‘Look out of
the window,’ said Maude. ‘Now.’
Maude was downstairs
monitoring the girls. I could hear one of them crying and complaining
incoherently about a crime committed by the other one. I was upstairs grabbing
a minute put Brylcreem in my hair. It was one of those mornings when the smell
reminded me of my father.
‘Have you
looked?’
‘I’m looking,
now.’
I was
surprised to see that the third car in a funeral cortege was parked outside our
house. My eyes followed the train of cars up to the hearse – as it was being
filled with a coffin three doors up. Mourners and funeral professionals were
milling around.
‘Oh.’ I said.
Three doors up
is a rented house – tenanted by a couple in their forties for about six months.
They could often be seen walking past the house with shopping bags – as they
didn’t own a car. I did pass the time of day with them. Regrettably I never
really took the time to engage them in neighbourly conversation.
Initially I
wasn’t sure which one of them was dead.
‘Is it him, do
you think?’ asked Maude.
I then saw ‘him’
getting into the first car. A large wreath emerged from the house with the name
‘JAQI’ at its centre.
‘Well it’s not
him, he’s there.’ The upstairs window afforded me the better view.
‘Must be the
woman, then’ called Maude from downstairs.
‘They’re
fetching out a big wreath – it says ‘JAQI’. J,A,Q,I.’
‘Rather
unorthodox spelling,’ suggested my wife.
I coughed and
realised that I now have my father’s cough – he was virtually in the room.
‘Your
daughters are out of control. Are you coming down any time soon? ‘
People still use Brylcreem? You'll be telling us you use a bristle shaving brush next.
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