Hello, Goodbye

Funerals aren't so bad. I can zone out of the soft soothing words from the pulpit and grab an open eyed nap, with the heady scent of melted candle wax, wood polish, and that rich smoky incense at the Catholic shindigs, gently teasing my senses; as I try not to snore, or dribble. Being of no fixed religion I limit my visits to houses of worship strictly to when duty calls, like weddings, christenings and funerals.

I hate crying babies almost as much as I hate smug happy couples, so funerals are the holy productions I dread the least.

While my big clumsy sausage fingers prod impatiently at my over priced, sweatshop constructed, mind of its own sat nav, I'm once again forced to pluck a random street number out of my backside when prompted.

St Patrick's of Ballytorr is frustratingly like every other church I've encountered. Happy to appear all trendy and informative with their online presence and fancy websites, they persistently buck convention and simply don't bother with street numbers in their contact details. Not a one. They must assume anyone who needs to will just find them, their feet and cars driven by the power of prayer.

Being a total stranger to the town i've no idea how long or short Cushdun Road is. The giant number 50 on my neighbours wheelie bin, empty and carelessly abandoned on the shared driveway in front of me, is as good a number as any. I can just hope for a conveniently ostentatious spire I can spot for miles.

Just one risky three point turn, and a wonky reverse manoeuvre when I overshot the entrance, and I've made it, just as the priest is parading up the aisle with his posse of mini priest minions behind him. Or altar boys. Altar children? Even the Catholic church is not immune to the interference of equal opportunity laws, permitting the Toms, Dicks, and now Harriets, of the parish to carry the crucifix; be a human bible bookmark; ding the bell.

I allow them to gain a bit of ground so I don't look like I'm deliberately joining the tail end of their solemn conga, then shuffle up as quickly and quietly as my slippy best dress shoes allow on the marble floor.

The small church is jam packed. A thorough scour of the pews for a healthy man sized space has led me all the way to the second row from the front, the white lily strewn coffin within intimate touching distance. Two balding middle aged men and a young, attractive brunette are spread out along the left, but soon shuffle up to make space for me on the end of the pew.

Brunette hands me an order of service with a warm smile. I take it and throw her the universal rolly eyes, apologetic 'Bloody hell! Thought I'd never get here!' expression, unfasten the bottom button on my suit jacket and settle in for the duration.

I barely knew my boss, having just started at the small family run drawing offices around two months ago. I'm sorely tempted to turn and have a nosy at the congregation, see how many of my new colleagues have turned up, but it's hard to do a discreet recce when plonked up front like Big Chief Mourner. I'm pretty certain of a decent turn out from Boyd's Designs though.

They were all visibly upset when the news of his massive heart attack speedily pinged around the office like a ghoulish, doom laden pinball one morning last week. Billy was deemed firm but fair by everyone. He was certainly very understanding when I couldn't start my contract on the date he'd suggested. I'd my yearly 'Lads in Lanzarote' boozefest already booked for the first week in August, and Boyd's are one of the dying breed of local businesses in Northern Ireland who still insist on the traditional Twelfth Fortnight in July be taken as non-negotiable annual leave, plus a week in September, imaginatively titled The September Week. No choice. Building gets cleared, doors locked. Away and have a holiday for yourself. Mind you, they are also one of the last bastions of the wee brown holiday pay envelope, tax free cash, so that eases any resulting inconvenience a fair bit.

As usual I forego the prayer option, stretch my lanky legs beyond the long kneeling stool and allow my mind to wander, just as the final strains of the opening hymn begin to fade out. Brunette has nice ankles and dainty feet. White lily's smell like death. Billy hadn't struck me as a lily kind of man. Billy. 12th July. Catholic church. Convert? How very Tony Blair. The priest's lilting North West brogue breaks into my meandering thoughts with a tiny squeak of microphone feedback, and the show is officially rolling.

"We gather here today to celebrate the life of Agnes McCormac, who has now returned to her home with Our God, The Father." A panicked assessment of neighbouring faces confirms it's my error, and not that of the priest confidently holding court up ahead.

"Shite." It's slipped out, in barely a whisper between my gritted teeth, but the whole front row of genuine chief mourners turn, shocked eyebrows raised in my direction.

"Sorry. So sorry, it's just shi... shocking, still shocking. Poor Agnes. Sorry..." I indicate the end of my hushed apology with an 'I'm done now, dramatic emotional scene over, as you were.' raised palm. Mortified, I close my eyes like it's all too much. I want to keep them closed forever, or at least until the communion wafers have been doled out, final hymn sung and Agnes bloody McCormac has been shunted back down the aisle on the shoulders of her loving family, with the rest of the congregation following behind.

It's too late to duck back out, find St Patrick's For Protestants, slip in the back, offer my condolences to Billy's wife and sons, my new bosses afterward... Isn't it?

What fancy tricks did old snake chaser Pat get up to in Ballytorr to be honoured with both churches named after him anyway? And on the same road? Mind you, this is the back end of nowhere, probably not many roads in Ballytorr at all, but still! Similar muddles must surely be common enough to warrant a visual alert of sorts out front. Bible shaped signage announcing name of deceased? Perhaps a photograph? Preferably taken when still alive. In fact definitely. As the perpetually undecided Clash are so fond of asking 'should I stay or should I go now?'.

I spot, rather belatedly, the personalised cover on the order of service and run my fingertips over it, as if in reverence to dear Agnes, but I'm really twisting my wrist, discreetly trying to read the time on my watch. Before I can see what the big hand on my trusty Sekonda is getting up to, a small scarlet fingernail tipped hand is covering mine, gently lifting it and opening the booklet, helpfully pointing out which part of the service the priest is now on. I look up to signal my thanks and become locked in a gaze with the warmest eyes in the prettiest face. I've never seen the like of these two big bright green pools, with a dark golden sunburst emanating from their black fathomless cores before. Mesmerising.

My critical, borderline OCD brain notes that one is sat a fraction higher than the other, and it's not immediately clear if both are actually focused in my direction, but one definitely is, and that's good enough for me. Bye bye Billy, hello and farewell Agnes.

Aside from letting out a tiny snore, questionably disguised as a cough during the lull after communion, and holding up the sign of peace handshake chain by gripping on to Brunette's tiny paw with my big sweaty one for a tad too long, I've survived the service. Being the gentleman I like to pretend I am, I step back to allow Brunette to exit the pew before me, quickly blocking the escape of her two baldy buddies who try to slip out behind her. Reaping my reward I enjoy the view of her pert backside squeezed into a tight black skirt suit, walking ahead of me down the aisle toward the sweet relief of the wide open double doors.

Old Agnes must've enjoyed her food, the pallbearers have barely stopped blinking at the midday sun greeting us outside the dark stone church and a staggering, exhausted scuffle has broken out. The ghostly pale head honcho in the long black frock coat and top hat is pointing a transparent boney finger at the first of the congregation out of the traps, to take over the coffin carrying. Bloody hell, what if he picks me? I duck down as quick as a reverse jack in the box and tug on the lace of my right shoe, fingers fumbling with the stiff black cord.

"Need a hand there?" For the second time in an hour those vampy tipped fingers cover mine, one tug and the knot on my shoe is unravelled and lying, lace ends akimbo, on the dusty ground.

"I get the heebiejeebies carrying coffins too. C'mere and I'll do a double bow on this, yer man will have found enough volunteers by then eh? I'm Ruth by the way, I don't know you, do I? Are you one of the Rafferty's? You're tall and fair like the Rafferty's".

"Mark. My name's Mark, hi, lovely to meet you Ruth." The double bow tied, I take her hand and give it yet another firm shake, in flirtation this time, not in peace. A quick glance up and I see we are off the hook as six overly burdened shoulders have begun a slow parade behind the long black hearse creeping forward in front of them. Keeping hold of Ruth's hand I pull her up with me. We both stand looking on with guilty smiles at the receding coffin, bobbing above a small mob of heads now that the church has emptied.

"That's not a bad day for it, it usually pishes down or blows a gale when I go to funerals". I cringe at my crude turn of phrase, not exactly romantic, or fitting to the pious environment.

"Aye, or both! I've lost more brollys in graveyards than I can count. Were you at Joe Rafferty's funeral last year? The wind nearly blew the priest into the grave after Joe, he almost lost his wig! Think it was a wig, if it wasn't it should have been, it had no business being called hair, I swear, it was like a giant steel grey walnut whip".

"With or without the nut on top?'"

"Sure his big nut was under it Mark!'". I bellow out a proper loud chuckle, but then pause to enjoy the sound of this witty, chatty, pretty girl's laugh. It wheezes and yet tinkles like a bell at the same time, her gorgeous wonky eyes creasing up at the corners. Mistaking my sudden silence for respect she claps a hand to cover her mouth, mortified.

"Oh bloody hell, I'm laughing at my Aunt's funeral! I'll be excommunicated from the family!"

"Think you're safe, that last lot must've been athletes, look at the distance they've covered, fair play to them." I nod toward where the throng have stopped on the road just beyond the church gates, admitting defeat and preparing to stow Agnes into the back of the hearse. A light wind swirls from nowhere, blowing autumn leaves around our ankles. Grabbing the excuse to touch her again I lightly place a hand on her glossy brown hair.

"C'mon Ruth, I'll keep your wig on for ya, lets go!'" Giggling, we zigzag wildly up the front drive of the church toward the carpark, her nudging my ribs, half heartedly shaking my hand off her head. Coming to a laughing stop I eye up the only two cars left. My silver Ford Fiesta at one side, and a bottle green and wood veneered Morris Minor on the other.

"Is THAT your car?" I ask, pointing to the motoring relic, unable to match it with this modern and rather smartly dressed girl.

"Ha! No, it's probably that Fr McPriestyBob's car. Aw shite! That's my lift right there, nice of them to wait for me." she points forlornly at a shiny black limo disappearing over the hill and out of sight. Abandoning any chance to catch up with my workmates to sink a pint or five for our dearly departed boss, I find myself offering her a lift to the graveyard.

"C'mon, hop in, you can save me getting lost, I can never find this graveyard the first time." Or anytime in fact. Miraculously, despite a fifteen minute journey filled with constant and distracting laughter, we make it to the graveyard before Agnes has disappeared down into her new resting place, but only just. Ruth bolts out of the car and runs toward her family already gathered at the graveside, her shout of thanks carries to me in the light gust of wind that has reappeared.

I walk to the edge of the crowd sprawled out, huddled in small groups respectfully balancing between graves, new and old. Too far away to hear the service I'm alerted to it ending by the backs of heads turning into a sea of faces looming toward me. Carried along by the mass exodus I reach my car just as the first of the limos carrying family pass by. I pick out Ruth's shiny brown hair in the back of one and allow my shoulders to slump in disappointment.

A lingering trace of her flowery perfume hits my nostrils as I feed into the line of cars slowly rolling out of the graveyard. I didn't even get to say goodbye. At a loss for what to do next I blindly follow the convoy and mentally kick myself for yet another missed opportunity in life . As the long straight road turns into a T junction everyone is turning right, so I join them. A red tail of blinking indicator lights snake off to the left into a small, tired looking hotel, and for want of any other ideas, I follow them in.

The pungent scent of vegetable soup and stale beer greets me as I enter the function room. A line of hungry mourners has already gathered at the buffet tables at the back, so I turn to the bar and order a pint of shandy and contemplate my next move. A pang of guilt hits me as the barman refuses to take payment, informing me it's a free bar for funeral goers.

"Hey, you made it! All by yourself too, good boy!" Ruth is suddenly smiling up at me cheekily, both hands balancing cups and saucers of treacle coloured tea.

"Hold on a wee minute, I just need to go water the grannies, get me a glass of white wine, back in a tick!"

True to her word she returns, before her wine has even been poured. We take a seat on the stools lining the bar and her knees clash against mine as we both turn to face each other. Worried she will disappear again I decide to go straight for it.

"So Ruth, I know this isn't exactly the best time and place, but, would you like to go out for a proper drink some time?" I watch her face and those green pools light up, but no sooner has her mouth joined in to smile back at me, it straightens into a serious expression.

"Mark I'd love to, but i'm actually seeing someone. Well I was. No, I am. He's actually mar ... Ach it's complicated, sorry. To be honest, we've been seeing each other on and off for over three years. To cut a long story not so short, I gave him an ultimatum over a week ago and he's been in a silent huff ever since, the idiot. It's not like he isn't old enough to know better. Definitely old enough." Those smiling eyes, to my horror, suddenly fill up, big glistening tears threatening to spill.

"I'm so sorry! Quick, distract me, I'm an ugly crier, tell me about you! What do you work at? A big lad like you... Let me guess, a fireman?" she chokes out a fake laugh through her tears. Crushed with disappointment but trying to look cool about it, I keep it light.

"Nah, nothing so glamorous i'm afraid. I scribble for a living. A draughtsman. Just moved to a small family firm recently, not too far from here actually."

"Oh? Who is that? I'm a PA for a team of architects in Belfast, I might know them, it's a small world". Her face brightens up a fraction, then tears build again.

"Boyd's Designs?"

"Ha! Boyd's? Seriously? You work for Billy?"

"Well, did. I did work for Billy, erm, ya see, I've a wee confession. Funny story really. Ok so, i've never met your Aunty Agnes. I was at the wrong church today. Did you know there's another church called St Patrick's on Cushdun Road? What's that about? I wonder if any of Agnes's mourners ended up..."

"DID work for Billy? Who else was buried today Mark? Tell me!" She bolts up straight in her stool, the knees that had been pressed so cosily up to mine suddenly nudge into me, hard, my stool swings right around. I grab the bar with both hands, poised to push myself back around to face her again.

"Billy. It was Billy Boyd. I'm sorry, did you know him well?" Silence. I spin back to face an empty stool, and Ruth slumped to her knees on the grubby old carpet, anguished tears flowing freely now.

I guess she did know him well. Small world indeed.