A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (22 page)

Harold found it so hard to rest that night, knowing his love
was asleep in the next room and knowing that he had finally told her of
how he felt. But the exhaustion finally won and he awoke with a warm
feeling in his belly and his heart feeling fuller than ever before. This
should have been a perfect day to start the rest of his life but as fate
would have it, it was not. Today was the day Harold had to bury his
father, but at least he would have Muriel by his side. That would give
him the strength he needed to make it through the day. She had told
him as they washed the pots the previous night that she would come
with him, and had held his hand later that evening while they sat in the
lounge watching the fire. They had not spoken much. They did not
seem to need to. They just sat watching the flames dance until Muriel
grew tired and started to nod off in the chair next to him. Harold woke
her by gently shaking her shoulder and she awoke with a smile staring
back up at him with tired eyes. Harold helped her up to her room
before saying goodnight. Muriel lent in and kissed him on the cheek
before closing the door to her chambers, Harold retired to his all the
while holding his cheek.

Those moments seemed like an almost distant dream as the
morning of Duwek started. Harold couldn’t believe how quickly the
month of Wastelar had come around. The early snow hinting that it
would be yet another hard winter. Harold took out his suit from the
wardrobe and put it on. Black silk and a white shirt both pressed to
perfection, a nice change to the life living out of a bag that he had
recently become used to. Harold pulled his top hat on so it pressed
down tightly, completing the sombre look and Harold made his way
across the corridor to see if Muriel had awoken.

The funeral was not for a while yet but Harold did not wish to
be late – his father could not abide lateness. Harold dared not give
himself the time to mourn. With the lack of time to prepare since his
father’s passing, neither Muriel nor Harold had the funeral clothing
they should. This would have saddened him if Harold did not know his
father would not have wanted that anyway. Harold knocked on
Muriel’s bedroom door and waited for her to answer. She opened the
door dressed in the frock Harold had made for her and she looked
wonderful. Although Harold had guessed her size, the dress fitted her
well and confirmed to him how much his eyes must have traced her
form in their time together.

“What time will the carriage be here?”
Muriel inquired in her soft
and caring tone.
“Around an hour, maybe just before.”
Harold said reaching for a
packet of cigars his father had left on the side of the chair. He never
seemed to smoke them as they were ‘
to be saved for a special occasion’
.
Harold could not think of a more appropriate time, so he opened the
dusty packet to find just one cigar and a match. It was as if he had
known. Perhaps he had known the sickness would take him. If he had,
then it would not have surprised Harold that his father kept it to
himself; it was his way of staying strong. Lighting the cigar Harold took
a deep breath in fighting the urge to cough. His lungs hadn’t hurt as
much since the fire. Harold could barely believe it was almost eleven
days since the fire at the Queens.
“Are you okay, Harold
?” Muriel asked from the other side of the
lounge. Perhaps he looked tired or worn down, or it could have just
been the green colour filling his face. Harold had not smoked in a long
time but for some reason felt obliged to today. Looking back, Harold
guessed it was his way of grieving. The foul smell reminded him of his
father and all he wanted to do was feel him in his arms once more. To
say goodbye to the man that had raised him.
“You should have your family
around you now.”
Muriel continued and Harold nodded. It was true. If
this had been a normal funeral then the family would have been there
all morning. They would have gathered and sent off his father in style,
but Harold had not been prepared for this.
“Yes, I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re here with me. I don’t think I could
do this alone.”
Harold said. Muriel crossed the lounge and wrapped her
arms around him tightly. It happened so fast Harold almost caught her
with the hot tip of the cigar and only a swift flick of his wrist saved the
dress that he had worked so hard on. Harold did cry again, but this time
he did not care. He trusted Muriel enough to show her the pain inside
and she was right, he should have had his family there. It was usual to
have a feast held at the home of the deceased before the funeral. The
body of his father should have been present but he was not there,
instead he waited in the morgue of the hospital.
Harold’s heart sank, and as much as he didn’t want to, Harold
seemed to be forced to think of what they would have had, if only they
had been given the time to prepare the goodbye as they should have.
There would have been ham, cider, ale, pies and cakes freshly baked by
neighbours or aunts. Not only would the immediate family have been
present, but all the distant relatives too. Harold wondered how his
family would take to Muriel, but he did not really care. She was his and
that’s how it would stay. Harold managed to get control again but did
not pull away. Although his father did not have the send off he should
have done, Harold guessed he would have known Harold did the best
he could. The morning was a little blurry for him but Harold stayed
clasped between Muriel’s arms until the knock at the door marked that
the hearse had arrived. It was time for one last goodbye.

A funeral procession is always a sight to behold, and this one
was no exception. It was led by various foot attendants as they made
their way through Neeskmouth. A pall bearer carrying batons at the
forefront was followed closely behind by the feather man, and
scattered behind them walked the pages and mutes dressed in gowns
and carrying wands wrapped in blackened bows. Harold did not know
the reasons for why things were done this way but whatever the reason
it was a beautiful sight and well worth the six pounds his mother had
paid. The weather was as cold as ever but at least the snow had melted
and it was not raining. The cold weather made him think of the one
sure thing Harold knew about the mutes and that was because these
men often had to stand out in the cold, they were given lots of gin to
drink. Harold whispered a silent prayer that they would behave
themselves today and not ruin the last walk of his father.

The first coach in the procession was the hearse pulled by six
black horses with ostrich feather plumes on their heads. The hearse
was also black, with glass sides and lots of silver and gold decoration.
Inside laid the coffin, an inscribed plate running along its side in his
father’s name. A purple cloth showing the crest of their family covered
it and Harold recognised it as the same cloth used at his Uncle Alfred’s
funeral, which explained how things had been put together in just a
couple of days. Flowers were in abundance, his mother having picked
the water-lilies that shone in a brilliant white comparison to the
darkness. Harold carried on looking out through the slim slit behind
the curtain of his carriage. His mother, Muriel and he were in the first
of the coaches to follow the hearse. His mother was still in shock and
had withdrawn into herself, seemingly unaware of Muriel’s presence.
The two coaches behind their own contained more mourners, no
doubt distant family members.

The procession made its way at walking pace from his father’s
house along the main roads to the cemetery of Saint Anne’s. Their
family had been buried in a tomb bought in its depths since it was built.
Not only did his father share the same hearse and plate as his uncle, he
would rest alongside him too. Harold found it almost nice to see the
busy streets stop and give respect to his father. Most of them would not
have even known of him, yet still, as the coach passed, men dropped
their top hats and women looked down at the ground. A kind of silence
followed them through the city. After a while everyone on foot climbed
on to the coaches, and the procession was led at a brisk trot. It would
not be long until they got there.

Harold could feel the sadness growing in him, making it real –
there was no way his father was coming back. Muriel must have sensed
his sudden sorrow and slipped her hand into his. Harold looked up into
her beautiful hazel eyes and could see they were moist. This was
saddening for her yet she still found the power from somewhere to
support him. On arrival at the cemetery gates, the foot attendants
climbed down from the coaches, and the procession once again
continued at walking pace. This was the first time Harold had been to
Saint Anne’s in a long time, but it was not to be the last. The procession
stopped at the chapel. The mourners, many faces Harold did not know,
remained dignified and calm as they entered the chapel. The coffin was
carried in and laid on a bier and Harold was thankful to put it down.
There were four of them carrying it but it still felt heavy. All those sad
faces turned, looking at him as they carried it onto the bier. The sad
little whispers and covered sobs from the ladies were hard to bear.
Once his father rested at the front of the church Harold returned to
Muriel’s side and sat down next to her and his mother. While waiting
for the priest to start, Harold glanced around at his family. The men
wore full mourning suits with crape bands around their top hats. The
women wore black gowns also made of crape, with black veils and
black gloves. They held black-edged handkerchiefs to their eyes.
Mourning fans made of dark ostrich feathers were carried by their
tortoiseshell handles and there was him and Muriel the only two
without them. Harold did not care. He knew if his father was watching
he would not have minded. Harold could even imagine him chuckling
to himself at the odd sight they made at his funeral. His attention was
snapped back to the front as the priest started the reading.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of James
Spinks and mourn his loss as he passed to Sacellum.”
Harold could not help but
notice the priest’s eyes shifting across the crowd so swiftly, from one
side to the other, never seeming to stop. There was a strange hollow
and laboured sound to his voice which seemed out of place, but Harold
didn’t know why. It sounded like he was out of breath, as if his chest
was hollow. At the time, Harold thought maybe he had been crying
himself. Surely a man of the cloth would feel sorrow before every
funeral he had to conduct. All the while the priest rattled on, Harold
drifted aimlessly for what felt like forever. His mind once again flashed
back to past times spent with his father. While the priest spoke Harold
remembered back to the first day his father took him to work with him.
He could have only been eleven or twelve. He had rattled on for hours
about different types of cloth and ways to cut or dye them. The smell
from the bleaches had made Harold’s head spin even more than
listening to what he had to say. Then he had given him a needle and
taught him how to stitch. It was that first pricked-thumb-filled day that
had led him to the life Harold had known. It was his father’s patience
with his unskilled hands that had allowed him to make Muriel the dress
she now wore so proudly. The world would be a sadder place without
him. A while later a press against his arm awoke Harold to what was
happening around him. Muriel got his attention and passed him an
open hymn book. The song had been picked by his aunt. Although she
was from the lower classes she liked to think she was better than the
rest of the family, so she had always kept a step ahead of the rest of
them in the arts. It was a sign of her determination to avoid her true
place in life. Harold focused and sung with all his heart hoping that his
father could hear him from his golden seat in Sacellum. As a chorus of
one the church was full of voices.

‘Oh Father, thou that dwellest in the high and glorious place, When shall
I regain thy presence and again behold thy face. You reply thus came, not
until thy holy habitation, thy spirit once reside but now will I be nurtured
near thy side?’
‘For a wise and glorious-purpose thou hast placed him there and withheld
the re-collection of his former friends and birth. Yet oft times a secret
something whispered, a breeze of thought, a memory shared, but alas for
a time you’re a stranger there, and now he wanders a more exalted sphere.
Sacellum’
‘Alone my father walks in heaven, this falsehood, called out for what it is,
for we ask the skies are parents single, no, the thought makes reason stare.
Truth is reason and truth eternal tells me. I’ve a mother there. When I
leave this frail existence, when I lay this mortal by, Father, Mother, may
I meet you in your royal courts on high. Then, at length, when I’ve
completed all you sent me forth to do, with your mutual approbation let me
come and dwell with you in the golden kingdom. I will see you again one
day in Sacellum.’

The song ended, and as one they all put the prayer book
down. Hushed sniffling filled the room and the whispered voices of
condolences. Harold returned to his memories. He knew he was crying
but all strength to hide it was gone. Harold could see his father’s face,
he could smell his tobacco pipe and all he wanted to do was reach out
and hold him. Harold felt Muriel’s arm around his shoulder in a
comforting embrace but barely had the energy to lean into it. Reverend
Paul rattled on again but Harold’s ears were numb to the words he said
by the pounding inside his own skull. The organ burst into life, startling
him from his daydream and Harold saw the coffin being lowered into
the catacombs by the mutes, each holding one of the heavy ropes. The
trap door pulled shut and people prepared to leave the church. Harold
hadn’t been to many funerals but he was sure this was something
normally done at the pace of those mourning but the priest seemed so
eager for them all to leave and something about his stance seemed odd.
It may have been because of his heightened paranoia from the last few
days but Harold couldn’t ignore his strange behaviour. He linked his
arm through Muriel’s and dragged her towards Paul as he tried to retire
behind the dark red silken curtains hanging at the rear of the church.