Letters of the deceased.
After his funeral my father, who was ever so recently deceased, asked me to attend to his things. I was to be an executor of his t-shirts; a sorter of his sock drawer; a cultivator of his washing basket. It was cancer of the throat that killed him. He had never smoked but his friends had. They had chuffed and puffed away like runaway trains on those stinking sticks in the walls of our house since I had stolen myself a memory of my own. I had stared at them during the service; reproaching them with my sick eyes. My pupils looked at their unclogged throats and suggested with a combination of binks, not completely dissimilar to Morse code, that the wrong person had been chosen. There had been a grave mistake, it was still possible to make a last minute substitution: I had a whistle to blow and an axe to grind.
One of them had brought a ham quiche. As if a pastry case filled with an egg and meat mixture compensated for murdering my dad. The hymns were lovely, if a little obvious. The Reverend was charming but not charismatic; he could captivate an audience’s attention but could not hold it. There was a girl in the choir, second row, who hadn’t brushed her hair.
Ultimately, I think we negotiated a good burial plot. I’m happy and I will probably visit him most in early to mid spring when the Daffodils come out. He loved the colour yellow, his sock drawer will attest to that theory. People always hide secrets near undergarments, like guns and knives and tax returns.
I always hated offering condolences to grieving individuals because I never meant the sentiments underneath my words. I’m so sorry that your mother is dead [but I’m not sorry enough to lose sleep over it, I will probably still order a lamb pasanda tonight and thoroughly enjoy it]. It was strange to be on the other side of the wall. I wondered how many people would be ordering takeaway in the next few hours. The depiction of Death often makes one famished for life and chicken jalfrezi. To affirm your health, it can be customary to indulge in either the sins of gluttony or lust. I’ve always found that a well devised biryani is more comforting than any blowjob.
I liked the wake so much that we took pictures with selfie sticks. If I was to have a wake it’s exactly the wake I would order. My Father would have been so proud, the coronation chicken vol-au-vents had the perfect ratio of filling to vessel. I ate seven and got crumbs on my jumper. Someone who wasn’t me made a speech about my Dad’s fascination with Napoleon biographies and how he used to grab girl’s bottoms after drinking too many John Smiths. Everyone laughed and so did I. I laughed harder than anyone but I wasn’t sure if I understood the joke. Perhaps offspring are never meant to comprehend the motivations of their parents. The impenetrable mystery of a life that came before them. My eyes felt nauseous the more people offered to make me casserole. My aunt invited me for Christmas so I wouldn’t be alone but I refused because she said she was making duck. I would rather be miserable than break tradition. She was always a stupid, progressive witch of a relative.
My father and I would have turkey for lunch every year and then turkey sandwiches in the evening with brie and mayonnaise. We’d drink bottles of Baileys until one of us would say something we didn’t mean. It was almost always me. And then we’d fall asleep in our chairs, cantankerous and addled with liquor-laced cream; content with the hand we had been dealt. He was the best person I knew at wrapping presents. He could always find the end of the cellotape; he had a sixth sense for knowing the location of a pair of scissors: no one ever remembers where scissors are kept, they have no definitive home in any room of any house.
There is a photo on the mantelpiece of him in an army uniform, I have forgotten which war he fought in. But I suppose it doesn’t matter which war it was, they all follow the same rough pattern. I can’t remember if he won or lost. But I guess if he came back that is a victory of sorts. I wouldn’t like to kill a soul. My father once said he saw a swarm of rats eat a man whole before breakfast. There were no winners in the trenches apart from rodents who had developed a taste for the bloated corpse of man. I imagine the nibbling would have been an annoyance even when dead. I’d like to think I’d know that a creature had eaten most of my liver and kidneys without a pie crust. I’m frightened of things with tails that swish. Destruction is a most unlucky side-effect of industry; a misplaced grenade would have eradicated my standing here now. My eyes are still very sick.
He did tell he love me when I was nine. At least I think he did. I had scraped my knee and I had cried a bitter tune until I thought I had burnt my neck with noise. He came out of the house and into the garden where my blood had run cold on the grass. He had torn the grass up in a big clump and charred it in the fireplace. I had asked him why and he said the blood would attract foxes that would shit on the flowerbeds. Then he told me he loved me over the roar of the flames. Nothing is sanctimonious for foxes; they come in the night to lick the offal of your wounds. Then they shit on the carefully designated areas in which you try to grow beauty. Beauty will never grow in this household now. The garden shall be a wasteland dedicated to words he might never have said. I will wrap myself in a crown of thorns and become the King of the Unkempt; rose bushes and wisterias need not apply.
In his washing basket there are dirty boxers that will never be clean again. There is some milk in the fridge that is already out of date. There is a dentist appointment on the calendar his teeth will not go to. I sit at the kitchen table and look at the ceiling that needs painting. I can’t look up or down without thinking that all I want to do is close my eyes.
Women are awfully dull when you are bereaved. Sex can get tedious when your head starts turning into a skull. A reminder of your own mortality makes you hate anything that wears lip gloss that sticks to your beard and makes unreasonable demands whilst their legs are in the air. I will never call Sandra again. She is not the answer to all my questions. She once made fun of my smile and I do not smile often. She has a bad perm, bad breath and is only a legal assistant. She often talks, thinking she is much more important than she actually is. One of her breasts is misshapen and she pretends there is nothing wrong with it. My Father would never have approved of her, she’s brassy and poorly dressed; her eyes are too close together. You would not want her to be the mother of your children or the siren of your kitchen. I would never buy her a set of sharp knives or a pearl necklace or anything that is worth something.
There is a briefcase in the closet. I didn’t think my Father would be the type of person to own a briefcase, he would have nothing of importance to put it in. It is locked and has a four-digit combination with 9999 chances to get it right. I try his birthday. It remains unmoved. I try my birthday. It still remains unmoved. I try a combination of mine and his birthday, on the second configuration the latches pop open. I am now desperate to know what is in the time capsule; the sheer arousal of intrigue alleviates the illness in my eyes. There is a rat in my trench that is after my kidneys. I rummage with inky hands. He has a look on his face that suggests he desires me. It is letters. Masses and masses of letters in an unfamiliar hand, crafted by a phantom with a blue fountain pen. The rat is now in my head, squeaking God Save the Queen. There is a fox that has just shat on my begonias and smiled.
I inspect one of these letters carefully. He never loved me. I place the briefcase on the bed. The fox has out-foxed me. I finish the letter and reach for another one. My crown of thorns has morphed into a wreath. I read that one and eagerly delve for a third. Paternity is built over a sewer. I spend the next few hours reading every single letter contained in the briefcase. The nuclear-family goes kaput. I spread out the letters on the bed and try to establish a timeline. The window pane goes dark as I work out the jigsaw puzzle in front of me. Sandra and her bad breath. When I think I’ve got the order right I gather up all the letters in a bundle and take them downstairs. Sandra’s plump legs are waving at me, wishing I was more capable. One by one, in date order, I place them on the fire and watch them burn to illegible ash. The rat is burning but still squeaking. I hold the last letter in my hand, I look at it through vile eyes:
I’m sorry that you feel that you cannot continue this because of your son, you must love him very much. Much more than you could, or will ever love me.
The fire soothes me as the words erupt into nothing. The squeaking stops, there is no Queen to save. I get up and make a cup of tea with my Father’s gone off milk. I sit in a chair and close my vile eyes, thinking of the woman that almost took my Father away but failed. I am the Prince of his unkempt life, my coronation will make me King.
