last time they were together, the morning she died.

“Sam, up here.”

Heart sinking, Sam nodded at Frank’s sister, Elaine. Dressed in expansive crushed black velvet she resembled a mournful sofa. Head down past the sparse scattering of faces, some were familiar, but most were strangers.

“I saved you a pew at the front. Are you okay?”

What were the right words? This wasn’t about Sam.

“I’m fine. How’s Frank bearing up?”

Sam had received a short text announcing Anita’s death in Frank’s usual curt manner.

She’s gone. 11.30. Funeral details to follow.

Nothing about how he felt. That was Frank for you. Stiff upper lip, giving nothing away.

“Oh, you know,” Elaine lowered her head and leaned in to whisper in Sam’s ear. “He’s keeping a lid on things. You know how Frank is. Me, I’ve been in bits. Got through boxes of tissues.”

Sam looked about the frigid, uninviting Victorian church, the swathes of cobwebs and fire hazard heat lamps, bare light bulbs and patches of damp. The place reeked of abandonment. Had Sam been here before? No memory of it and a mental note to never return.

The church organ struck up the first notes of a dreary piece as the vicar, a pinch faced woman with nicotine stained fingers stepped forward.

“Will everyone stand.”

There couldn’t have been more than fifteen people in total, shuffling to their feet, all looking down the aisle as two of the funeral directors wheeled the coffin, a woven willow affair that Sam thought resembled a Fortnum and Mason’s hamper. Frank, slender and upright in his RAF uniform followed stiffly behind.

Sam had only seen Frank once since Anita’s death. He’d been quietly matter of fact, distracted by the endless bureaucracy of death. Seeing the desperate sadness in Frank’s face had Sam turning and wiping away hot tears.

In an instant Sam recalled Anita lying in that hospice bed, plugged into monitors and fed by drips. Sam had sat there, wondering if she knew where she was, that she was dying?

The vicar motioned for Frank to take the pew beside Sam and Elaine, and they nodded an acknowledgement to each other, hovering, unsure as to whether to sit down. The organ wheezed to a miserable conclusion and Sam glanced across at the coffin and thought about Anita lying dead inside it.

*

“Why did the vicar keep calling Anita, 'Andrew'?”

“Gin, probably.”

Sam sat on a thankfully softer chair than the church pew, cautiously eyeing the plates of ham and cheese sandwiches and sausage rolls. Two trays held tiny, brimming, thimble sized glasses of sweet sherry.

Sam and Elaine had guided Frank amongst the well wishers and nosy buggers gathered around the grave as Anita (or 'Andrew' if you were the vicar) was lowered in. Words were spoken, prayers were muttered, earth from the grave tossed in rattling handfuls upon the coffin as the rain returned for an encore. Once the funeral director and her team stood aside, it became pitifully obvious how few mourners there were.

Now, in the pub where Frank and Anita’s nephew worked, there was an unanticipated swelling of numbers. The funeral party had been dumped in a side room, so as not to upset the paying patrons elsewhere in the pub. The carpet was worn and sticky. Several clusters of six or seven people sat chatting around unsteady tables dressed in shades of grey, brown, and beige, consuming similarly coloured food. They all seemed to know each other and appeared, given the circumstances, to be having a smashing time.

“Who are they?”

Sam was curious.

Elaine reached for her spectacles.

“Not a clue? Old work colleagues of Anita, perhaps?”

“They weren’t at the service,” Sam wondered, scanning their faces. Admittedly neither eyesight nor hearing were great these days, but simple arithmetic was fine and there were more people here than had been singing ‘Abide With Me’ in the church.

“I wanted to ask you a question about Anita.”

Sam didn’t recognise Elaine’s flinty expression. She’d been cabin crew for decades, flying clearly in the blood, and normally a cheery, upbeat, glass half full type.

Diversion strategy. “Can I get you a drink Elaine? From the bar. Not this cough syrup.”

Sam, avoiding the sherry, looked around to see where Frank had got to.

“Frank?”

Sam spotted him in the main bar, a large glass of whisky in hand. Trying to avoid Elaine and knowing that Frank disliked fuss and would be finding all the condolences and chit-chat painful, Sam approached.

“Ah, Sam.”

Frowning at the slight slurring of speech, Sam took the man’s elbow and led him into the porch, rain pouring down the windows.

“Are you bearing up okay? I haven’t had chance to speak to you properly.”

Sam examined Frank’s lined face, pale eyes slightly reddened, nose moist, all of which may be down to the scotch.

“I’m doing the best I can. It was a shock, you know. Her going downhill as quickly as that. Only saw her the night before, staff said she was stable, could go on for weeks they said.”

Frank took a swig from his glass.

“You coming round later?”

Sam was taken aback. An invitation this soon after Anita had gone was unexpected.

“Is that a good idea?”

There was a long silence as Frank grew lost in thought, and both stepped aside as customers, shaking wet umbrella’s and cackling about cats and dogs barged past them.

“I think so. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Best we get things settled once and for all.”

Sam watched Frank’s disappearing back as he headed again to the bar, accosted by some neighbour of theirs.

Back in the side room, Sam found Elaine, eyebrows arched, leaning over a group at one of the tables. What was this about?

“Oh, we do this quite a lot. If we hear someone has died and they don’t have much family left or many friends in the area, we show our support and help with the celebration of their life.”

Sam came closer as Elaine, her tone now steely, spoke through gritted teeth.

“So, you didn’t know Anita, my sister-in-law?”

“Nah, we just keep an eye on the death notices and call the funeral directors for details. It helps fill empty chairs, and no one wants food to go to waste do they?”

A growl began in Sam’s chest and Elaine heard it. She grabbed an arm and rushed into the busy bar. Sam was aware that the burning face and the throbbing forehead meant blood pressure medication was needed. Or a stiff drink. Sam couldn’t, driving.

“Can you believe the brass neck of it?”

Nodding, Elaine absolutely could.

“Go and get a drink and calm down.”

“Gin and tonic for you? Large?”

“Very!”

They found an empty table in the corner, near where Frank was still being buttonholed by an older guy in black tie that Sam recognised as a local landowner. No doubt probing what was in Anita’s will regarding the acres of farm land she leased out.

“Funeral crashers? I can’t believe it.”

“I think Anita would have laughed.”

Elaine nodded, draining her glass.

“Sam, what exactly is going on with Frank? He’s not himself at all. Obviously with what’s happened it’s distressing but he’s barely talking to me. Only that she went too quickly, he couldn’t understand it.”

Nodding, Sam edged forward and leaned over the table.

“He’s got things on his mind. I’ve kept out of the way, especially since the cancer business. He’s asked me to go round tonight.”

“What for?”

“Not sure.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Sam did have an inkling of what Frank wanted, and it had taken some Dutch courage to ask. Couldn’t say that to Elaine, though. That would be down to Frank.

“You saw her the morning before she went didn’t you?”

With a deep sigh, Sam used a finger to doodle on the table with the moisture sliding down the side of Elaine’s glass.

“I did. I wanted to go and see her. I hadn’t seen either of them properly since she was told it was stage four.”

“Was this with your anaesthetist hat on?”

Sam replied with a shake of the head.

“Not at all. I wanted to say goodbye. I wasn’t planning to go back once I’d seen her. I’ve seen enough death over the years.”

That was true. Especially the last part.

“Funny how she went so quickly. The staff had told Frank that she could stay that way for weeks. Terrible really. You wouldn’t make an animal suffer like that.”

Sam’s bit down hard on a lip. Why did they keep talking about how sudden her death was? Good grief, she was in a hospice, deteriorating, eaten alive by cancer, living on fluid drips and morphine.

“It must have been tough for you as well.”

“It was. Is.”

“Funny, I always used to tease Frank, saying if he went first you’d move in with Anita. Knowing her before he came along, studying together, you never settling down with anyone, tagging along with them. You were Anita’s rock.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say. Frank was her rock.”

Hurt, Sam pushed the chair back and skulked to the bar, ordering another large G&T and pint of lime and soda. A bottle of wine would be opened tonight once Frank had had his say.

Where did people get these ideas about ‘tagging along?’ They were good friends, great friends, enough said.

There was a roar of laughter from the side room. Sam flinched as people tucking into burger and chips or some other cholesterol packed junk on a plate turned to see what the fun was. It was obvious. There was a bunch of freeloading bastards getting pissed over a lunch on someone else’s coin. They needed telling.

“Sam, no.”

Ignoring Elaine’s plea, Sam pushed people aside and stormed into the room, meeting the sight of grotesque strangers hugging their sides with mirth, all red cheeked, damp eyed and shrieking. Local bloodsuckers.

“What’s so funny? This is a funeral.”

The voice was one used on students at the teaching hospital years before. A combination of belittling authority and passive aggression.

The man Elaine had been talking to grimaced at his friends with a ‘who’s this killjoy?’ expression.

“Just a bit of a joke.”

“A bit of a joke? My best friend died of cancer, her husband buried her today, people are grieving, clearly something beyond the grasp of an infestation of parasites like you.”

“Hang on…”

Sam trembled with fury. A flash of the frail, dependent Anita hit him, grey and barely breathing, a morphine line in her arm, her existence registered only as the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. How dare they treat her life, her wonderful, compassionate, selfless life as an opportunity for a free lunch and a piss up?

“Go. All of you. Get out!”

“Sam?”

Aware of a presence in the doorway, Sam turned to see Frank, commanding and decisive, speaking in quiet, measured tones.

“Better clear the room now folks, we only had it booked for a couple of hours.”

Elaine appeared and her hand reached into Sam’s. Tugged back into the main bar necks were swivelling and voices were lowered, clearly loving the cabaret.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, Frank felt the same.”

“Is he angry with me?”

“Frank? Don’t be daft. He loves you, you idiot.”

*

Sam hadn’t been in Frank and Anita’s home for a while. Since the diagnosis really. They needed space and Sam had plenty to do to occupy the endless days of retirement, although sat in Frank’s kitchen Sam couldn’t remember what that was. Gardening. It was usually gardening. The great time devourer of the retired. Someone once suggested golf and was told to jog on.

“I thought today went well, all things considered. Despite your little outburst.”

“Sorry.”

“Someone had to say something.”

Frank had another whisky on the go. He was pink cheeked and skirting issues. The house felt empty. Sam expected Anita to burst cheerily through the kitchen door, chatting, wielding some pottery monstrosity she’d made in that studio of hers.

“Elaine said something odd today,” said Sam.

Frank snorted, “Tell me when she doesn’t.”

“She said she always believed that if you went first, I’d move in with Anita.”

Sam looked across at Frank who lowered his eyes.

“I couldn’t tell her about us. Me and you.”

Sam took in Frank's face. He was still a handsome man, he looked younger than his years, he’d weathered well. From their first meeting in that noisy pub, shaking hands, pretending to be grown ups when they were all just kids, really. Sam felt the same spark from all those years ago.

“She’ll find out soon enough.”

Frank's voice was barely audible as Sam slipped an arm around his waist and hugged him.

“She’ll find out when we’re good and ready. We’ve both waited a long time for this. There’s no rush.”

Sam felt Frank relax slightly, so they looked each other squarely in the face.

“To Anita.”

Frank angled his glass towards Sam.

“To Anita.”

*

Sam lay next to a gently snoring Frank. Sleep wouldn’t come. There was an Anita shaped gap now, and the grief Sam had fought to suppress, the anger, the denial, the sadness, hit hard in the guts. Crying quietly, trying not wake Frank, the morning at the hospice came again.

The rooms either side of Anita’s were busy with nurses and carers bustling back and forth. Visitors had been told to wait outside as the dying were tended to, faces wiped and hair brushed, soiled bedding changed, meds administered, and vital signs checked. It was efficiently brisk and caring, my own last days being something similar, Sam hoped. With neither partner nor offspring, and nephews and nieces and various godchildren being scattered to the four winds, the best anyone could hope for was some dignity at home or in a place like this.

Holding Anita’s tiny hand, Sam was taken aback at how translucent her skin had become, the bones and veins visible. This gloriously funny and charming force of nature who’d been a friend for so long, since their years as wet behind the ears students to becoming medical professionals scaling the precipitous slopes of their chosen careers. How could she, the astonishing Anita, end up like this? Age, that’s how, age, disease, and their manifold corrosions.

As a junior doctor Anita met Frank, and fell hard. The military career man, all cricket scores and The Telegraph crossword. Marmalade on toast and robust Assam tea for breakfast, perhaps a kipper at weekends. Steady, solid, uncomplainingly stoic even after Anita’s diagnosis. A man who kept his feelings to himself. No fuss and nonsense.

“This is Frank,” Anita had said, introducing the tall, fair, and incredibly handsome man at their favourite pub near Waterloo, a short walk from the hospital.

Sam had shaken Frank’s hand as he smiled, concealing a bite of intense jealousy.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Frank had said, their eyes connecting, before snapping away with a smile, as Sam remembered it anyway.

And that was that.

During a lull in proceedings in the side rooms, Sam peeped into the corridor. The care teams were huddled together, preoccupied. Closing the door with a click, Sam returned to Anita’s bedside. There were cards and flowers, not that she knew they were there, being pretty much comatose for the last fortnight. She was wasting away. She couldn’t eat or drink, her lips cracked and dry. A hollowed out husk of the person she once was. Sam let out a low sob, feeling desperate, lonely, and broken.

Looking about there was her morphine line. No one should suffer like this. Was she suffering? No, but everyone around her was, their lives on hold, barely existing, waiting with one suffocating collective intake of breath. Sam inspected the syringe driver, the Perspex device managing the amount of morphine being fed into Anita’s arm. The numbers on the small LED screen were just about legible. 5mg at three hour bursts. Making certain the door was closed, Sam quickly adjusted the dosage up to 25mg, pressing the manual override. Anita’s body stiffened slightly before returning to it’s passive, limp state. Quickly returning the device to its original settings and dosage, Sam sat down again, a bead of sweat dripping down a cheek, both palms resting over Anita’s fragile hand.

“Sleep well.”

Eyelids fluttering briefly, Anita’s head slumped sideways, a rattle deep inside her birdlike chest. Sam left, with a silently mouthed ‘farewell’ and a blown kiss. It was for the best. Didn’t he and Frank have their lives to live now?