The sting of death is sin

“Stop scratching, you look like you’ve got fleas,” my mum hissed. My woollen tights were itchy and about three sizes too small. After being told I had to join my mum at Mr Mayhew’s funeral, I pulled an outfit together at the last minute. It was non-negotiable. I didn’t know him well, but I had been suspended from school two days ago, and my mum had since refused to let me out of her sight. I knew better than to argue back. We’d hardly spoken since we fought on the drive home from school after the meeting with my headmistress. It was all a mistake, of course. A misunderstanding. I tried to explain, but my attempts were thwarted by the raising of my mum’s hand and a stern “I don’t want to hear it.”

She’d forgotten about the funeral and, reluctant to leave me at home with the prospect of enjoying myself by sleeping, eating, or watching Loose Women, insisted on my attendance. Mr Mayhew was the caretaker of my primary school and lived in a little bungalow on the edge of the school grounds. When I was younger, my dad used to call him the invisible man. His work was always completed with meticulous detail, but you rarely caught him in the act. My unwillingness to validate my dad’s point of view led me to theorise he preferred to work during the night like an owl.

Mr Mayhew also volunteered around the village, helping out with odd jobs. His photo was often in the parish magazine, sometimes alongside the council, on his small red tractor, or with his documented sightings of rare birds. My mum often bumped into him walking the dogs, stopping to make conversation, as was the village custom. He was well-liked and well-known. His service to the place he’d called home for the entire eighty-three years of his life made people keen to pay their respects. Most people, anyway. I was fifteen and would’ve preferred to spend the afternoon luxuriating in my ostracism.

I spoke directly with Mr Mayhew only once when I was six. It was the summer holidays and my mum and I spent the afternoon in the park. On the way home, I rode ahead on my bike, whizzing too fast around a corner. I flew over the handlebars and collided with gravel on the road. He was trimming hedges nearby and ran over to help. He asked if I was okay and through tears, I lied, “yes”.

“You’ve got a bit of a graze on your head there, but you’ll be just fine, kiddo.” He helped me stand and dusted off my jeans, waiting with me until my mum caught up. He offered to walk the rest of the way with us, carrying my now dented bike back home.

There was little else to say about Mr Mayhew. He had no wife, no kids, no pets. He lived entirely day to day. An unassuming existence. It was unfathomable to me at a time when I belonged to the most active social circle I would ever be part of, on the cusp of adulthood with a future outstretched yet to be told.

*

The funeral was to be an open casket. That was the rumour. My mum had heard it from her friend Paula, who’d been told by someone else in the village, but I forget who because I wasn’t listening. Mr Mayhew’s next of kin was his sister. She was in charge of the funeral and she was a bit of an eccentric. Supposedly, she believed that an open casket helped to expedite the grieving process. It was a selling point of the day’s outing. I’d been to one funeral in the past, but I’d never seen a dead person before.

The coffin was positioned right next to the door as you entered the church, startling most as they arrived. It seemed to suggest that even when you most expected it, death could jump out at you from right around the corner. Mr Mayhew was lying peacefully inside, ready for the onslaught of faces peering in at him with sadness, grief, intrigue, and disgust. He looked cold. Skin mottled like a watery grey puddle. Or tea with too much milk. He looked like he could be sleeping, eyes closed softly while his mind whirred with weird and wonderful dreams. He was dressed smartly in a suit and tie, hands folded over one another. I wondered for a moment what I’d pick out for my mum to wear, like she did for my dad. Her favourite colour was red. Last summer she wore a crimson dress on holiday, which made her look like a real person and not just my mum. I shook my head a little to shoo the thought away. Poking out below the starched white sleeve of Mr Mayhew’s shirt I caught the end of a tattoo. An indistinguishable inky blotch faded from age. So many secrets are revealed in death. Mr Mayhew didn’t seem the type, and I couldn’t muster an image of him with one. I mentioned it to my mum.

“Please, Lydia, I can’t do this with you.” She closed her eyes as she spoke, rolling her lips together as if holding back from saying more.

“All I said was I wondered what he had inked on him?” I replied in a loud whisper. “It’s just strange. Do you not find it strange?”

“No, sit down and be quiet.” Her patience was wearing thin.

The only other funeral I had attended was my Dad’s. For weeks after he died, I didn’t believe he was really dead. I was adamant and repeatedly told my mum with much conviction that I knew he wasn’t. In her grief, it was enough to make her doubt reality and distrust what she’d been told. She hadn’t planned on going to the Chapel of Rest, or ever seeing my dad without life inside him, but it was the only way she could be sure. After she returned from her visit, I stopped insisting he was alive. The indisputable truth was etched all over her face.

I wanted another look, so I told my mum I needed the bathroom. She huffed and twisted her legs to let me past. As I returned to the entrance of the church, the last remaining mourners, yet to find their seats, were gathered around Mr Mayhew. Among them was my primary school teacher, Mrs Dearie. She clocked me and gave me a smile with sad eyes. I moved my hand up into an awkward little wave. Mrs Dearie was one of my favourite teachers. She ate lemon sherbet sweets and smelt like Pears soap. She read us books by Philip Pullman and taught us poems by William Blake.

She asked me how I’d been and said that it was nice to see me, although she hadn’t expected me to be there. I didn’t want to tell her I’d been suspended, so I lied and said it felt like the right thing to do. She nodded towards the pews, gesturing for us to take our seats. I took a final glance back over at the coffin. That man most definitely had a tattoo.

“I didn’t know Mr Mayhew had tattoos,” I said, as we walked down the aisle.

“Oh, he didn’t have any tattoos, dear.”

“I saw one on the back of his wrist earlier. I was checking again just then to make sure. I am certain.”

“Is that so?” She asked, though it wasn’t a question. She turned to see if I might be playing an odd joke. I remained impassive and she said nothing more, sitting at the end of the pew across from me and my mum.

The funeral director came in, presumably to let the vicar know the service could soon begin, Mrs Dearie subtly sought his attention. Words were discreetly exchanged, which made him change course. Instead, he went to the front row of seats and tapped Mr Mayhew’s sister on the shoulder. Looks of concern and confusion passed between the two. The funeral director headed back to the entrance and I was on tenterhooks. My mum sensed that something had piqued my interest because my body was taut next to her, no longer fidgeting. She glanced at me beneath furrowed brows but I didn’t meet her gaze. Flustered, the funeral director returned. There was another conversation with Mr Mayhew’s sister and then one with the vicar. He scurried off in a hurry as the vicar began to speak.

“Thank you to those of you who have come to join us today in wishing to pay respects to Cecil Bartholomew Mayhew and honour his life. He was a true pillar of our small community and it’s wonderful to see how many lives he touched.” There was a pause as the vicar took a deep inhale.

“However, it is with an unprecedented turn of events that we must delay this service. When the correct opportunity arises again, I hope we can all be joined together, just as we have been today. You are all welcome to stay and join me in prayer. Thank you.”

Hands covered mouths and heads twisted round in shock, looking for answers. Murmurs quietly echoed, bouncing around the nave. My mum turned to me, suspicious.

“I don’t think that was Mr Mayhew,” I said, finally turning towards her with a glint in my eye.

We all poured out of the church and I noted the casket was now closed. I was dumbfounded.

“The man had dedicated his entire life to a village full of people who didn’t even recognise it wasn’t him!”

“I should have just left you at home,” she grumbled under her breath as we scrambled to get in the car, me struggling to keep up with her as my tights pinched my toes.

“Would you rather the wrong man be buried?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. “Cecil will surely be mortified when he finds out.”

She made huffing noises and chewed on her fingernails the whole drive home.

*

Paula was at our house within the hour, still dressed smartly in all black. She always knew everyone’s business. Stories had been circling nonstop, her phone pinging and ringing off the hook with tidbits. She had a penchant for drama and was desperate to gossip with my mum.

“Can you believe it, Bess?” She sat at the kitchen table and my mum made her a cup of tea. “He wasn’t ill, but I mean, we all thought nothing of it. The man was eighty-three for Christ’s sake! Turns out, he was in the hospital for gout. Had it off and on for years, apparently. This time it was quite bad. He was struggling to walk, so they got him in for some bed rest and to monitor his fluids. The staff accidentally swapped his name with the man in the bed next to his. So, it was him that died, the other one! Heart attack. That bit is all true.”

“How did his own sister not recognise him?” I couldn’t stop myself from joining in.

“Well, she’s got glaucoma and has to use these strong drops. Says she mustn’t have been able to see him properly and never thought to question if it was him or not when she first got the call. How’s that for a day off school, huh?” She laid her hand on my forearm, giving it a little squeeze.

“It’s not a holiday, she’s been suspended,” my mum said.

“Oh Bess, she only called her teacher a misogynist for refusing to admit that Fitzgerald was a fraud because he stole his best ideas from his wife. She’s setting the world to rights for the rest of us! Don’t you remember being fifteen?”

An imperceptible look passed between them, speaking of a merged history. Stories and memories that had shaped decades of friendship. Secrets shared, tears shed, and countless hours of companionable laughter. There were a myriad of moments that had led them both to this one. Us all sat around the kitchen table drinking tea and talking about Mr Mayhew.

I smirked at my mum, but she was busy staring Paula down. I wondered how best to recount the events of the day to my friends when I’d be back in school the following week.