It was a day, maybe two. The funeral loomed. A call from her work, the bank. They were very sorry, they didn’t want to intrude, but they had news, would like to send people, would it be okay?
They arrived. He, a typical middle manager, middle-aged in a middle-grey suit, and with the decency to look ill at ease amongst our tragedy’s detritus, the embryonic clean up. She, a spherical woman in florals, with hot-pink-framed glasses worn halfway down her nose. The bank’s councillor. She wept sympathy.
They came in, sat down, took coffee, offered condolences. They told us how well liked Ginny was at the bank, how hard it was for everybody there. Should we console? Apologise? Awkward, stilted conversation.
They got up to go. Were nearly out the door. We were walking them out the door, when this saccharine woman, flushed and stuffed with her very raison d'être - after all, how many deaths could she expect in her career? Three, four? Unless there were external factors, the company's dragon boat sinking, drownings, now that would be something - stopped, turned, and then did the unthinkable.
Spying my father in the corner she fluttered one hand above her chest, a sort of fanning without the wind, and said, "I’m sorry, but you're breaking my heart. You look in need of one of my special cuddles."
No, he didn't.
* * * *
Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
Your support means a lot.
Also, sharing is caring.
* * * *