“Not really. I’d say most people don’t enjoy being at a funeral.”
“Well, I thought she was being odd.”
I didn’t care about Yvonne’s ramblings. I just wanted to be alone with him. He was there, and I could still feel him, barely. I was desperate not to appear petty or rude towards Yvonne, but internally, I just wanted to scream at her until she left. I kept my calm, obeyed social convention, and took a deep breath.
“Can I have a minute alone with Harry, please?” I asked gingerly.
Yvonne hesitantly placed her hand on my arm before leaving to give me some peace with my late husband. I watched her disappear into the distance, and I stood above the grave, staring down at the dirt that had been left there. I was half expecting Harry’s hands to slide around my waist from behind at any moment and for him to tell me it was all okay. But it wouldn’t be okay ever again. Without an audience, the floodgates finally opened, and the tears gushed down my cheeks and soaked into the loose ground beneath me. I wanted to let out a single, ear-shattering scream. I had everything I ever wanted, and it was taken away from me at the height of our love.
“Harry?” I wept, “I just want you to know I’ll never stop loving you.”
Harry remained uncharacteristically silent.
“You were everything to me, and now I’m lost without you. I’m so sorry for what happened.”
I had no option but to accept that I now had to navigate this world without him. He was my best friend, my soul mate, and I didn’t know what I’d do without him by my side. I thought we had so much more time together. We’d made plans, and we had a future to look forward to. But all of it was ripped away from us in the most devastating way I could ever imagine. Grief is a strange emotion, and admittedly, I hadn’t encountered it often in my life. What I felt stronger than anything else was the guilt, the world-shattering pit of inescapable guilt. I didn’t know if my response was the typical one. I just kept thinking about every decision I’d ever made, no matter how seemingly insignificant it may have been. Maybe if we’d conceived naturally, it would have made a difference, diverting the course of fate just enough for Harry to still be with me. I replayed in my mind every insignificant and frivolous argument we’d ever had. Perhaps if I’d conceded blame to a few, he would still be here. Or we would both be gone. At that moment, at Harry’s final resting place, either option was preferable to the truth.
“I miss you, Harry,” I whispered.
I turned my back on Harry and started the long walk to the car park. I wasn’t in any rush to get to the wake. Surely, I would be allowed some lateness, given the horrific circumstances.
The accepted story was that Harry had driven down to Filey and arrived safely. He met some of his old friends at the pub, as he often did. They tended to overdo it a little because they didn’t see one another as frequently as they used to. When the pub called last orders, they decided to continue drinking back at Steve’s house. He lived at and ran the caravan park right near Filey Brigg. Steve was Harry’s best friend growing up, and they were as thick as thieves. When the booze had run dry, Harry decided to call it a night and made his way back to Yvonne’s house but took the scenic route. In his drunken state, he somehow lost his footing at the top of the Brigg and plummeted from it. The coroner said Harry wouldn’t have felt any pain. He fell from quite a height onto the rocks below, so it was near instant. I didn’t find any solace in the coroner’s words; he shouldn’t have died like that, regardless of how quick it was.
Yvonne had been adamant that she wanted Harry buried in Filey; ‘It was his home’, she protested. I didn’t put up much resistance. It was best to let her win that one. In the end, he had turned his back on the village, but he still loved it there. The ‘Ox and Plow’ was a traditional public house in the centre of Filey. Harry had often regaled me with many stories of his misspent youth inside its walls. It was a dingy, little pub with wonky exposed beam ceilings and dimly lit walls. Locals would describe it as a ‘charming little boozer’, albeit to me, and putting it politely, it was a shithole. The walls were decorated with black and white photographs of the men who had wasted their lives in there since it had opened; I now wondered if Harry was featured in one of them.
Regardless, it was certainly a fitting place to send him off. It was his local, and anywhere else wouldn’t feel quite right. I was the last to arrive there, and the mourners were already a few drinks deep. They were laughing and joking, and I heard snippets of the stories they were telling one another as I meandered through the mass of people. I knew deep down that this was exactly what Harry would have wanted to see happening, but it grated at me. How dare they laugh and joke at a time like this.
“Whiskey, please. Double,” I said to the barmaid.
“Pace yourself, dear,” Yvonne interjected, appearing almost in a puff of smoke in the crowd of mourners at the bar.
“You’re one to talk,” I muttered under my breath.
“Sorry?” She replied.
“Nothing,” I smirked.
My whiskey arrived quickly, along with an unrequested look of feigned sympathy from the barmaid. Harry constantly lectured me that alcohol harmed the chances of conceiving, so I’d been trying to cut back. ‘Bottoms up,’ I thought. The amber liquid burned my throat as it coated my stomach; I puffed out my cheeks and held my mouth to prevent it from making an instant return.
“How are you feeling?” A voice behind me asked.
It was Harry’s older sister, Penelope, but everybody called her Poppy. I actually got on with Poppy, but we were very different people. Poppy was somewhat of a hippy and had this tendency to shoehorn spiritualism into every conversation she had. She frequently wore a carefully curated selection of crystals and vehemently claimed they all had specific spiritual powers. But not today; she was dressed in a floor-length black dress. I thought it was a respectful gesture. Harry never believed in any of that and called it nonsense. Given the choice, I’d have to agree with him.
“Amelia? Sorry, that was a stupid question,” Poppy asked.
“Sorry, Poppy, I was lost in my thoughts. Not great, to be honest,” I responded.
“I know, love. Great turnout, though. Harry would have loved to see the old gang back together again. We haven’t all been together properly since your wedding.”
“I know.”
“You know, at times like these—”
Here it comes.
“—There is some comfort in knowing that he isn’t really gone. He is all around us. You should speak to my medium, James. He’s very good. He might even be able to contact him.”
“Contact him? He is dead, Penelope.”
The hustle and bustle of the pub immediately fell silent once I’d raised my voice. All eyes were locked on us, waiting for Poppy’s response. She was more of a crier than a fighter, and I don’t know why I picked on her so readily. My emotions got the better of me, and her ridiculous comment had tipped me over the edge.
“I’m just saying he can help—”
“No, Poppy, this is not the time to be preaching. My husband is dead. Your brother is dead. He died in this pathetic town, and we’re never going to see him again.”
Poppy, shocked by what I’d said, elected to walk away from me instead of trying to respond. I have to say, it was the right decision. Yvonne replaced Poppy in her position in front of me. She was clearly going to use my outburst to cause a scene. I downed the rest of the whiskey left in the glass, waiting for the inevitable.
“Come on, love, let’s go outside for a minute,” Yvonne said softly, ushering me outside. She walked me through the staring mourners, opening the door and signalling me to step through it. I went outside and exhaled loudly, expecting a loud argument.
“What now?” I asked abruptly.
“I know what it feels like. When we lost Harry’s father, I felt like my whole world collapsed. Whatever you need to do to try and move on from that, do it. But shouting at Poppy won’t help.”
I was shocked. Yvonne was actually being nice, or at least something that resembled nice. The sheer personality change I had just witnessed before my very eyes was strong enough to make the anger evaporate instantly. I’d never seen this side of her. Maybe she did have genuine empathy and wasn’t the heartless mother-in-law I’d always pegged her for. We’d barely exchanged any niceties since I’d met Harry, but maybe she did understand how I was feeling. She’d lost her son, after all, and I kept forgetting that.
“I know, but she always comes in with that psychic bull—” I started.
“And don’t reject anything that could help you,” Yvonne interrupted.
