Uncle Tom's Theory

Sensitive content: Bereavement

10.25am

Helen desperately wanted to keep up her strength for the ordeal which was to follow, but she simply could not relax.  For what felt like the hundredth time, she picked up the clock from the sideboard, put it down without registering what time it said, then walked across to the window, pulled aside the curtain and peered out into the street.

On the other side of the room, the telephone on the mantelpiece pierced the silence.  She turned, let go of the curtain and began to walk across to answer it, but the ringing stopped before she had even reached the centre of the room.  She sighed, looked unseeingly at the clock again, then resumed her vigil at the window.

The door creaked open to admit Jamie, carrying an acoustic guitar, and Luke, who had a battered copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse tucked under his arm.  Helen suppressed a gasp at the sight of their incongruous dark suits and black ties.  She couldn’t help noticing that Luke had still not properly brushed his hair, even today, but decided not to remark on it.

“Ah, there you are.”  She greeted them with a forced smile.

Luke shivered.  “Geez, it’s cold in here.”

Jamie slumped on to the sofa. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

“Me neither,” Luke grunted.  He opened the book, then let out a loud snort. “Geez, what kind of random stuff is this? Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert,” he declaimed, striking up a melodramatic pose. “That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart…”

Jamie looked up, shocked.  “You’re not going to read that out, are you?”

“God no.  It just, like, opened at that one.  The one I’m supposed to do is something about death not being proud.”  

“Thank goodness for that!”  Helen heaved a sigh of relief as Luke flopped into one of the armchairs and opened the anthology at another page.  His lips moved silently as he perused the text, whilst Jamie picked up the guitar and fiddled with the tuning pegs.  After a few moments his fingers moved to the strings, and the air was filled with the strains of Stairway to Heaven.

The door opened again and Martin entered.  Helen smiled.  Despite the sombre occasion, her husband could still look stunning, even when dressed, like their sons, in dark suit and black tie.  

Jamie stopped playing, mid-phrase, and put the guitar down.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this.”

“And this poem!” Luke chipped in.  “I mean, I know it was, like, one of her favourites, but—”

“Don’t worry,” Martin soothed.  “Nobody except us and the priest know about it, so if either of you decide you can’t go through with it, nobody else will be any the wiser.”

Jamie shook his head.  “But we’ll feel as if we’ve let her down.  She always said—” 

Martin held up his hand for silence.  “Like I said, don’t worry about it.”  

“You’ll both be fine,” Helen reassured them, as Martin seated himself in the other armchair.

“Who was that on the phone?” Luke asked.

“Somebody trying to sell us life insurance,” Martin answered.  “At least, I think that’s what he was selling.  He had an accent so thick I could spread it on my toast.”

“They can certainly pick their moments,” Helen sighed, as their sons groaned.

An uneasy quietness descended over the room.  Jamie eventually broke the silence.

“This feels weird,” he murmured.  “Like – the calm before the storm.”

“Mmm….” Helen nodded agreement.

Luke pushed the poetry book aside.  “How old were we when Grandpa died?” he asked.

“Not very old,” Helen answered.  

Martin considered.  “Well, he died in 2001, so you would have been…” he added up on his fingers, “… five and seven.  A bit young to go to his funeral.”  

“How old was he when he died?” Jamie asked.

“Sixty-eight,” Martin said.  “How well do you remember him?”

“Not much,” Luke said.  “I remember he had, like, lots of white hair, and he smoked those little cigars.  And he talked funny.”

Martin laughed.  “That was because he came from ‘Zummerzet’.”  

The others joined in the laughter at his mock West-Country accent.

Luke spoke again.  “When he died, I, like, didn’t really take it in.  Not like it was with Charlie.”

Martin’s face became sombre.  “How old was he?”

“We were in, um, Year Eleven.  So – fifteen.  Or maybe sixteen.”

“Did they ever catch the driver?” Jamie asked.

Luke shrugged.  “Dunno.  If they did, I never heard about it.”

“Tragic,” Helen murmured, turning back to look out of the window again.  She jumped as Jamie let out a loud sneeze.

“Bloody flowers.” Jamie glared at the massive floral arrangement which completely covered the coffee table, then looked anxiously around.  “Where are the tissues?”

“Over there.” Martin pointed towards the sideboard.  “You’d better take a few with you.  It’s not the sort of day to go out without a hanky.”

“That’s usually my trick,” Helen smiled, as Jamie blew his nose and stuffed a handful of tissues into the pocket of his jacket.

“What will it be like?” Luke asked nervously.  “I mean, like, we’ve never been to one before.”

“Service in church,” Martin answered, “then to the crematorium.  That’ll be quite short, I should think.  Then back to the pub for the wake.”

There was a pause whilst the two younger men took this idea on board.  Helen couldn’t help thinking that they both looked very uneasy.  Then Jamie spoke.

“Dad, you believe in all that church stuff, don’t you?  Do you reckon it helps?”

Martin considered.  “It always has done up to now,” he said eventually.  “In a way it’s comforting to believe that you’ll see them again one day.  Although, having said that, sometimes things happen that can shake your faith.” 

“What?” Helen gasped.  “But you’ve always—“

Luke’s voice cut across hers.  “You mean, like, ‘If God exists then why does he allow this?’”   

“What sort of things?” Jamie asked, turning back to Martin.

“Well… I remember years ago, when an aunt of mine died quite young, the first thing my grandmother said was ‘Why wasn’t it me?’  And it does make you wonder: Yes, why wasn’t it?  If there is a God, then why did he let the younger woman die, rather than the older one? 

“Why indeed…” Helen murmured.

“Yeah,” Luke agreed.  “You kind of, like, come to expect it with old people, don’t you?   Not like with—” 

“Natural selection, maybe?” Jamie suggested.  “You know, survival of the fittest, and all that?” 

Helen raised her eyebrows thoughtfully, but said nothing.

“Or Fate?” Luke went on.  “Like, predestination and stuff?”

“Maybe,” Martin agreed.  “Grannie always believed in that.  So did Uncle Tom.”

Luke smiled.  “I liked Uncle Tom.  He was quality.”

“Yeah.”  Jamie’s normal voice was suddenly replaced by a broad Cockney accent.  “I wanted to be the Village Idiot, but I failed the exam.”

Luke joined in, also adopting the unmistakeable accents of the East End.  “I speak two languages: English and Rubbish.”

“Uncle Tom never talked rubbish!” Helen said, across their laughter.

Martin chuckled.  “He was a law unto himself!   For what he said about eternal life, centuries ago he’d have been burnt as a heretic!”  

“Why?” Jamie sounded puzzled.  “What did he say?”

Before Martin could reply, the sound of the doorbell stunned them into silence.  Martin stood up and went to answer it.  Through the open door into the hall, the others could see and hear the man in the black overcoat standing respectfully on the doorstep.

“Mr Blythe?  Are you ready?”

“Yes, just a moment.”

Martin came back into the living room and picked up the flower arrangement.

“Ready?”

Jamie and Luke glanced nervously at each other, then nodded, picked up the guitar and the book and followed their father out into the hall. 

Helen watched them go, then drew a deep breath before moving to join them.

“Here goes…” she whispered to herself.  “Heaven alone knows how this will go…”

10.55 am

As the cortège came within sight of the church, Helen gasped in surprise.

“Geez, look at that!”  Luke’s words mirrored her own thoughts.  The path from the churchyard gate to the church door was lined with people, standing two- or three-deep in places.  Several of them were already visibly weeping.  

The priest was waiting for them as they climbed out of the car.  He gave a kindly smile to Jamie and Luke.

“Are you all right for this?” he asked, nodding towards the guitar and the book.

Jamie squared his shoulders and nodded.  Luke followed suit, but with rather less confidence, Helen noticed.

“Very well then.  Let’s go…”

The pall-bearers picked up the coffin, balanced it on their shoulders and carried it into the church.  The mourners followed.  The contemplative strains of Mozart’s Ave Verum Corpus filled the building, and Helen detected a faint smell of incense as the priest began to recite the familiar words of the funeral service:

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, said the Lord…”

Helen stole a quick glance at Jamie and Luke.  Their faces were both fixed, as if hypnotised, on the coffin.

They shouldn’t be having to do this, she thought.  Not at their age.

2.45 pm

Helen was the first back into the house.  She wandered aimlessly back into the living room and stared out of the window as the funeral car drove off.

She turned as the door opened and Jamie and Luke came in, gratefully pulling off their black ties.  They both looked tired and drained.  She took a step towards them and smiled.

“Well done.  I was proud of you both.”  

Jamie sighed, sat down on the sofa and put the guitar down.  “I’m glad that’s over.”

Helen nodded.  “Me too…”

She stopped speaking as Martin came into the room.  He looked exhausted, but was clearly trying to keep going.  

Luke shivered.  “It’s still cold in here.”

“The kettle’s on for some tea. That should warm us up.”  Martin sighed as he sat down in one of the armchairs.  “Well done, both of you.  You did really well.”  

Helen smiled in agreement.  “Yes, you did.”

Jamie managed a wan smile.  “Thanks.  I don’t know about tea, though.  Right now I could do with something a bit stronger.”  

He heaved himself up from the sofa, crossed to the sideboard, opened one of the cupboards and peered inside.  Eventually he pulled out a strangely-shaped bottle, about three-quarters full of dark red liquid.  He held it up and squinted at the handwritten label. 

“What’s this?  ‘Blythe Spirit’?”

Luke looked up.  “Hey, that was in that poem!”  He grabbed the book and flicked through the pages, whilst Martin joined Jamie and studied the bottle label.  

“Let’s see – oh, it’s home-made sloe gin.  Blythe spelled with a y.  I think that’s Mum’s idea of a joke.”  

“Oh, very droll,” Luke groaned, as Helen suppressed a giggle.

“Shelley, isn’t it?   The poem?”  Martin asked.

“Yeah. To a Skylark, it says here.”

Jamie wrinked his brow.  “Isn’t there a play as well?  I vaguely remember it from school.”

Martin nodded.  “Yes.  Noël Coward.  I saw the film years ago.  It’s about a ghost who can’t let go.  It was supposed to be funny, but to be honest I found it a bit weird.”  

Helen opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luke shiver again.  Meanwhile, Jamie had unscrewed the top from the bottle and taken a cautious sniff at the contents.

“Oh well, I’ll try anything once.”  He started to pour the liquid into a small glass.  “Anyone else?”

“Yes please,” Martin answered.

Luke hesitated for a moment, but agreed, albeit nervously.  “Er – yeah, go on.”

“No thanks.”  Helen shook her head.

Jamie poured out two more glasses and handed them to Martin and Luke.  As Helen passed round the back of Luke’s chair, she noticed that he shuddered as he took his first sip.  

It’s probably a bit too strong for him, she thought. It’s pretty powerful stuff.  Very good for colds, though.  Kills ninety-nine per cent of all germs, and leaves the other one per cent too rat-arsed to bother.

But the movement was not lost on Jamie either, who put down his own glass and turned to his younger brother. 

“You OK, mate?” he asked, as Helen walked back to the window.  Luke relaxed.

“Yeah,” he shrugged.  “It’s – like – weird.”  He stared into his glass, then took another cautious sip.

“Yes,” Martin agreed.  “It’s an acquired taste.”

Luke opened his mouth to reply, but then appeared to decide against it.  The three of them sipped their drinks in silence.  

“This is, like, the calm after the storm…” Luke said eventually.

“Mmm….” Helen murmured.

“What did it say on the death certificate?” Jamie asked.

“Some fancy medical term, I think.  Hang on, I’ll have a look.”  Martin stood up, crossed to the sideboard and took out a piece of paper from the top drawer.

“Yes, what did it say?”  Helen asked.  “I never saw it.”  She walked round behind Martin and peered over his shoulder as he read aloud:

“Cause of death: acute myocardial infarction. Heart attack to you and me.”

“At least it was quick,” Helen remarked. 

Martin shivered as he folded up the death certificate and replaced it in the drawer. “You’re right, Luke,” he said.  “It is cold in here.”  

Jamie stood up and switched on the electric fire.  “What happens now?” he asked, as he sat down again.

“We need to pick up the ashes from the undertaker,” Martin answered.  “I think they’ll be ready tomorrow, or the day after.”

Luke shuddered.  “That’s, like, really creepy.  What’s going to happen to them?”

“She always said she wanted them scattered over the sea,” Martin said, sitting down in the armchair. “So I thought we might take a trip down to the coast on Saturday.  We could have a pub lunch afterwards if you like.”

“Mmm…”  Luke sounded less than enthusiastic.  

That’s not like him, Helen thought.  He loves his pub lunches.

“Talking of ashes,” Jamie took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, “I’m popping outside.”

“Could I bum one off you, mate?”  Luke asked.  

“What?” Martin looked up in surprise.

Helen frowned.  “I didn’t know you—” 

Luke looked sheepish.  “I don’t usually, like, but right now…”

“Sure.”  Jamie offered him the packet as they headed for the door.

“I’ll go and make the tea.”  Martin stood up and followed them out.  Helen stared after him, then moved away from the window and sat down in the armchair which Martin had just vacated.  It still felt comfortingly warm.

For the first time since the morning she felt able to think straight, and tried to clarify everything that was crashing through her jumbled brain. 

Peter Pan said that to die would be an awfully big adventure, she thought.  But so far, it’s been more like an awfully big anticlimax.

She counted on her fingers. Heart attack.  Well, at least it was quick and tidy.  I think I was probably dead before I even hit the ground. And I’ve been spared the indignity of old age, or being a burden to anyone. That was what I’d been dreading most of all.  

Postmortem.  Ugh, that wasn’t nice.  She shuddered at the memory.

Big bash in Church.  Dear Martin – I might have known he’d give me a good send-off.  And I was surprised at how many people turned up.  Some of them I haven’t seen for years.  They seemed genuinely upset.  But then, if they thought that much of me, why didn’t they come to see me whilst I was still alive?

Cremation…  That wasn’t particularly nice either, but then, I wasn’t really expecting it to be… 

Bunfight at the pub.  Then – what?  I often wondered where I’d end up, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would be back here.  

Is this it?  Mrs Blythe, welcome to the afterlife.

They drummed all that Heaven and Hell stuff into us at Sunday School.  For a while I even believed them, but I’d started to have doubts even before all that business with that loony fundamentalist, telling us we’d all go to Hell if we didn’t give the Church at least a tenth of our income.  But if this is what really happens, then at least I’ve managed to prove him wrong!

I suppose it started when Miss Muir was teaching us about Hitler. What was it she said? ‘Perhaps that’s what Hell really is – having to listen to what people say about you afterwards.  And the more wicked you were, the worse it will be.’ 

And then…  Uncle Tom.  

She began speaking aloud, her voice slipping effortlessly into the tones of her uncle’s Cockney accent. 

“Eternal life ain’t about your soul goin’ on for ever, sittin’ on a cloud and twangin’ an ‘arp. It’s them what’s left behind ‘oo keeps your memory alive after you’ve gone.  And ‘ow much you’ll be remembered depends on ‘ow much you did, and ‘ow much you were loved, when you were alive.  What d’you reckon, ‘elen my girl?  

“So is that why I’m back here?  To live on, as a memory?  For as long as they … rememb…” 

The rest of the sentence was lost in a racking sob.  She struggled up from the sofa, crossed to the sideboard and picked up the box of tissues. 

I’d no idea that in the afterlife I’d still be able to cry…

As she wiped her streaming eyes, the door creaked open, admitting Jamie followed by Luke.  Luke in turn held it open for Martin, who was carrying a tray bearing a teapot, a milkjug, a sugar basin and three mugs.  

All three froze in their tracks as they looked across the room.  The tray left Martin’s hands and crashed to the floor…

THE END…?