Twenties Girl
Page 167
The organ crashes in with the opening bars of “Jerusalem,” and I make my way down the podium steps to rejoin Ed, who’s standing next to my parents. He’s wearing the most amazing vintage 1920s dinner jacket which he paid a fortune for at a Sotheby’s auction and makes him look like a black-and-white-movie star. When I exclaimed in horror at the price, he just shrugged and said he knew the 1920s thing meant a lot to me.
“Good job,” he whispers, clenching my hand. “You did her proud.”
As the rousing song starts, I realize I can’t join in. Somehow my throat feels too tight and the words won’t come. So instead I look around at the flower-laden church, and the beautiful outfits, and all the people gathered here, singing lustily for Sadie. So many diverse people, from different walks of life. Young, old, family members, friends from the nursing home-people that she touched in some way. All here. All for her. This is what she deserved.
This is what she deserved. All along.
When the service finally ends, the organist launches into the Charleston (I don’t care if memorial services don’t usually have the Charleston), and the congregation slowly files out, still clutching their cocktail glasses. The reception is being held at the London Portrait Gallery, thanks to lovely Malcolm Gledhill, and helpful girls with badges are telling people how to get there.
But I don’t rush. I can’t quite face all the talking and chatter and buzz. Not just yet. I sit in my front pew, breathing in the scent of the flowers, waiting until it’s quieter.
I did her justice. At least I think I did. I hope I did.
“Darling.” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I see her approaching me, her hairband more wonky than ever. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a glow of pleasure all around her as she slides in beside me. “That was wonderful. Wonderful.”
“Thanks.” I smile up at her.
“I’m so proud of the way you skewered Uncle Bill. Your charity will do great things, you know. And the cocktails!” she adds, draining her glass. “What a good idea!”
I gaze at Mum, intrigued. As far as I know, she hasn’t worried about a single thing today. She hasn’t fretted that people might arrive late, or get drunk, or break their cocktail glasses, or anything.
“Mum… you’re different,” I can’t help saying. “You seem less stressed. What happened?”
I’m suddenly wondering if she’s been to the doctor. Is she taking Valium or Prozac or something? Is she on some drug-induced high?
There’s silence as Mum adjusts her lilac sleeves.
“It was very strange,” she says at last. “And I couldn’t tell everybody this, Lara. But a few weeks ago, something strange happened.”
“What?”
“It was almost as though I could hear…” She hesitates, then whispers, “A voice in my head.”
“A voice?” I stiffen. “What kind of voice?”
“I’m not a religious woman. You know that.” Mum glances around the church and leans toward me. “But, truly, this voice followed me around all day! Right in here.” She taps her head. “It wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought I was going mad!”
“What-what did it say?”
“It said, ‘Everything’s going to be all right, stop worrying!’ Just that, over and over, for hours. I got quite ratty with it, in the end. I said out loud, ‘All right, Mrs. Inner Voice, I get the message!’ And then it stopped, like magic.”
“Wow,” I manage, a lump in my throat. “That’s… amazing.”
“And ever since then, I find things don’t bother me quite as much.” Mum glances at her watch. “I’d better go, Dad’s on his way round with the car. Do you want a lift?”
“Not just yet. I’ll see you there.”
Mum nods understandingly, then heads out. As the Charleston morphs into another 1920s tune, I lean back, gazing up at the beautiful molded ceiling, still a bit blown away by Mum’s revelation. I can just see Sadie trailing after her, pestering her, refusing to give up.
All the things that Sadie was and did and achieved. Even now, I feel like I only ever knew the half of it.
The medley eventually comes to an end, and a woman in robes appears and starts snuffing out all the candles. I rouse myself, pick up my bag, and get to my feet. The place is already empty. Everyone will be on their way.
As I head out of the church into the paved forecourt, a ray of sunlight catches me in the eye and I blink. There’s a crowd of people still laughing and talking on the pavement, but no one is anywhere near me, and I find my gaze drifting upward to the sky. As it does so often. Still.
“Good job,” he whispers, clenching my hand. “You did her proud.”
As the rousing song starts, I realize I can’t join in. Somehow my throat feels too tight and the words won’t come. So instead I look around at the flower-laden church, and the beautiful outfits, and all the people gathered here, singing lustily for Sadie. So many diverse people, from different walks of life. Young, old, family members, friends from the nursing home-people that she touched in some way. All here. All for her. This is what she deserved.
This is what she deserved. All along.
When the service finally ends, the organist launches into the Charleston (I don’t care if memorial services don’t usually have the Charleston), and the congregation slowly files out, still clutching their cocktail glasses. The reception is being held at the London Portrait Gallery, thanks to lovely Malcolm Gledhill, and helpful girls with badges are telling people how to get there.
But I don’t rush. I can’t quite face all the talking and chatter and buzz. Not just yet. I sit in my front pew, breathing in the scent of the flowers, waiting until it’s quieter.
I did her justice. At least I think I did. I hope I did.
“Darling.” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I see her approaching me, her hairband more wonky than ever. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a glow of pleasure all around her as she slides in beside me. “That was wonderful. Wonderful.”
“Thanks.” I smile up at her.
“I’m so proud of the way you skewered Uncle Bill. Your charity will do great things, you know. And the cocktails!” she adds, draining her glass. “What a good idea!”
I gaze at Mum, intrigued. As far as I know, she hasn’t worried about a single thing today. She hasn’t fretted that people might arrive late, or get drunk, or break their cocktail glasses, or anything.
“Mum… you’re different,” I can’t help saying. “You seem less stressed. What happened?”
I’m suddenly wondering if she’s been to the doctor. Is she taking Valium or Prozac or something? Is she on some drug-induced high?
There’s silence as Mum adjusts her lilac sleeves.
“It was very strange,” she says at last. “And I couldn’t tell everybody this, Lara. But a few weeks ago, something strange happened.”
“What?”
“It was almost as though I could hear…” She hesitates, then whispers, “A voice in my head.”
“A voice?” I stiffen. “What kind of voice?”
“I’m not a religious woman. You know that.” Mum glances around the church and leans toward me. “But, truly, this voice followed me around all day! Right in here.” She taps her head. “It wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought I was going mad!”
“What-what did it say?”
“It said, ‘Everything’s going to be all right, stop worrying!’ Just that, over and over, for hours. I got quite ratty with it, in the end. I said out loud, ‘All right, Mrs. Inner Voice, I get the message!’ And then it stopped, like magic.”
“Wow,” I manage, a lump in my throat. “That’s… amazing.”
“And ever since then, I find things don’t bother me quite as much.” Mum glances at her watch. “I’d better go, Dad’s on his way round with the car. Do you want a lift?”
“Not just yet. I’ll see you there.”
Mum nods understandingly, then heads out. As the Charleston morphs into another 1920s tune, I lean back, gazing up at the beautiful molded ceiling, still a bit blown away by Mum’s revelation. I can just see Sadie trailing after her, pestering her, refusing to give up.
All the things that Sadie was and did and achieved. Even now, I feel like I only ever knew the half of it.
The medley eventually comes to an end, and a woman in robes appears and starts snuffing out all the candles. I rouse myself, pick up my bag, and get to my feet. The place is already empty. Everyone will be on their way.
As I head out of the church into the paved forecourt, a ray of sunlight catches me in the eye and I blink. There’s a crowd of people still laughing and talking on the pavement, but no one is anywhere near me, and I find my gaze drifting upward to the sky. As it does so often. Still.
