I am attending the funeral for my Uncle George, who died unexpectedly a few days ago.
There are many tearful people here and all of them are around his age, most wearing dark glasses to hide their red eyes. I came here with my cousin Rachel, but we are not tearful, we are not his age, but we are very inquisitive.
The service is almost over as we stand to watch Uncle George's coffin being carried out to the hearse. We leave the church, Rachel and I are wearing sunglasses to blend in with the others, also to hope we are unnoticed. We both have lost a family friend, although we both know he was not an uncle in the true sense of the word. Years ago, our mothers, who are sisters, went to school with the woman who was George's wife until recently. We called her Aunt Lill, as older people expected of young children of that era. Poor Aunt Lill had heart problems and died of a fatal heart attack.
Uncle George, or George Keiran O'Brien, to give him the name the priest used during the service, was a regular member at our family gatherings, so I wondered who all these older people were. How did they know him, was the question in my mind. Mum and Aunty Ruth, Rachel's mother, and George's wife, Lill, remained friends. Lill and George were often invited to family functions, now that continues, just so George can stay in touch with his 'adopted family;' he always seemed to be quite at home at our family gatherings. This made it difficult to know who and how many of those present were or were not directly related to us.
When I was a child and old enough to socialise, I was introduced to Uncle George, by my mother, "Kim, say hello to Uncle George," was mum's instruction to me. In my shy way, I kept looking as his feet as I spoke. As we grew up, it became easier to call him Uncle George, he was always there.
Rachel and I left the church with our heads bowed to avoid having to talk to those whom we didn't know. We watched the hearse leave as we walked to Rachel's car. We travelled in her car, because funerals seem to be the one event where you don't want to be there alone.
As we drove out, Rachel asked me, "Kim, what do you want to do for lunch?" It well past normal lunch time, so I suggested that because we were near the beach, we could have lunch at the restaurant at the end of the pier.
"If we go to the Pier Restaurant, we are sure to be alone. Nobody likes walking that far for food, and no-one will comment on our presence at the funeral, I am sure," I asserted.
"OK, let's go there." Rachel seemed pleased to be away from those strangers.
We drove in silence until we reached a red traffic light, when Rachel spoke, "I wonder how many people really knew him, I mean in the broadest sense," she added. The lights changed to green and we moved off. I remained silent until the traffic had eased ahead of us.
"Why do you ask? You saw the people there; the priest said he was an excellent community person," I queried her.
"What did the priest say? He was an altar boy, a choir boy and in later years taught religion to the younger students at the Catholic Girls' School," Rachel elaborated on her comment.
"That explains why the girls in school uniforms were there. I wonder how much those girls will miss him?" I asked, as a second thought.
"What do you mean by that, Kim?" Rachel asked me. She looked surprised as she glanced in my direction.
"Well, I know quite a lot about him, but let me start with the day my family celebrated my 18th birthday. He was there, but not by my invitation. Mum had invited him to keep up the 'family friend' tradition. When all the 'happy birthday' stuff and the song were over, Uncle George came up to me, kissed me on the cheek and said, 'Happy birthday, Kim.' As he moved away, he whispered, 'You're old enough to fuck now.' He was watching my face. I was surprised, but I was gracious enough to smile, which I think he incorrectly took as acceptance of his veiled offer." I didn't want to reveal too much to Rachel, in case I said too much. There are some things in my life I choose not to share with others. My real relationship with George was one of them.
"And did he follow through, Kim?" I knew she would ask that, so I had to be careful with my answer. "Well, not exactly. He didn't rush me off to some sleazy motel, if that's what you're asking, Rach." I tried to make light of the topic. "Look, Rach, there's a parking spot, where the BMW is backing out." The Pier was busier than I expected, my cheeky comment apparently went unheard by Rachel.
We were shown to a table by the friendly young waiter. We ordered a Bundy and Coke, a real girls' drink. It may be enough to wash away the solemnity of the funeral. If not, a second one would do it.
"Kim, what did you mean about 'knowing George,' because I have a story about him too," Rachel admitted.
"What's your story, Rachel?" I felt there was something, because her voice sounded serious. I waited for more, but I had to prompt her. "Go on, tell me your story," she looked around the room as if making sure no-one could hear her.
