Hello, Goodbye

Hello, Goodbye

T HE RING OF

the church bell feels particularly ominous as we stand among the headstones, dressed in black. Bella is wearing an elegant net fascinator in her hair and that, combined with her black lace dress and gloves, makes her look like a character from a film noir who will eventually be revealed to be the villain. There are easily a hundred people gathered here already, dressed in black against the grey sky. I am drawn to the one or two who are wearing colour. This Eddie Winston must have been a hoot.

We are saying hello to him. And we are saying goodbye.

Once we are seated inside the church and the organ begins to play, it feels evident we have made a mistake. It is sombre and scary and there’s a body in that box. We had thought it might be fitting to have this Eddie Winston say goodbye to another, but now it feels all wrong, as though we are crashing a party to which we were never to expect an invitation.

But my guilt is eased during the eulogies, of which this Eddie Winston has three, one from his son, one from his son’s

husband and one from his daughter. It seems that he liked practical jokes, parties and fishing and made friends everywhere he went. ‘I’d be surprised if even Dad could identify everyone here today,’ his daughter said, to a ripple of laughter. Perhaps he’d have liked it, then, to know that another Eddie Winston who read himself dead has come along to say goodbye.

Though the late Eddie Winston sounds like a hoot, the hymns are still slow and so sad. Bella and I don’t know the words or the tunes, of course, but enough people do that the words rise up into the cold, old arches of the church.

Do not be afraid,

For I have redeemed you.

I have called you by your name

You are mine.

I give Bella’s hand a squeeze, and she squeezes back. And that is when I notice that she’s crying, the tears falling down her face faster than she can wipe them away.

I take the pocket square from my pocket and hand it to her. It has mallards printed all over it (￡1.50, and a total bargain at twice the price). She gives me a half-smile.

It is all so terribly sad. Bella’s tears. These beautiful words to this sad tune. I let a few tears fall. For all that can be. For all that can’t. For the late Eddie Winston and the people who loved him. For the kiss I tried to find. For Bella and for Jake. For her healing heart.

When Bella notices that I’m crying too, she silently hands the mallards back to me. And we cry together for a while.

Once the late Eddie Winston has been carried by his family and friends out to where the open mouth of a grave is waiting, the rest of the congregation files out, politely letting one another go ahead, to the sad improvised tune of the organ. But Bella and I stay seated. Eventually, it is only us two left in the church. The organist ends her improvisation with a minor chord flourish and we hear the creak of a key cover being pulled to protect her notes and then a door closing.

The church is cold and quiet.

‘Are you all right?’ I whisper.

‘It feels wrong to be crying about Jake at someone else’s funeral,’ Bella says.

‘Don’t feel bad, dear. Everyone is crying for multiple people today.’

‘Are they?’

‘Some people will be crying for Eddie, some for his children, some for his grandchildren. At a funeral, people are reminded of all the people they have lost before. Lots of people will be crying for other loved ones who’ve already passed. I have thought about my mother since we’ve been here. But funerals remind us that we, too, will die one day, so we are crying for ourselves as well. You’re not restricted about who you cry for.’

She nods.

‘We can sit here for as long as you want.’

She sniffs. ‘I’m okay.’

‘It’s all right if you’re not, though.’

She nods and sighs. ‘I think I need some fresh air.’

‘Go on, I’ll catch you up,’ I tell her, and she slips off and down the aisle and into the grey day, her high heels making

a satisfying clacking sound that echoes around the church as she goes.

I sit for a moment more, taking in the heavy air of sadness in this place.

I gather myself. It is time to go back out into the world. As I rise in the pew and make my way down the aisle, I spot a discarded service pamphlet on the floor. I pick it up. It would be rude to leave the church in disarray. From the front of the service pamphlet, the late Eddie Winston is smiling up at me in sunglasses next to a green and lush riverside, fishing line at rest beside him. He looks happy. I place the pamphlet carefully on the pew at the back of the church, in case someone wants to keep it.

Only …

It cannot be.

It absolutely cannot

be.

Bella is already outside, so there is nobody to verify that this is not a mirage.

Because it cannot be

!

That is my handwriting. I would know it anywhere.

A square piece of paper with my handwriting on it.

Just sitting on the pew.

I pick it up, my hands shaking.

When Spring, Nature’s Beauty,

And the burning summer have passed,

And the fog, and the rain,

By the late fall are brought,

Men are wearied, men are grieved,

But birdie flies into distant lands,

Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea:

Flies away until the spring

How?

How?

Though I believed this church to be built on land, it reveals itself to be on water. The Gothic arches rise up on the crest of a wave and the floor dips down low, and I have to hold on to the pew so that I do not fall. The candles flicker as we rise up on another wave, though I am certain this church rests upon concrete, surrounded by grass.

I feel quite sick.

We dive downwards for another wave, and I hold on tight to the poem I wrote for her when she was flying away.

My Birdie.

She was here.