‘Connie played many roles in her life,’ says the boy-priest.
‘She was an outstanding member of the community, a successful businesswoman, a loving sister to Rose, loving wife to Jimmy, and loving adoptive mother to Enigma.’
Yes, well, excuse me but that’s not strictly true, she never actually adopted me. Enigma remembers coming home from school one day and asking Connie if she could call her ‘Mum’. ‘No, you can’t,’ Connie had said. ‘One day, when you’re forty years old, I’ll explain why. This is nothing to cry about, Enigma. Save your tears for something worthwhile.’
Enigma had still cried. She didn’t need to save them up; her tear ducts never let her down. When the other kids teased her for being the Alice and Jack baby and having a funny name, she would plonk herself on the ground, bury her face in her hands and bawl luxuriously until they got bored with yelling things like, ‘Your dad stabbed your mum in the guts!’ and ‘Enigma’s mum was a Murderer!’
She liked being the Alice and Jack baby. It made her feel special and exotic, like a girl in a film. And she loved a good cry! Afterwards she always felt serene and slightly sleepy. Once she revealed this to her granddaughter Veronika, who told her that when you cry your body releases a chemical like a sedative. ‘You’re probably addicted to that sedative, Grandma Enigma,’ Veronika had said. ‘You’re like a druggie.’
A druggie! That child talked such rubbish at times. Margie should have smacked her more when she was little.
Enigma leans forward to see Veronika sitting at the end of the pew, her skinny face all twisted in a ferocious expression. She’ll give herself wrinkles. Probably still sulking over Connie leaving her house to Sophie. It is a poky, old-fashioned house anyway. Difficult to clean. Enigma doesn’t know why Veronika is making a fuss over it.
Such a pity that Veronika’s marriage to Jonas had been a flop, but then Jonas had been a wishy-washy sort of fellow. No match for Veronika. She needed a good, firm man in her life.
Actually, what that child needs, thinks Enigma, sniffing noisily, is a real good f**k.
She sits back in her seat with a satisfied nod and rummages through her bag to find her Tic-Tacs. She enjoys thinking deliciously shocking thoughts from time to time. It does her good.
‘How many calories in a Tic-Tac?’ wonders Margie, as her mother rattles the little plastic box in her face.
Surely not many. Perhaps none at all. She holds out her hand and Enigma tips a white lolly into her palm. Margie puts it into her mouth, sucks, and immediately begins to viciously attack herself. ‘This is why you’re so fat, you blubbery whale, you greedy pig! Calories are insidious! Why do you say yes every single time food is offered to you? Why are you so weak? Why are you so pathetic? Can’t you feel how the waistband of your skirt is digging into your pasty, doughy flesh! And you don’t even like Tic-Tacs!’
She remembers a tip she learned at the last Weight Watchers meeting. If you don’t love it, don’t eat it.
Surreptitiously pretending to cough, she is about to spit the Tic-Tac into her hand when her mother suddenly shoves against her arm as she leans across her to offer the Tic-Tacs to Ron. This causes Margie to gulp and swallow the Tic-Tac and all the calories it contains, without even tasting it.
It’s probably one of those deadly, calorie-packed food items. Like cashew nuts. They have been warned to avoid cashew nuts.
Margie gives her mother a reproachful look, which Enigma doesn’t notice at all. ‘Tic-Tac, Ron?’ she is hissing.
For heaven’s sake, surely it’s disrespectful to be passing Tic-Tacs down the pew during a funeral! The priest is trying to talk. A minute ago her mother had been crying her eyes out into one of Dad’s old hankies, and now here she is cheerfully handing out Tic-Tacs! Margie has always secretly suspected that her mother is just a bit shallow.
Ron takes a Tic-Tac of course, just to amuse himself, and offers, by raising his eyebrows and inclining his head, to pass the Tic-Tacs down the aisle to other members of the family. He is doing it to make fun of Enigma and she doesn’t even know. He thinks he’s superior to everyone. Has he always been like this? Margie can’t remember.
‘…and I know Connie’s wonderful blueberry muffins will be sadly missed.’ The priest gives them a gentle, sad twinkle and there is a ripple of fond laughter. Margie, who told the priest to say that, chuckles along with them.
My thighs certainly won’t miss them, she thinks. At least with Aunt Connie dead there won’t be so much fattening, calorie-laden food on the island. No more Connie turning up with a freshly baked caramel fig loaf or a tray of honey cakes, even though she knew perfectly well that Margie was trying to lose weight.
What a selfish fat-person thing to think. She loved Aunt Connie. Although she did always feel a bit relieved when Connie left the room.
She’d noticed that whenever Connie left she could feel herself exhaling just slightly as if she’d been holding her breath. Connie could make her feel slow and bovine; the way she’d suddenly snap her head around and bark a question that would leave Margie fumbling for an answer. Even if it was a perfectly ordinary question like, ‘How are you, Margie?’ it sounded like a test. Connie always seemed disappointed with her answers, as if she’d expected more, although Margie never knew in what way. She’d certainly never shown the slightest sympathy for Margie’s attempts to lose weight. ‘You’re too old for such rubbish! Of course you want a second piece!’
Connie was very skinny.
The waistband of Margie’s skirt is cutting cruelly into her waist.
It’s a wonder Connie hadn’t specified what everyone should wear to the funeral. Her list of instructions had been so meticulous, leaving nothing to chance. There was even a running sheet for the service.
Margie is quite convinced that Connie just decided to die that night. She can imagine her thinking to herself, ‘Right, that’s it. Time to go.’
For the last three days Margie has had Connie’s voice in her head.
NO SICKLY SWEET SPEECHES.
NO FLOWERS.
HEAT SPINACH AND RICOTTA TRIANGLES AT 300 DEGREES FOR 15 MINUTES. DO NOT MICROWAVE. THEY GO SOGGY.
It has been tiring, organising this funeral, along with all her normal work. Margie would quite like to curl up in a corner somewhere and go to sleep. She wishes her mother or her daughter had asked if she needed a hand. She would have said ‘No, thank you’ of course, but still, just for the recognition. Everybody likes a ‘pat on the back’, as they say. Ron seems quite convinced she sits around all day watching television.