The Language of Love

After Mrs McGillivray heard someone whisper that her son’s death was “hardly unexpected”, she left the gaggle of bystanders at the roadside and made her way home. Under the glare of streetlights, the pulsing beams of the emergency vehicles flickered in puddles. It was scarcely 6pm on a brisk November Tuesday, yet as dark as the dead of night.

“Maria,” she heard someone call after her, “are ye going to be alright?”

She lifted her hand in acknowledgement but didn’t turn around. Whoever had called out knew better than to follow her; it’d be as risky as baiting a bear.

Most suspected that Maria McGillivray had a good heart, but her tongue was as sharp as a scalpel. Even after all these years of living alongside her, few had got close enough to establish the truth. Safest to leave her be.

“The boy was asking for it.”

Whoever had said it presumably hadn’t noticed her there. They’d have expected the mother to be wailing, demented in someone’s arms.

Maria hadn’t taken offence at the words – he had been asking for it. But hearing a voice speaking them outside her own thoughts somehow drew a line under what had occurred.

Police had held back bystanders, herself included, shielding the curious from closely observing the fire crew cut the broken body from the wreckage and the ambulance team stretcher it away. Maria could only glimpse a formless shape; there was nothing to suggest the towering man-boy that had been her carrot-haired son, aged seventeen.

She trudged home, her apron under her rain mac; rain was trickling down from her hairline, cold water oozing into her slippers at every step.

She hadn’t stopped to choose appropriate footwear when she’d heard the shout of someone pounding on the door, “You need to come, it’s Tommo!” She turned off the gas and ran.

Too late now.

No point hurrying home.

Death had won.

***

Later, while Frank was at the hospital dealing with whatever was involved in processing a mangled body, it was down to her to tackle the next steps.

She’d been halfway through making a steak pie when she left; dinner for the three of them tonight. Automatically, as if nothing more had interrupted her than a delivery man’s knock, she finished fashioning the pie, putting it in the oven, and preparing and cooking the veg. She made the same amount as usual: enough for two hard-working, hungry parents and their bottomless pit of a boy.

She ate nothing herself.

When Frank finally came home, exhausted and reeling, he didn’t know what to expect. It was just past 10pm and seeing the light under the kitchen door, he pushed it open gingerly. Maria wasn’t a crier, but she’d never had to deal with this.

She was sitting at the table and looked up, dry-eyed. “You’re back.”

“Aye.”

“All done?”

“Seems so. As they’ve witnesses and what they call supporting evidence, they said they’ll be able to release the body tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She waited a moment to see if he would add anything further. She doubted it; he never played free with words. “Cup of tea?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I made dinner. Easy to heat up if you fancy?”

Frank shook his head. “No, you’re alright.” He took his tea from her, avoiding her eye, and carried it to the front room like always while she cleared up and shut down the house. He closed the door and just like any other night, the muffled sound of the TV followed.

Maria thought of their son’s room upstairs. Although empty, it would still be filled with his odour – his bed crumpled, barely cool from this morning. Socks and kecks will layer the floor, keeping company with mouldering cups, pizza boxes and empty bottles. She wonders if they should put these in the coffin with him like they buried grave goods with Egyptian pharaohs. Would he need them in the afterlife? It would probably be better to include some clean clothes, though he’s never been averse to recycling. Perhaps just put in that scruffy toy dog; it had kept him calm as a baby . . .

A wee funeral cake. That was what was needed, Maria thought. Tommo’s love of her cooking had been the only thing that had crossed the divide once he’d grown from being a loving child into a challenging, reckless young man. She would bake something just for him.

But what would he like? How could she know? If only she’d thought to ask him. But how could she have said, “When you manage to kill yourself, as we know you will, what sort of funeral spread would you fancy?”

Yet she had managed to repeatedly tell him, as that fellow had said, that he was an accident waiting to happen. She said it so many times, in so many ways, that now it’s all she can remember saying. Not that stealing a car and drunkenly driving it into a lamppost at speed was what you’d call an accident. Sheer stupidity, more like.

But if she’d spent more time reminding him she loved him – would that have affected how things had turned out? Perhaps if she’d told him he needed to go away to some other place where there might be better prospects . . . Would he have listened and if he had, would that have been enough to save him?
Would it? She’s no better second-guessing now than when he was alive.

He’s gone, and it’s down to her to mark his passing.

* * *

Over the following days, as she measured and mixed and beat and stirred, her leaden heart allowed no diversion. She’d no room for Frank and the family or neighbours, no capacity for their tears and hushed words of condolence. “I’d appreciate you leaving me to get on,” she said. She spoke the words once, and only to Frank, but he knew to spread the message. You’d argue with Maria McGillivray at your peril at the best of times, and this had to be the worst for her.

So while people spoke to Frank and helped him organise what needed doing, she worked alone, ceaselessly, in silence. All she could hear (and she didn’t want their talk to block it out) was Tommo’s voice in her head: Jeez, Ma, that looks tasty.

* * *

The following week in church, Maria stood dry-eyed and motionless. Beside her, Frank was trembling. He sobbed as the final prayer was said, his grief as unstoppable as gushing blood. Maria let it pass by her. She stood as still as the sculpted effigies surrounding them, head unbowed, expression unchanging. After the service, as was customary, they stood at the entrance, shaking hands. Frank murmured, “Thank you, good to see you,” over and over, reminding people they’d be welcome at the wake up the road. Maria nodded and stared past them as if she might catch sight of her boy in the distance.

What must have been hundreds came to the village hall, and the sight that greeted them was unlike anything previously seen: a cornucopia of baked goods more suited to a lavish wedding or festival than a bereavement. A coronation display fit for a king.

In the dimly-lit room, a long central run of linen-covered trestle tables was piled high with dozens of decorated sponges and iced fancies, fruit cakes and slices, choux-bun towers, cream horns and muffins, iced doughnuts, pies and flans and pastries, biscuits and brandysnap baskets, even a gingerbread house.

On an elegant stand at the heart of it stood a large, immaculately-iced centrepiece fashioned skilfully into the shape of an angel, its exterior marbled white with silver flourishes. At its base, on a sea of black velvet, ranged dozens of small votive candles in star-shaped holders, looking for all the world as if they’d appeared via a shower from heaven.

Maria and Frank stood back as people clustered around the table, gawping and murmuring in awe. At last, judging the audience ready, she tugged his sleeve, pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

Frank coughed, and the room fell silent. “Please light a candle for Thomas,” he said awkwardly, “then help yourselves and remember him.”

As the candles flickered into life, one by one, the display took on the look of a richly-detailed Renaissance painting. Opulence shouldered grief aside, and the wake assumed the air of a successful party.

Maria McGillivray finally unclenched her fists and allowed herself to release a tear. All these people – and him the centre of attention. Tommo would have loved this.

“Eat up, son” she murmured. “Plenty more where that came from.”

Dianne says: I grew up in New Zealand and now live in Dartmoor National Park with a head full of characters and stories and a ceaseless drive to pursue a ‘What if?’. Writing is my lifeblood – I’ve always written and always hope to!