Going Underground

Chapters one to five

CHAPTER ONE

FUNERAL PYRE

“There’s a distinct musical theme to this funeral, isn’t there?” whispered Tracey to Jonathan and as she took another look around at the other guests, she was beginning to wonder what she’d gotten herself into.

There was certainly a motley crew of mourners amongst the congregation, she noted, and mainly from the Mod scene, judging by the number of replicated Paul Weller haircuts in attendance. Although it wasn’t a look that everyone could carry off, she couldn’t fail to discern, especially when it came to men of a certain age.

“I take it they’re all life long fans?” she asked, once again leaning into her husband. “Either that or they’re all struggling to grow old gracefully.” However, unfortunately for her, it seemed Jonathan didn’t quite appreciate her concerns; then again, how could he? she asked herself, bearing in mind his eyes hadn’t stopped facing forward since their arrival.

“Shush!” he insisted instead and wondering why he was getting his knickers into such a twist, she was, after all, only making an observation, she was forced to turn her attentions back to the actual service.

Not that Tracey thought things were much better when it came to the Vicar either – although to be fair to him, she could see he was at least trying to get on with things.

Poor chap, she couldn’t help but muse, deciding he wasn’t just a bit young for a man of the cloth, but also clearly new to the profession, considering his nervous disposition. Quite an affliction taking into account his range of duties, Tracey considered, at the same time having to concede that with all the commotion taking place courtesy of the deceased’s mother, under the circumstances she’d have probably struggled to keep on track too.

“Why does she have to keep doing that?” she asked, genuinely troubled.

But much to her annoyance, Jonathan only demonstrated the same lack of shared solicitude on this particular matter as he had over all the dodgy coiffuring.

“It’s very annoying...” she complained.

She supposed it could’ve been the sight of Malcolm’s coffin laid out before her or the target flag that was smoothly draped over it, serving to provoke images of Malcolm’s tragic and untimely demise. Yet whatever the reason and much to Tracey’s continuing consternation, every time the Vicar got anywhere near to mentioning her son’s name, Mrs. Riley would let out a long and unnerving wail. On top of that, his anxiety mixed with her rather loud lamenting meant the Vicar kept losing his place – which, in turn, meant he then had to start reading his carefully constructed notes all over again and so the cycle continued. Leaving Tracey no choice but to admit she’d never been to a service quite like it, what with stuttering Vicars and all that unnecessary bemoaning.

Yes, she’d seen stuff like this on the telly; a funeral on Coronation Street or Eastenders just wouldn’t be the same without some sort of fiasco taking place to disrupt events. Nevertheless, to experience such happenings first hand was all new to her and the idea of life imitating art imitating life was leaving her feeling almost as nervous as the Vicar. After all, if Mrs. Riley really was going to come over all Peggy Mitchell like and suddenly throw herself face down onto the coffin, it wasn’t as if in real life someone was going to shout Cut! was it, thus giving everyone the opportunity to then try a more sedate approach to their mourning. Although if someone didn’t do something soon, Tracey was convinced there was a real possibility they were going to end up sitting there all day.

“Oooh!” she suddenly winced, at the same time taking a sharp intake of breath. Moreover, as Tuesday suddenly shifted position in her heavily pregnant belly she didn’t just feel the resulting pain, included in her discomfort was an almighty surge of guilt.