ENJOY AND CONSTRUCTIVELY CRITICISE
LOVE YOU ALL
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They all expect you to be the grieving daughter, I told myself. Just act like it for their sakes. Just do it. As the car pulled up outside the church, I felt the eyes turn on me immediately, burning into me. They were gathered in a cluster by the door, an array of black suits and dresses. The funeral clothes. The outfits that gathered dust in the wardrobe, only given the chance to see the light of day when somebody died. I looked down at my own black dress, bought especially for a fancy dress party. The same dress that I’d worn as Holly Golightly, the fun-loving extrovert was now worn to my father’s funeral.
I’m sure some might see some comic irony in that, but I didn’t and I had an urge to rip it off of myself there and then. Why hadn’t I worn something plainer? Something that my father would’ve approved of. It was his funeral, for God’s sake, and there was I more worried about how I looked than caring about the fact that he was dead. I fought back the desire to run home and change and continued trying to force the tears out of my bone-dry eyes.
Scanning the faces of the guests, I caught a glimpse of dad’s colleague, Sally Turner. I'd never liked Sally much. When I was ten I had braces and never used to smile, so she called me 'Miserable Maria.' I hit her once when she said that, and Dad gave me a lecture about how naughty it was to hit grown-ups. Little did she know that everyone at Dad's office had a nickname for her. 'Simple Sally,' due to her inability to use the photocopier and failure to distinguish an in-tray from an out-tray.
Sporting a black trouser-suit, obviously fresh from the dry-cleaners, she was sobbing and clinging onto her husband. He actually had to prop her up for fear of her collapsing to the ground in a state of excessive mourning. She looked as if she was ready for her own grave, her grey hair pulled tightly into a bun revealing a lined forehead and weary eyes. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of her. I would’ve done anything in the world to cry at that moment. I desperately wanted to feel some kind of grief, to be a ruin of heartache, to fall dramatically to the ground in a fit of uncontrollable weeping. Everybody would’ve been able to understand that, they would’ve felt sorry for me, offered me tissues and a shoulder to cry on. They might’ve been able to understand my cold, unemotional exterior and put it down to sorrow. They'd soon discover that my interior was just as empty. That sympathy would soon disappear and they’d realize the unfeeling, coldhearted daughter I really am.
“Are you getting out?” the driver craned his neck to look at me.
It had been organized for us all to be driven in black Mercedes, dad’s favorite car. The chauffer’s she’d arranged to drive us however, weren’t as friendly-looking as the cars themselves. With greased jet-black hair and a tan to rival the sun, our driver looked like he belonged in the Mafia. He grinned at me, baring the little teeth he had left, like a lion ready to pounce.
“Yeah,” I muttered, fumbling around the door trying to find the handle. I was completely aware of all the expectant faces waiting for me on the other side. You’ll manage it, you’ll be fine, I promised myself.
“Thank you.” I smiled at the driver reluctantly as he winked at me- rather inappropriately I thought, considering I was just going to my father’s funeral. If I’d truly been upset, I might’ve been offended, but seeing as I wasn’t, I disregarded it. I had bigger things to worry about now. I had a group of grieving friends and family before me all mourning for my father’s death. I made one last failing effort to squeeze any form of emotion out of me and then pushed the door handle down, ready to face my audience.
“Maria!” a body surfaced out of the sea of black figures and a pair of familiar arms were around me immediately, engulfing me in an uncomfortable embrace. I pulled away after what I thought was a sufficient amount of time without seeming rude. I wasn’t really in the mood to be hugged.
My good friend, Isabel Peters stood before me, wearing a frilly, black dress with a white shawl draped casually over her narrow, frail shoulders. Her short, blonde hair was gelled up in all directions and her sweeping fringe fell over her forehead so she had to keep flicking it out of her eyes. It was a relief to see a friendly face emerge from such a threatening crowd.
“Hi, Isabel. I’m really glad you could make it.” I said half-heartedly, forcing a smile to broaden across my face.
“I don’t really know what to say to you, Maria.” She placed a reassuring hand on my arm, her face softened into a mixture of sympathy and compassion. Mine didn’t.
“You don’t have to say anything.” I said plainly as she removed her hand from me warily.
The sound of wheels crunching on gravel approached and Isabel’s eyes widened as she focused behind me. I spun around, and then wished I hadn’t.
A Mercedes, similar to the one I’d arrived in pulled up beside us, like a dark cloud looming menacingly in the sky. The crowd all turned in unison, letting out a harmonious gasp as the car swung around parking effortlessly in the gap alongside the church door. It even caused Sally to stop her sobbing and let go of the tight grip on her husband. He breathed a sigh of relief and wiped his face of her tears as soon as she looked away.
The driver got out first, removing his leather gloves with his forefinger and thumb, exaggerating each movement as if he was in slow motion. He tilted his grey, driver’s cap and brushed down the shoulder pads of his suit, like Parker from Thunderbirds. I expected Lady Penelope to appear from the sunroof any moment holding a glass of Pernod. I stifled a tasteless laugh as he shuffled over to the door in his flawlessly polished shoes. He opened the door slowly, as the mass of black-attired guests edged their way towards the car, waiting with bated breath.
A lace-gloved hand reached out for the driver and he accepted it courteously, almost bowing as the figure emerged from the car like royalty. I knew who the glove belonged too, I knew that all too well. I suppose, deep down, I was hoping that she wouldn’t come. Wasn’t organizing the funeral enough for her to prove her devotedness, did she really have to attend it as well? I grimaced as Isabel took hold of my hand comfortingly. It was all too real now, she’d actually turned up to the funeral despite my pleading with her not to. Maybe she liked seeing me angry, maybe she enjoyed the fact that she could do whatever she wanted knowing there was nothing I could do to stop her.
An over-sized hat came into sight; black, of course, with a large red rose emblazoned on it. The hat tilted up revealing a pale-white face with high cheekbones, beautifully shaped dark eyebrows, decorated with faultless makeup. Her long dark curls fell onto her shoulders, framing her chiseled jaw to rival any supermodels.
The eyes of the crowd turned on me instantly as they realized who she was. I smiled at them awkwardly, before flitting my eyes back to the perfect body gliding towards them. Every woman tried to hide their envy, every man concealed their lust. Everybody showed their admiration. Apart from me. I looked at the woman with disgust.
My Mother.
The heiress of her parent’s multi-million pound fortune, my mother had now inherited all of my father’s riches too. I didn’t resent her for it, she deserved it really. She’d worked pretty hard at seducing my father, persuading him to marry her and then clinging on to the marriage for twenty years. Good on her, I suppose. I’m certain that I wouldn’t have been able to stay in a relationship with a man twenty five years my senior, who was balding, fat and constantly cynical. I call her inheritance a prize for managing to survive as long as she did.
One good thing, or bad thing in her opinion to come out of that marriage was me. The apple of her eye, her “little cherub,” Mummy’s little angel. Their first child… and their last. Mum vowed to never have another one after I was born. The birth, the nappy-changing, the constant feeding, crying… depending… was too much for her to handle a second time. Poor woman. With all that money, devoted husband and perfect lifestyle, she must’ve regretted a child attempting to spoil it all.
She got fed up with it all on the 21st May 2008, two days before my seventeenth birthday, a month before Dad’s death. I remember it vividly. It was a day to make history. I had visions of the woman sticking around for years, just to keep the money rolling in, but she defied that, packed her bags and left. Dad was devastated of course. He convinced himself that she’d live in a bedsit somewhere, and have to sell her body to make ends meet. I think the fact that her parents left her seven million pounds when they died slipped his mind.
She found herself a nice modern pad in West London. I was invited to the house-warming party, brimming with high-class toffs and arrogant men. Mostly wine-tasters, property developers, lots of middle aged “artists” who lived off of daddy’s money and had never done an honest day’s work in their lives.
I dragged Isabel along with me. After hearing about the ‘elite’ guest list, she had ideas of meeting a rich bachelor who would sweep her off her feet and beg her to travel the world with him. She didn’t meet anyone who fitted the bill, of course. The only thing that swept her off her feet were the hors d'oeuvres, which mum paraded around on silver trays as if we were at the Ritz.
Mum and I made small talk now and then. I mostly commented on the apartment, complimenting her on the interior design. Praising her reluctantly on her gift at combining leopard print carpet with red wallpaper. She must be the only woman who could decorate like that and still pull it off. I was introduced to a few of her friends, some who I’d met before, some who were new. I attempted a good first impression of myself, cracking tasteful jokes at the dinner table, admiring the ladies’ choice of outfits and charming the men. Mum seemed quite pleased with me, she actually looked proud of her daughter for once. I suppose the pressure of being a real mother was off now she’d deserted me.
Isabel drove me home after an awkward embrace with mum on the doorstep. It was too staged, as if she was trying out for an audition for ‘Mother of the year.’ She was aware of her spectators, as most of the guests were still sitting around dousing themselves with red wine. She lunged forward to hug me before I was even out of the door. I kept my arms hanging limply by my sides determined not to play up for the onlookers.
“I’ll see you soon, my love.” She said softly, holding me at arm’s length, admiring me. I couldn’t get out of their sooner after that, I made a dash for Isabel’s mini waiting on the road. All it needed was a white glow, wings and a halo and I could’ve called the car my salvation.
Dad was waiting for me anxiously in the lounge as soon as I got home, pacing up and down the room. His head snapped up as I walked in and he flung questions at me. He insisted on knowing everything about mum. How was she? Was she settled in? And most importantly, does she still love me? I fought back the urge to tell him that she’d never loved him, and opted to pat his shoulder, comfortingly.
“I’m sure she does, Dad.” I winced with guilt as his face lit up hopefully.
* * *
“Maria, darling.” I felt a hand on my arm. A cold hand to match a cold nature. I turned around slowly to face her as she removed her hand to tuck a piece of stray hair behind an ear.
“It’s nice of you to come.” I said aloofly, my eyes darting around to avoid hers.
“I loved that man with all my heart, Maria.” She lied convincingly. I figured that she’d gotten used to lying over the years, but I didn’t see a reason for her to lie to me. I knew her inside out. I knew what she was really thinking. “You say that as if I had to make room in my schedule to come to his funeral. Of course I’d come, I loved your father.”
Right on cue, as if she’d been given stage directions, she pulled a tissue out of her coat pocket and dabbed pathetically at her dry eyes. I glared at her bluntly, looking down from my height on her little frame. She glanced up at me from her tissue. I don’t know what she expected from me. Sympathy? Love? She wasn’t going to get it. Not from me anyway. It was obvious that when she played the mourning widow in front of the guests, she’d receive as much sympathy as she wanted. I’d leave the compassion down to them. And their ignorance.
“Isabel, my dear.” Mum turned her gaze onto Isabel, standing rigid beside me. Isabel had been my confidant over the years. From everything I’d told her, she’d worked out her own opinion of my mother. It didn’t differ all too greatly from mine. She didn’t like her much at all.
“Hello, Mrs. White,” Isabel said in her most believable ‘fake-polite’ voice.
“Oh, I’m not going by the name White anymore, now your father’s dead…” Mum turned to me, “I thought I should return to using my maiden name. It’s Miss Stanley from now on.”
“Oh, right,” Isabel glanced over at me for help. Even a short conversation with my mother was proving too irritating for her to cope with.
“I thought you’d changed your name back ages ago, Mum,” I said sourly, “it would’ve made sense to change your name when you left your husband. And your child.”
Mum sighed loudly, her chest heaving over her tight bodice. I noticed Isabel’s eyes widen at the sight of mum’s impressive cleavage. Poor Isabel had been flat-chested ever since I’d known her. She’d come to terms with the fact that she’d never have to wear a bra that wasn’t a size AA, but whenever she saw a chest like my mothers, she couldn’t help but look wistful.
“Maria, are you really trying to start an argument with me at your father’s funeral?” mum tutted at me as if I was a toddler being sentenced to ‘The naughty step.’
“I’m not trying to start an argument…”
“…Maria, please.” She interrupted, “Have some respect for your father.”
The church doors swung open and the crows rushed in like the tide of a black ocean rushing up the shore. My mother placed a patronizing hand on my shoulder and followed them in, sashaying her way as if she was on a catwalk.
“Come on, Maria.” Isabel let go of me and edged towards the church, warily turning back to look at me. I stood rooted to the ground, my mind void, unable to move.
“Maria…” she turned towards me as I stepped back numbly. She held out a supportive hand, but I batted it away.
“I’m sorry, Izzy.” I stammered, “I can’t do this.”
She looked at me with bewilderment as I turned on my heel and started running, in huge strides with my arms outstretched by my side. I had no idea what I was doing, where I was going or why I was doing it. I’d never been able to run so fast before. I yanked off my stilettos and threw them onto the gravel, leaving the ground to pound against my tights. I felt them rip beneath my feet, but I didn’t care, I carried on running. Nothing would’ve been able to stop me.
“Maria!” I heard Isabel’s faint voice call after me in the distance. I was out of the churchyard before I knew it, turning right onto the main road and sprinting down the pavement, hoisting the bottom of my dress up to stop me tripping.
I couldn’t think of anything apart from running, getting as far away as possible. My mind was blank. I begged it to question me, to probe me, to ask me why I was such a coward. But, it didn’t.
If I passed anybody on the pavement, then I didn’t realize it. Everything was such a blur, it all smeared into one, just a mass of distorted color before me. Car horns beeped furiously as I ran across the street, oblivious to their tracks. I stared straight ahead, focusing on the ambiguity which I was running towards. The town that I’d grown up in was now so unfamiliar, the indistinct buildings and the alien streets merged together, providing a hazy canvas which I was heading into.
I approached my house, I recognized that vaguely. What was it to me now anyway? It belonged to mum. She had plans of selling it on, giving me a month to prepare to move out. Wasn’t that kind of her? It wasn’t a home now, it hadn’t been a home for years. It was just a shell, a remnant of what used to be.
I stopped outside it, leaning against the grand double gates that had opened for me so many times. It was by far the most impressive house in the neighborhood, with its period style exterior, clad with white marble and storey-length windows. Dad had inherited it off of his parents, and they had inherited it from their own. It seemed a shame to sell it on to a stranger, but I didn’t want it. I wasn’t going to battle mum in the courts for it. Dad’s wish was to leave it to her and she’d got it. Again, it seemed a well deserved prize for her survival of marrying someone she didn’t love. Well done to her.
I sat on the pavement, resting my elbows on my knees trying to catch my breath. I’d covered a long distance, the church must’ve been at least two miles from my house. It hadn’t felt like two miles. When I was running, I could’ve continued forever. I could’ve run the length and breadth of the country just to get away from that funeral.
It must’ve started by then. The guests would’ve all been seated, listening to the vicar’s sermon as he rambled on about a man he never knew. Mum had probably planned a speech, a declaration of her undying love for him, no doubt. The ‘family and friends’ would’ve wept into their tissues to hear her speak such lovely things about him. “True love” they’d think it was. Poor Isabel would’ve sat alone at the back, ignored by everyone else. She’d only gone to be my support, my rock, just like always. I’d let her down. I’d let myself down. Mum would be sitting at the front, playing the Grieving Widow, lapping up the fact that I’d not been able to go in. I’d just fuelled our dispute without even realizing.
I heaved myself up and brushed down my dress. The soles of my feet throbbed as I lifted each to inspect. My tights were in shreds, ripped apart by my hammering feet on the ground. The skin was torn and blood seeped through the cracks causing me to wince as I placed each one carefully back onto the floor.
I checked the pockets of my coat for my car keys.
Dad had paid for my driving lessons from the day I’d turned seventeen. I passed my test in three months, on the first attempt. My instructor said I was a ‘natural driver.’ Dad celebrated by buying me my first car. I expected a little Ford Focus, or a Vauxhall Corsa, something small and easy to manage. Being Dad, he splashed out on a Porsche 911 Carerra. It was black, stylish, expensive and of course, completely ostentatious. I could hardly drive the thing. It was too powerful with a top speed of two hundred and eighty nine kilometers per hour. It was not suitable for a first car. I’d probably only driven it a few times with Dad, just to show him how much I “loved” it and to make myself seem grateful. How could I have told him I couldn’t stand the thing?
I finally found the keys, which had fallen through a hole in my pocket deep into the lining of my coat. I ripped open the lining desperately and grabbed hold of them with triumph, laughing to myself. I was completely aware that I looked like a deranged lunatic who’d escaped from Bedlam. My tights and coat were ripped, my face was red from running and I was near hysterics, simply because I’d found my car keys. Was this grieving? It wasn’t how I expected it to be. I anticipated crying- a lot of crying, using up boxes of Kleenex and sobbing on shoulders. Maybe grief came in different forms. Unluckily for me and everybody around me, maybe my grief was suddenly hitting me, exposing itself in a way of madness and lunacy.
I entered the code for the gates, my fingers trembling as I typed it in. 220591. My date of birth. Dad had chosen it when the gates were installed, he wanted something he would remember, something sentimental.
The gates moved slowly, how I’d imagine the gates of Heaven to open. Of course, I’d never see the gates of Heaven open, only close in my face before I was sent to straight to Hell. A daughter who couldn’t even attend her own father’s funeral was not going to Heaven, she was damned, that was for sure.
I ran up the drive, heading straight for the garage. Only my car resided there now. Mum had sold Dad’s car collection as soon as he’d died. He had seven, The Rolls Royce and the Aston Martin were his favorites- Mum sold them first, she couldn’t wait to get rid of the “bastard things”. The garage looked so empty, just my lonely car tucked up in the corner beneath a large silk sheet. I pulled it off and marveled at its beauty. It stood majestically, like a panther. It was a work of art, not a vehicle. I’d always feared driving it around in case I scratched or lost control of it. I didn’t care now. I unlocked the driver’s door and got in. I sat motionless at first, my hands clenched into fists on the steering wheel, trying and failing to gather my thoughts. There were too many thoughts to listen to now, they all fused into white noise. I turned the keys in the ignition and watched as the car rolled out of the garage and down the drive. It didn’t feel as if I was driving it, like I was going through the motions without registering them. If driving was this easy, I’d consider doing it all the time…
Good Job!! 
