This story is true – apart from the bits that aren’t. But the truthfulness of the story is increased by the editing of the tale; or more correctly, the readability of it is. The order is not strictly speaking correct, but hell, reality is unrealistic. As expected, I’ve filed off all the serial numbers to preserve identities.
* * *
When you get down to it, only two things really keep families together; genetics and shared history. Mainly the latter. And lack of contact growing up in Care had limited it between myself and my nearest sibling, and the normal glue of mutual interest didn’t exist either. As adults, we’d developed a kind or relationship ‘holding pattern’; once a month, we’d go for a coffee. Public, but not too public. Long enough to keep in contact, not long enough to piss each other off or worse, run out of things to say to each other. They had their life, I had mine and the main thing we had in common was of the genetic variety.
Which was to be the topic of discussion on that bright muggy July afternoon.
‘You see this?’ they asked, dumping a somewhat wrinkled, folded-up newspaper on the table beside my espresso once they’d sat down themselves.
‘The Courant?’ giving a little shrug on realising it was the local rag. ‘Don’t tell me something actually fucking happened worth reading about.’ ending with a little snort. But they were insistent, and I did as bidden. ‘Okay… the obituary section. Why the fuck am I…’ trailing off when I saw what they’d been driving at.
A small notice, black-bordered. Requesting that any relatives of ‘Sean O’Haire’ contact the following number immediately. As though to get their money’s worth for the ad, they repeated this message three times.
Poignant silence time. For that was the name of our father. That is, we think. In their case the paternity was rather obvious from the resemblance, but not with I. Okay, the statistical law of averages suggests that the old git was mine too, but when you’ve come from a woman who’d sleep with anyone you simply don’t know for sure.
‘Why the fuck were you reading the obituaries?’ I finally said, unconsciously taking refuge in the mundane, stalling the moment where I had to do serious thinking.
‘I like to see who’s dead.’ was the reply, face making it obvious the whole thing was puzzling to them. Looking back down at the ad, I started to understand why it was puzzling. And I don’t mean my sibling’s rather early in life penchant for reading death columns. For it wasn’t actually in the obituaries, but in the more general ‘Notices’ section which started near the end of the page and almost ran into the previous. What’s more, that the number was a local one.
‘Do you think it’s about him?’ they asked, causing me to quit staring at the ad, hoping to divine more knowledge out of it than was possible.
‘How many other O’Haires’ are in this area?’ I replied, absent-mindedly starting to roll a smoke. ‘And we both know he was still living around these parts.’ A nod to this, another silence. Then the obvious one.
‘What do you think it’s about?’ giving their cappuccino a frown as they added a sachet of sugar, while I lit my smoke and stared out at the sparse crowds in the shopping parade, not sure whether the lack of people was due to the heat or the hour.
‘I… don’t know. How old would he be, now?’ taking a sip of my espresso, looking around to make sure this discussion was private enough. Another frown in reply. Testament to the lack of relationship between us and him; his two youngest-born was not sure of their father’s age. We make a guestimate, it’s somewhere in the late sixties, seventy on the outside.
‘Old enough to be dead.’ I conclude after this trawling of memories. ‘And the guy was a fat shit who lived on beer, fags and fry-ups. In fact, thought he already was dead.’ giving a little shrug.
‘Yeah… that’s why I’ve not called it. They might want us to deal with it all.’ they answered; my turn to nod. I’d not yet at this point popped my funeral cherry and didn’t want to start with said fat shit I didn’t care one jot about. And even more importantly, have to pay for. That was the danger; both of us still lived in the area – wouldn’t hard for Them to find our locations to send menacing letters and bailiffs to once they learned of our existence. You tell a pair working minimum-wage that they might be saddled with thousands of quid of death costs.
Some desultory discussion flowed, mainly the pair of us mulling over the possible reasons behind all this – and what to do about it. Their suggestion was for us to simply ignore it. At the time this sounded to me a rather foolish idea, but with hindsight I could see the attraction – after all, the risk/benefit ratio was hugely stacked for the former. But in the end, I prevailed on them to let the third sibling from our ‘group’ know about it and that I’d go on what they decided.
The designated time up, we bade farewell and I headed off to work. On the way, I prodded the mind, trying to gauge my feelings towards the man. For I didn’t really think about him much; I’d not seen or heard from him for twenty-odd years. Like that Nirvana song, while he’d been my father, he’d never been my dad. Truth be told, I could barely remember him; how much could you recall of someone you last saw when seven? The snippets over the years assembled an image of a stereotypical ‘feckless Irishman’; drunken, violent, ignorant and lazy, sitting in squalor while hectoring the walls about how great he was and how the world had treated him so badly. Simplistic but not really stupid, a kind of base cunning mixed in a mind filled with hate for anything not him and with a penchant for petty crime.
If he was dead, I didn’t care. The older ones had more skin in the game for dancing on his grave, not me.
* * *
Back in the ‘fifties, those New Town architects had a dream; that of an elegant plaza in front of the Town Hall, ringed by green space and topped off with some shady trees and a fountain. However, generations of official wisdom had removed said trees and fountain and turned the green space into overflow parking and offices; doing well to create a concrete oven instead.
This factoid was told to me via a display board on the side of the building, as I cooked in the even-sultrier afternoon a couple days after the coffee-shop. Not by choice, mind; the three of us had an appointment with some council woman. Eldest sibling had called the number; the ‘Sean O’Haire’ had been Father, apparently. And he was dead. We needed to come in and sign the disowning papers so the council would then deal with all the death stuff on their own coin. The old git, freeloading even after death.
Yet… was it fair doing this? Surely it was our responsibility, as his kids to sort him out? Well, it was his responsibility to be a father to us, but as I’ve already said he didn’t do that either. They could have made some effort to keep in contact – social did allow the passing of letters and gifts – but he did not. He could have reached out after we left care; he did not. The man never taught me to read, to ride a bike or to shave. His labours never paid for the food that nourished me or the clothes which were on my back. I owed him fuck all. In my case, he was quite literally a stranger to me.
The council offices inside had been remodelled since I’d been in last; all glass walls and air-conditioning. The latter made the sticky heat cold and uncomfortable, the former that I was on display to the world. Our woman had actually been waiting for us at reception, a dispenser of perfectly-measured sympathy; to this date the first and last time I’ve ever been showed either of these courtesies by an a representative of the council. Leading us into a conference room which reminded me of a fishbowl due to said glass, she sat us down and so began.
First it was the proofs of relationship; all I had was my birth certificate. It was at this point where I learned that the git was only listed on mine; for the other two it was blank. I’ll admit, I was a touch disappointed that they didn’t have ‘UNKNOWN’ scrawled over it instead. And that Mother had been so stupid she’d given three different answers on the place of her birth. Not that this was a piece of groundbreaking news to us.
Even with the lack of evidence, the woman accepted it; perhaps on the basis that we had nothing to gain from impersonations. Plus the fact that two others had called in the week before asking about the man; calls from witheld numbers which had ended the moment the woman had asked if they were relatives. A reminder of the half-siblings which had never given a shit about us either.
I’ll admit; the discussion didn’t go the way I was expecting; insensitive, hasty and stilted. Shows how growing up in Care fucks you up; conditioning you to expect every interaction with officialdom to be like that. Oh, and obsessed with saving cash, to the point of on occasion openly lying to fob it off on somebody, anybody else. Later learned that Eldest had enlightened the woman about some choice bits about Father beforehand.
Turned out that Father had been living in a council flat a stone’s throw from the house we’d been removed from two decades previous. Normal ‘died alone’ jobbie; neighbours complained of the smell, policeman broke the door in and found him, about a month gone, during a heatwave. Delightful. Doctors doing the old slice-dice showed he’d had a massive coronary, though also testified another half-dozen organs were about to turn on him fatally due to decades of abuse. Eldest looked a little sad on being told it would have been instantaneous.
This experience had shaken the council woman a little, she half-admitted such; I think unclaimed nobodies and weeping estranged relatives were the norm, not relatives clearly delighted by the news of death despite the fact there was no cash incentives involved. But hey, at least it’s produced material for a professional anecdote or something. Hopefully.
The personal elements done, we then returned to the official; the disowning forms were produced, explaining that if we did disown, we’d lose all claim on his estate. Knowing said estate would mainly comprise of beer empties and debt, we did so without hesitation. It was not until later that I realised it also washed our hands to having to clear out his flat to return to the council – another arduous task I feel zero shame in shirking.
Paperwork done, the council woman wrapped it all up; gave us the details of the coming funeral, said would keep us in the loop – if any news came up – via Eldest. I remember apologising for the amount of effort the fat shit was putting her through; for amongst other things, she’d had to view the body.
Blinking in the harsh sun outside the offices and already feeling the heat pressing on me; I recall one thought; Father was getting respect that he neither deserved or had ever granted to another being, ever.
* * *
After reading all that you might wonder why the hell I actually went to the funeral. The answer to this was simple; I wanted to see who else – if anyone – would turn up to the damn thing. Council woman said she’d notify who she could and publicise it; I have no grounds to think she was lying. Plus, she’d told us about a ‘friend’ of Father’s who’d apparently been bugging her over a clock or a watch or a clock radio or whatever that Father was ‘repairing’ for them and they desired it back – wanted to see if they’d turn up.
Admittedly, I was not that interested; if Eldest wasn’t already going I wouldn’t have bothered. Middle sibling declined, citing work shift clash – a reason which I would have used myself if it had been applicable. But it would be a little tight; so the agreement was that I’d be dropped off at work straight afters.
Which was the problem. The municipal cemetery was a town away, tucked away in the back end of beyond with terrible access. I didn’t drive, Eldest’s car was then on bricks and we all both had diaries too crowded to spend oodles of time swanning about on stupidly indirect buses and/or walking for miles in this weather. This meant that Eldest had to talk around their fuck-lodger to drive us. We shall call them Leech.
Well, as Leech had no desire to do it, they left it to the very last moment to leave for the pick-up, causing them to be fifteen minutes late to start off. Once finally in the car, we then set off – very slowly, going ‘the scenic route’. No excuses; no traffic to justify the plodding 21 mph, no being unaware of the destination causing them to loop all the way around the town, like going from Watford to Heathrow via the Dartford Tunnel. After some gritted-teeth urging (carefully, as Leech had no shame and would happily simply stop the car to ‘punish us’) they entered warp speed… of 25 mph.
The net result of this was that despite the fact we’d put in decent time to spare, we were ten minutes late for the funeral. This was quite deliberate on Leech’s part, I’m sure; our punishment for getting them to do something they didn’t wish to, a lesson that to rely on them was utterly foolish and to never be done again. I told them later they were damn lucky we didn’t actually care about the funeral, or they’d be in some shit – all I got in reply was a gaslightly ‘I have no idea what you mean!’ look.
The cemetery which Father had an outing to was one of the new ones; just a big expanse of flat grass, perfectly regimented graves and with a vista of the myriad of tubes and cylinders from the nearby chemical works. Not a plant in sight, save a couple of ugly screening hedges. What’s not appreciated is that Victorian cemeteries have their charm partly because they were intended to; that it should be a public park as well as the resting-place and memorials to the deceased. This place was simply a locale to park corpses, nothing more or less.
Leaving Leech to fuss over the mythical possibility that some traffic warden would come and ticket their precious vehicle, Eldest and I hurried towards what we assumed to be the chapel; a building which obeyed the charm rating of the rest of the place – only to find it closed. That ‘we are very closed’ look you get sometimes.
A little confused – surely the service wouldn’t be over that quick – I wandered around to see if there was any hint; past a weedy hedge and spotting a mini-digger in far distance. Clearly the burial. Well, a burial. Began to trudge across the sea of straw-like grass in the midday sun on what later turned out to be the apex of the heatwave; filled with that oppressive pressure while I’m hating the fact more than ever that my workwear was mainly dark in hue.
Naturally, it was Father. I now know that pauper’s funerals don’t get ‘proper’ services; just a quick insert-name-here job over the grave by whoever the cemetery had on call – in this case, the local Anglican vicar. A little twist of the knife; the old git hated ‘Prods’. I also know that it’s pretty rare for it to be a burial, not a cremation; but this is easily explained that the council owned the cemetery.
It could be said that you can judge a person’s life on who turns up to their funeral, and what happens there. Father’s total number; six. Myself, Eldest, Vicar, Council Woman and two blokes from the funeral company (in full fig even in a damn heatwave). Of which, four were ‘on the meter’, the vicar had buggered off as soon as they’d done the reading thing and the other three had seen us approaching so held off clearing off too.
No flowers, notes or cards. Had lived in this town for at least thirty-five years and no friend had attended. None of our elusive shitbags of half-siblings had turned up (why are they shitbags? Well, that’s another story) even though they would have found out easily about the funeral. Eldest was the only one there who could genuinely say they’d known ‘Sean O’Haire’ and I’ve never heard them say anything positive about them, ever. A funeral where nobody was upset or sad for the deceased.
It was hard for me to get a decent look at the coffin. They’d put that plastic sheeting about to stop the soil-pile from fucking up the grass, but there was piles of the stuff around the edge of the grave itself, which I’d have to stand on. Even though it was all dry and I was in hiking trainers, I felt it mentally hard to do that, even though a) it was the grave of a person I despised and b) wasn’t even the grave proper. Sign of how social conditioning can rule your actions. Though to be honest one coffin looks pretty much like another; a coffin-shaped affair made of ‘wood’ of some form – though I suspect in this case, it was some cheapo composite affair or laminate than true timber. I think it had a little plaque on the top, but I can’t remember.
I stared at it for perhaps a good thirty seconds, trying to see if it generated any emotional response. No… still didn’t care. But before you say I’m a sociopath or something, I have been to funerals which I did care. I have felt grief; though not admittedly the ‘I’ve been torn in half’ level. It’s not like I was in a daze or anything. In my mind the man had been dead for years, perhaps decades; I later found out that Middle had also mentally declared our parents dead long ago too. No. I did feel something. Disgust. For him.
After rejecting putting the soil on the coffin thing (why do they do that?) I went back to Eldest – they’d not bothered to even look, instead talking with Council Woman a little way away. Confirming nobody else had turned up, that as a pauper’s funeral Father was the second inhabitant out of three for the plot. But there was nothing special about said plot; no classic mass grave, potters field thing. But there was going to be no headstone, no marker. And he only had the leasehold, not the freehold; that once the cemetery was full up he’d be top of the list to be reused. Didn’t ask what they did then; perhaps I should have.
Something to ponder, walking back to Leech’s car. That when it came to your grave; eternity didn’t last as long as it used to. Just long enough to allow those who remembered you to join the Majority too.
* * *
A week or so later the three of us were back at the offices; Council Woman wanted to see us. They’d finished clearing Father’s flat; the look on the woman’s face made it obvious she’d been disgusted by the conditions. From the gist, a combination of hoarded vaguely-useful items, old ‘projects’ and general shit à la Mr Trebus. And general filth. Lots of it. Much more than they’d thought possible for a property of it’s size. So many tins of screws, nails and clock parts, apparently. And empty bottles. Nothing had possessed any value whatsoever.
But she’d recovered what ‘personal items’ she was able to and felt it was only right that it be given to us. Which she did, discharging a largeish white ziplock which reminded me of those ones you get for bedding for long-term storage. Yet also coming with a relayed request; an aunt of ours demanded to be allowed to exhume Father so he could be re-buried in Ireland – but Council Woman had said it was up to us to agree. Surprisingly for Woman, not at all for us, aunt had zero desire to contact any of us, even though she offered to put us in touch.
Woman told us a couple of the ‘tales’ Aunt had said about Father; said in reply they were the same BS boasting lies he’d told us. And that we denied the request for exhumation. Which I shall happily report was done purely out of spite on our part. Aunt, like the rest of our ‘Irish family’ had never given a shit about us, merely wanted the body so they could do the whole big-deal whole-clan funeral thing. Minus us. Well, fuck you.
Half hour later we were back at mine; refreshing drinks in hand, ready to explore the mysterious bag. With the passage of time, I no longer remember the exact contents, but I do remember what we did not find in it, and that was perhaps more telling.
There were no photographs, for starters. This is perhaps not so shocking now with smartphones but this was a decade before and from a pensioner. Hell, even I have a few photographs. No knick-knacks or little heirlooms which might have have sentimental value. No personal letters, save one from said Aunt (which is how Council Woman found out to contact her) which said nothing rather well in eight hundred words. Nothing whatsoever which showed anything about anyone.
Then there were the things which we did have. An address book almost devoid of addresses, and seemingly none of them personal. A few Christmas cards; all from organisations, none of them with his name inside. A bus pass. Post Office card for his pension. An old mobile phone which we couldn’t turn on or find a charger for. Several leaflets, like from takeaways. A part of me, remembering an old episode of Heir Hunters parodied a funeral eulogy based on this information; Sean O’Haire, possible consumer of kebabs, rider of buses and user of a telephone. Possessor of gin blossom and a scabby bald plate.
Rather fitting, I felt; a pathetic eulogy for a pathetic man.
* * *
That was then. But what about now? Has the passing of a decade changed my view on any of this? Granted ‘perspective’? My answer is simple; not really. Helped me realise better that the above situation was truly fucked-up, but it was due to a fucked-up person which in this case, was not me.
It’s that which led me to write this story. Because I’m sick and tired of all the crap everywhere about having to ‘forgive’ estranged relatives, or being expected to conform to the bollocks about grieving. There are times where somebody – even a parent – can cross that line where forgiveness is impossible. Sometimes you are not grieving because there is nothing to grieve for. My father was the anti-Midas; anything he touched, he ruined. Sometimes – as Council Woman learned – people die alone because they were so toxic everyone sane cut them out of their lives out of a sense of self preservation. And that the world became a slightly better place with his removal from it.
On reflection, I was lucky in this. Unlike many in this kind of situation, there was no dipshits telling me that I must grieve (or worse, I was repressing grief, or even that my feelings were ‘wrong’). No liars (save that stupid Aunt) going on with Trump-level stream-of-lies about how great the coffin-inhabitant was, or pleas for me to ‘understand their predicament’, or to dismiss or minimise the crap he’d done to others over decades. And no moron to tell me ‘they loved me in their own way’ or some sanctimonious crap which not is not helpful in these situations, but makes it worse – implying that under all that layers of shit, there was a ‘decent relationship’ underneath somewhere. Or that it’s not ‘healthy’ to bear resentment towards the dead. Yeah, guilt-trip why don’t you. And tell me he’s in heaven… oh, you’d get the sharp end of my tongue.
In short – I was free, along with my siblings to speak ill of the dead as much as we wished without contradiction, disapproval or pressure to pretend otherwise. And that’s not a privilege that many get.
Okay, I didn’t get closure. But I had long realised success on that would have been close to nil in chance. Rant at him, about how a shit example of a father he was? He wouldn’t care, there was a chance he really did believe his own lies about us ‘all being out to steal his money’ (what fucking money?) and none of this was his own damn fault. A late-life ‘new leaf’? I don’t think I would have believed it, to be honest; I know the other siblings wouldn’t have. Any hope, however vague that he’d return into my/our lives as some form of functional human being possessing a soul had never flickered high, and had died in fag-end of the last century.
But I did get validation. The friendless funeral, the squalid flat, all his kids who disowned him, the self-inflicted health problems, his death alone and non-discovery… all pointed firmly that the path he’d been on twenty year previous he’d continued to the very end. We missed nothing worthwhile. That new-leaf never happened. To use more self-help terminology bollocks, I had ‘accepted’ Father for the person he was, and that was a complete scumbag. And his unpersoning had been the correct decision.
And thus, I shall continue loathing his memory in peace. On the rare occasion I think about him, that is.
As everything on this blog, merely my own thoughts and opinions. Part of my Essays series.
Tales From The Minority 