Til Death Do Us Part

With beginnings must come endings, so it seems natural I suppose, if a little disappointing, that funeral teas should make the occasional appearance in my ever-expanding job description. Hmph, not what the freelance Wedding Planner would have to endure, I was quite sure about that!

Not surprisingly I was feeling a little apprehensive about my first funeral, so I ran through a few 'sympathetic facial expression' practice runs in the Ladies before setting up the buffet table in the Banqueting Suite. I was finding it quite difficult to perfect 'sympathy' however, without looking like a patrionising therapist, so abandoned the project promptly to focus on the tasks that lay ahead. Why was it that funeral teas always consisted of jam and cream scones? And fruit cake? And tea? Scribbling on my mental jotter, I noted that I would require lobster, pink champagne and a cheerful rendition of 'Ding Dong the Witch is Dead' at my send off! I shrugged with a mild excitement at the thought, but then realised I wouldn't actually be at the party, so maybe champagne was a bit of a waste. I crossed out champagne and scrawled 'Cava' in its place and filed it under 'Funeral' in the great, hopeless heap of an imaginery filing cabinet located somewhere in the depths of my head.

As the guests began to assemble at the tea station, I tried, casually, to spot the guest that looked the most grieved as I rocked the teapot back and forth filling grateful cups. I had no idea who had lost whom and more importantly, wasn't sure who would be paying the bill. All arrangements had taken place over the telephone. Darn it. All the musty, black uniforms seemed to be talking to everybody and all silver-topped faces wore polite yet inexpressive expressions. Not to worry, I'm sure the bill payer, a Mr Goodman, would make himself known at some point.

By now my right index finger was becoming a little numb. I had never poured so much tea in my life, and I quickly checked the 'bar' status to find just one gentleman ordering a pint of Guinness. I was reminded of my trip to the local supermarket just after Christmas when it was undergoing a refit and the heating had been turned off, and I had lost all feeling in my finger by the time I arrived home with the shopping. Sensation returned a good two hours and a hot bath later, and when chatting to my good friend Jane some days later, she diagnosed 'dead man's finger' and confirmed she had once suffered the same ailment. Always a comfort to know you are not alone in your suffering.

Finally, a Mrs Goodman sauntered up to the coffee urn, drained a cupful and asked who she should see about the bill. Mr Goodman it seemed was the deceased, which puzzled me somewhat as I had spoken to a gentleman claiming to be the same. A brother perhaps? I smiled with my practiced sympathy and told her that that would indeed be myself. "The thing is" she said, smiling sadly "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind me popping in next week to pay? It's a very difficult day for me and I just can't face having to deal with such formalities. I hope you understand". I returned the smile and stayed quiet for a second. What the hell was I supposed to do now? " The thing is Mrs Goodman..." As I began to reply, she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of her eye. "That won't be a problem at all" I heard myself saying. "Don't you worry about it, next week will be absolutely fine Mrs Goodman". She faintly nodded her gratitude to me and slowly made her way to the buffet table and helped herself to another jam and cream scone. Oh Christ what was I going to do now? I could only hope and pray she would pay up next week otherwise I had a horrible feeling my job may well be undertaking a funeral of its own.

On and on the dreary party continued; scone after scone devoured; teapot after teapot drained dry. Barely a penny spent on the bar and had the poor soul who passed over popped in for a quick sec to see how it all was going (I've heard this can often be the case) I was quite sure he'd have died all over again from the sheer boredom of it.

Once the guests began trickling away, I made my way to reception to confess the non-payment of bill situation to Lisa Jenkins, and silently prayed for some sympathy of my own. "And to top it all off" I hissed with good humour, "I've got bloody 'dead man's finger' now from pouring 100 pots of bloody tea!" Lisa's eyes suddenly appeared to be popping out of her head! Hearing a quiet gasp just to my left, I turned just in time to see Mrs Goodman and a frowning friend reversing from the reception desk to make their way to the exit. Oh God. Oh Christ Almighty. 'Dead man's finger'. I felt the blood zoom from my toes right up to my hairline as I muttered a barely audible 'so sorry' to a hastily retreating audience.

Much later we laughed. And much later, the beautiful and haunting sounds of Welsh song rose from the bar. One or two had stayed on and dug deep into their pockets for an ale, and then another. I wondered how the other hotel residents would react to this tuneful disruption to their evening meals and hoped they would embrace, at last, the soulful sounds of a Welsh wake. Hastily blinking tears away I was suddenly filled with an immense pride for my heritage. Closing my eyes for a second, I allowed the voices to become those of my Grandfather, and his Grandfather, and his Grandfather before that. The hotel guests couldn't fail to be captivated, bound to their chairs with a respect and wonder at the ghosts of a singing nation filling the room.

Sighing bitter-sweetly to myself, I wondered if one of those ghosts might be my mother, singing away, eyes twinkling and clapping her hands with joy as she welcomed a Mr Goodman to the green, green grass of his new home in the sky.