And this is why I didn’t want to expose myself to Facebook.
This.
As I scrolled through every public message to Jack, I found her. Florrie.
Florrie Ellen Tewkesbury. I mean, it’s hard not to ignore a name like that, eh?
We strive to find great love in life. Jack Carmichael, thank you for being my friend, my stormtrooper, my bud. Thank you for being one of my life’s great loves. Heaven celebrates what we commiserate. Boogie on up there and we’ll catch up again one fine day. I knows it. You know I knows it. You knows it. Haha xxx
Stormtrooper??
I had to click on her profile. (Wouldn’t you?!)
Her privacy settings are tight but her profile pic told me enough. Sipping an oversized cup of hot chocolate loaded with floating marshmallows, her pinky out; a severe eyeliner flick; cherry-red dyed hair. I hated that I was peeking, presuming, imagining them together.
‘So don’t look,’ is what Jack would’ve said. ‘Simple.’
‘But I had to find out where your fucking funeral is!’ I yelled at the wall. ‘And thanks to that, not only have I been reminded hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times that you’re dead and with the angels and never to be forgotten and taken too soon, but I’m wondering why Florrie called you her fucking Stormtrooper? Since when were you into Star Wars? What the actual … Jack?!’
I wished for him to be checking the spice rack for paprika, or singing the wrong words to Elton John songs from the bathroom.
I opened Facebook again. Not to read any more tributes, though. I wanted to see him; Jack. I tapped on his photos, something I hadn’t done since our earliest days – when I found them, to be honest, uninteresting. His profile pic was simply his bushy beard and his teeth grinning. His last upload had been in March this year, and, typical Jack, it wasn’t a photo of him. It was a photo of a different person altogether. The man sat in the shopping trolley.
The last morning we spent together floated into my mind: him pondering the meaning of what could be behind the picture. I wished I hadn’t rushed off to work, wished I’d been given the gift of hindsight so I could have called in sick, spent the day with him. Oh, how we could’ve pondered such notions all bloody day! I looked up from my laptop, over towards the cooker where the picture hangs, and saw Jack, arms folded across his chest, a smile – a little smug – stretching across his face.
‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ I imagined him saying.
‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael,’ I said.
And now, today, it’s his funeral.
I squeeze my feet back into my heels. A couple of people have arrived, a few cars parking on the quiet country road. I stand; not sure why. It’s not like I’m looking out for a mate or hoping to be noticed. So I sit back down again and wait, watch; some women my age, linking each other; another with a baby in a sling, bouncing. Four fellas get out of one car, a variety of beards, all suited and booted. None of them are wearing black. In fact, their attire is more in line for a wedding. They all know each other. The fellas kiss the women on the cheek; coo at the baby.
More people filter into the old graveyard, tombstones so ancient that the writing is too weathered to make out. And more, and more. A scattered few in black: the older generation.
I spot Florrie running towards the group with the baby, hugging each one individually and swaying from side to side mid embrace. She’s got a peach fascinator on her head.
I want to mingle, and yet I don’t. I really, really don’t. I want to make sure everybody knows who I am, that I’m Jack’s girlfriend; but I also don’t want be here at all, because quite frankly, who wants to be at a funeral? I want two weeks ago; I want a month ago; I want anything that isn’t this. But I want to be involved.
Because I am. Involved.
As I make my way from the bench beneath the tree towards the crowd, I wonder when everybody here saw Jack last. He’d spent the majority of the past few months with me, or at work. I bet some of these people haven’t seen him in years. I had sex with him the morning before he—
A hand touches my shoulder.
‘Hey … Chloe, right?’
I nearly scream.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you!’ It’s Badge.
He’s slight and holds his suit jacket by the collar, resting it upon his shoulder casually, pushing his square-framed specs further up his nose. I think his full name is Paul Badger, a colleague of Jack’s. I went to his house for drinks and nibbles one Sunday last month, something Jack thought would be a good laugh, except there were lots of small children. The majority of adults were bent at the waist chasing their offspring around in a tizz. When Jack had gone to the loo, I’d got stuck talking to a couple about potty training and catchment areas. We didn’t stay long.
‘Nice to see you again,’ I say, like an idiot.
‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ Badge says, clearly bewildered.
I nod.
‘We just can’t believe it,’ he shakes his head. ‘The whole team, we’re just, you know.’
‘Yeah.’
Then Badge holds up one hand and crosses his fingers.
‘So were you and Jack an item?’ he asks.
‘I’d just moved in with him.’
‘So that was you! I presumed so. Jack mentioned he was living with a lady.’
I’m grateful for this information and although I don’t say anything, I hope others heard it.
‘Such a horrid tragedy though,’ Badge says, swallowing. ‘And the driver—’
He stops abruptly as we notice the hush descending amongst us. An almost-silence falls. The only sounds creeping in are the leaves on the trees rustling in a soft breeze. The cars are here. They move so slowly that they don’t make a sound. Around me, people gently edge towards the church entrance. I can’t see anything. No coffin, no wreath that spells out Jack. I just see the black roofs of cars and allow the crowds to pass me by, my heels sinking into the soft, grassy earth. Badge is no longer beside me; he’s nowhere to be seen. There’s crying. Hefty, meaty sobs. The noise triggers my throat to tighten, to hurt. I watch everybody filter inside.
The pallbearers surround the hearse. Jack’s brothers, both with kind faces.
I can’t look.
I won’t look.
I turn around, my back facing what’s supposed to be Jack inside a box. My God, from what I see of the box before I turn it doesn’t even look big enough for him to fit inside. I don’t want to gawp, check, or think that thought ever, ever, ever again. I gaze out past the gate; the stone wall dotted with moss; the horses in the distance across a field.
And when I turn back, the hearse is empty.
The girl with the baby in a sling waits by the church door, jigging in and out of the entrance, her spot for the ceremony. I walk forward, give her and her baby a gentle smile and slip into the back row pew.
The vicar begins. Jack’s brother Alex delivers a few anecdotes about Jack as a kid, ‘Always collecting things; ladybirds in matchboxes, football stickers, rings from Coke cans …’ Sweet; I never knew that. Alex reminds us all that Jack liked to own a room; to be heard. Laughter drops the tension of many shoulders and a few people clap. It’s more of a best man’s speech than a eulogy and Alex invites some of Jack’s friends to say a few words, too.