Please Don't Cry over the Crisp Bowl

Reverend Brown has always preferred the wake to the funeral. Maybe this isn’t exactly an unusual preference; to be sure, the young Castle brood are galloping about in glee at the bountiful feast bowing the plastic tables creaking along the wall, and Ma Durrell is pleased as punch the whole dreary affair is over so that the music can get started; but Reverend Brown is the vicar after all, the holy women. Surely she should cherish the chance to conduct the final celebration of a life; the opportunity to honour a life and give it over to the Lord? But she just really likes sausage rolls. And she does not lie, even in her thoughts. She would tell anyone who asked, but no one ever does. People rarely talk to her about anything other than her work, their own faith. They see her as a vessel of their God and little else, an outline of a woman filled with the spirit.

So right now she is excited to fill her stomach with flaky pastry and a spongy substance masquerading as meat. She doesn’t care what it is, no one can ask her to pray for them when she has a mouthful. One that she almost chokes on when Tanzy Branson zips past her, with fistfuls of crisps that will be more crumb than crisp by the time she reaches her brother.

Tim says as much when she holds out her offerings. “Why didn’t you get a plate” he asks and she rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t you go yourself?” Toffee coloured eyes rolling in scornful orbit, he gestures to his leg, entombed in plaster. Tanzy’s name dominates the lower quadrant of his calf, and a game of noughts and crosses bleeds into itself at the lumpy knee. “You need to get a new thing” she informs him.

“Well you needed to bring more food!” He cracks a smile at last, “why didn’t you bring the bowl.”

“Yeah that’s great look at a wake isn’t it,” she dumps the salted shrapnel into his open palm and licks at her own. Pulling a face, he starts to nibble each shard, piece by tiny piece.

“Someone’s gotta eat all of this” he comments, nodding toward the feast, “what’s it for otherwise.”

“The look” she replies, shrewd and cool, “I’ll get some jam roll in the next pass.” Tim looks around at the gathered crowd, sweating out the hall with their black clad bulk. What a farce.

Martha Castle waddles up to him, her chubby fingers making a singular grape look gargantuan. She raps at his cast with said hand, a bead of juice emerging from her fist and landing on the plaster. It sinks into the dried fibres and she coos, before wandering off.

“They’re doing a better job of raiding the food than you are, and they’re the size of bowling pins” he says and Tanzy shakes her head. “When that thing comes off, I’m not lifting another finger for you.” There’s no malice in her words, and no truth either. She’d raise more than a finger for him, she’d lift a car if need be. They say mothers can do that when their kids are in danger, but what of twins? She reckons she could do it. She knows what Tim can do when he’s looking out for her. She signed the evidence.

“Look at Rev. Brown going at the sausage rolls,” Tim cuts through her reverie with his admiring observation. Tanzy turns her head and spots the vicar doing an impressive number on the once heaped platter. She then spots them looking and gives a jaunty wave. “Odd duck” Tanzy notes, grinning, “decent vicar though.”

“She kept today under an hour, can’t complain,” Tim agrees, “Though Ma Dee still almost fell asleep I swear.” “You’d never guess he was her cousin would you, swear she’s gotten younger since she found out he died.”

Ma Durrell did indeed almost nod off during the funeral but right now, she’s wide awake and looking forward to another pint. She’s sick of putting on a somber face, and a few drinks is a good excuse to drop the act. Jimmy Castle is crying in the corner because they’ve run out of orange fizz and no amount of lemonade offerings will stop him. Maybe she should get a shandy and sneak it to the lad. Gives her a good giggle to think of his mother’s face if she did, but that’s all it is. A thought. No kiddie should be drinking. Rots the soul too early. Her soul is already fucked though, so she has no issue making her own way to the makeshift bar.

The head of the Castle clan is manning it, an irritating man but a harmless one. She’ll take that in this town. He hands over a wobbling cup of beer and she refrains from groaning at the feel of plastic flexing under her fingers. They couldn’t even pull a few real glasses from the pub? Someone has died after all. She doesn’t give a shit but others do, and she is pretending to be one of them. As she ponders this, she spots one of the genuine mourners on the prowl for another shoulder to weep on, and tries to hide behind a column. Cousin Tildy has never been high on her list of tolerable family members, and now that she’s actually sad about her pathetic brother going below, she’s even lower. No one mourns the devil, not even their resident vicar, who is currently indulging in all the savoury pastries on offer. Maybe she should try and hide out with her. Sure she waffled on about the virtues of a virtueless man for fifty minutes today, but it is her job, and at least it wasn’t an hour. Small mercies.

She hears a muffled curse from the crowd, followed by an uneven ripple of admonishment, and allows herself a private smile at last.

Matila “Tildy” Branson-Ogilvie has almost tripped over a Castle junior- she forgets which one- in her effort to reach her cousin, and the blush staining her cheeks is only rivalled by the hideous seat covers marring the wake. She didn’t meant to swear, obviously, but it’s been an emotional day even before she almost killed a child. God… killed… a child…. Her brother had been a child once. And now he’ll never see his own grow up.

The twins have been ensconced in a corner since the wake begun, by virtue of Timothy’s leg and Tanzania’s loyalty; she must go to them soon. Her niece and nephew haven’t always been angels but they are young, and now half orphaned. She privately thinks they may as well be completely alone for all the good their flighty mother is, currently outside sucking on her seventeenth cigarette of the day.

Anyway, the chorus of upset over her little slip was hardly warranted, after all, she didn’t actually crush one of the many Castle children, and her brother has just died! If anything, the children should really be being corralled by her aforementioned useless sister in law; their own aunt. This is a wake! For her deceased husband no less!

Tildy gives up on trying to make it to Amanda, who seems to have vanished into the crowds and instead sinks onto one of the grotesque chairs. What a month. First there was all that drama with Tanzania’s humiliating, and still unexplained to her, school absences; then Timothy’s accident, and just when she thought she couldn’t be anymore beleaguered by family disfunction, James… James died.

Her older brother was such a force, she never could have guessed this would happen. He occupied such a large space in town, she can hardly believe the room is as full as it is, without his presence. If he were here you could be certain those children wouldn’t be causing their current chaos; his wife would be present and pleasant; and his children seated amongst the mourners, rather than away. And she would be by his side, as always. People so often conflated James’ size and volume with intimidation but there was nothing to fear, if you had done nothing wrong. Reverend Brown’s eulogy had certainly been respectful, but she had found it rather succinct, her own submitted anecdotes boiled down to citations rather than meaningful content. Her brother would likely have been disappointed to have a woman conducting the ceremony but she is the local vicar. Nothing to be done without causing more of a fuss.

She sees the woman now, giving something to the oldest of the Castle youth. She couldn’t step on him, as tall as he is. James had been so tall. So strong. The thought of him felled, lying in his own hallway for hours before discovery, now lying beneath the soil… God! She begins to cry again and waits for someone to comfort her.

Dodger Castle squeezes past the weeping Tildy Branson, avoiding any and all eye contact. He doesn’t have hanky, just a plate of sausage rolls and lemon cake, destined for his cousins, still whispering in the corner. Vic Brown gave him a mission and he intends to fulfil it. She said she’d let him into the church tomorrow to practise his sketching if he did, and he’s been eyeing up the Sacred Heart statue for twelve Masses in a row now. It distracted him even today, but he’d never been that closer to his Uncle Jamie. They weren’t blood and that seemed to matter to the man. He likes his cousins though, even if the family didn’t come round all that often. He also wants to sign Tim’s cast something bad. Maybe do a little doodle. If he’s up for it. His dad has just been buried. Dodge doesn’t know what he’d do if it had been his own father, who’d been stunned into silence for about five hours after finding out his brother in law had been found dead in his own home. He knew his dad loved his sister, despite her choice in husband, so he put it down to grief for her rather than for the man himself. Maybe thats wrong to think, but Dodger doesn’t have time to contemplate it too deeply. He’ll apologise when he’s in church tomorrow. She’s a good one, that Vicar.

Betsy Brown finishes her current mouthful of food, watching with satisfaction as Dodger scurries towards his cousins. Those poor twins. Living through so much so young. Still laughing- even if it is at the old bat gnawing at the buffet; Still carrying on- helping their mother, giving out smiles, even setting up the rather vibrant seating spread about the hall despite a few cracked ribs and broken leg. And their father. Or rather the loss of. A long shadow no longer cast. She hopes they are able to feel the warmth of the revealed light. Funny, the way the heavy burden of grief manifests after the loss of a physical presence. She would like to write a sermon about that soon. But she should wait a few months, so that no one, not even the sister of the newly deceased, can claim it as insensitive. The truth can sting at times.

Regardless, she can pay the twins and their mother a visit in a few weeks, just to check in. She wants to see if they’ve replaced that terrible scratchy carpet in the hallway anyhow. It didn’t look nice when James Branson hit it cheek first and she doubts that will have changed, even if the dead weight is out and six feet under. Nasty piece of work, but she needed the gig really. Everyone’s been out of love and in remarkably good health lately and there are only so many Holy Days people will actually show up for. And James was the one bringing the tone of the town down, all those picked scabs and subtly barred windows. She hopes those have gone as well. Brushing flakes of pastry and sausage from her collar she promises herself at least one more indulgence before she heads back to the church. After all, she’s the reason for this party, she has always enjoyed a wake.