The Bright Side (62 page)

Late
one
afternoon
in
the
second
winter
after
the
accident,
I
visited
the
graveyard,
on
a
sudden
whim.
It
was one
of
those
days
that
starts
out
so
murky
and
grim
that
you barely
notice
when
the
light
begins
to
fail
for
real.
As
I picked
my
way
through
the
headstones,
I
spoke
to
myself
in a
voice
that
I
hadn’t
used
for
twenty-five
years:
That
noise
was just
an
owl. That
shape is
just a
tree.
There was
no one
else around
and
the
only
sound
came
from
the
wind,
which
was suitably
hollow
and
mournful.
I
stayed
by
the
graveside
for no
more
than
two
minutes
–
a
new
low
–
and
then
legged
it back
to
the
car,
desperately
trying
to
turn
off
the
music
in
my head,
which
was
the
theme
from
Tales
of
the
Unexpected
.
As soon
as
I
was
under
the
comforting
streetlights
again,
I
vowed
that
from
now
on
I
would
only
visit
the
cemetery
at lunch-time.
The
idea
of
going
there
in
the
dead
of
night would
have
filled
me
with
pure
dread
.

But when I parked the car and killed the headlights forty minutes after leaving Ranelagh after my talk with Melissa, I felt nothing of the kind. All I felt was hope
.

Melissa pulled up alongside me and we both got out, closing our doors with a pleasing synchronicity
.

We
went
through
the
cemetery
gates
together
and
turned smoothly,
like birds
in flight.
As I
walked along
the
path, I
found
myself
reciting
the
path
to
my
parents’
plot
in
my mind
–
Through
the
gate,
turn
left,
fourth
row,
fifth
grave
on
the right;
through
the
gate,
turn
left,
fourth
row,
fifth
grave
on
the
right
.
.
.
It
felt
as
familiar
as
the
route
from
my
kitchen
to
my bedroom,
despite
the
infrequency
of
my
visits
.

I was about to say as much to Melissa when she gasped and stopped dead. I quickly followed suit. There was activity ahead, movement, voices. We shuffled closer together, breathing heavily. Then I heard a girl’s scream, high and piercing. We shuffled closer still. But the scream was followed immediately by laughter, then by a poor imitation of a wolf’s howl. The source of the noise, we now saw, was a trio of teenagers, two boys and a girl. They were walking down the row next to my parents’. Although I saw no bottles of cider or naggins of vodka, I presumed they’d been having a sneaky drink
.

“Teenagers having fun in a graveyard at night,” I whispered. “Have they never seen a horror movie?
”

As
they
drew
closer,
I
prepared
to
let
fly
with
a
tirade about respect
and
decency
and
the
way
things
were done
in
my
day.
But
I
held
my
tongue,
largely
because
I
was
afraid that
they’d
ask
us
what
the
hell
we
were
doing
there
at
that time
of
night.
Instead,
I
merely
nodded
at
them
as
they passed.
Melissa
did
likewise.
The
boys
nodded
back;
the
girl said,
“All
right?”
They
stayed
silent
for
another
few
steps and
then
started
laughing
again;
one
of
them
launched
into the
chorus
of
“Thriller”
and
the
others
joined
in
.

Mum and Dad’s grave was plain in every way. While its immediate neighbours sported a large angel and an elaborate Celtic cross, respectively, theirs had a simple black headstone with a gentle curve at the top. Both neighbours were grassy and had miniature rose-bushes in all four corners. Mum and Dad were buried under white gravel, through which a multitude of weeds gamely poked. There was a single pot in the centre. The plant inside had seen better days – but not recently. I joined my hands in front of me and slowly read the inscription on the stone
.

In
Loving
Memory
of Martin
Flynn 1940-2002
and
his
Beloved
Wife Theresa
1941-2002

Requiescat
In
Pace

Sometimes
I
thought
that
I
expected
it
to
change
–
that
one
day
there’d
be
new
information
to
report,
or
perhaps
that
some
old
information
would
be
added:
Martin
worked
as
an
electrician
or
Theresa
was
smarter
than
she
let
on
.
The
last
line
of
the inscription
had
caused
some
friction
–
some
extra
friction
–
between
Melissa
and
me.
I’d
argued
that
the
full
Latin
looked pretentious.
Melissa
had
thought
it
looked
dignified.
She’d won
out,
in
the
end,
because
I
simply
gave
up.
It
hadn’t
seemed
like
a
big
deal
in
the
grand
scheme
of
things.
But
it annoyed
me
every
time
I
saw
it.
On
the
other
hand,
the
gravel annoyed
me
too
and
that
had
been
my
idea.
“Less
trouble,”
I’d said.
“Easier
to
keep.
If
we
get
grass,
we’ll
have
to
be
out
here every
week
in
the
summer.”
Melissa
had
quickly
agreed.
Less
trouble
was
good.
Easier
to
keep
was
good.
Fewer
visits
was
good
.

I
once
asked
Gerry
what
he
did
when
he
came
to
see
his
own
parents’
grave,
which
was
on
the
far
side
of
the
same
cemetery.
The
question
embarrassed
him,
but
he
answered
it
anyway.
He
said
he
chatted
to
them,
told
them
his
news.
I
was
astonished.
Gerry
had
never
really
seen
eye
to
eye
with
his
mother
and
he
was
still
in
nappies
when
his
father
died
of
a
massive
heart
attack.
I
said
as
much;
Gerry
looked
at
me
as
if
I’d
lost
my
mind.
What
did
it
matter
if
he’d
never
known
his
dad
and
hadn’t
been
close
to
his
mum?
They
were
dead
.
They
couldn’t
answer
him,
could
they?
He
talked
to
them
because
it
helped
him
to
get
his
ducks
in
a
row
in
his
head
–
to
see
where
he
was
coming
from
and
where
he
was
going
to.
It
was
something
to
do
besides
reciting
prayers,
which
he
knew
was
boring
and
suspected
was
pointless.
(I
followed
up
by
asking
him
if
he
had
a
clear
image
of
heaven.
He
answered
the
question
with
a
question:
had
I
been
sniffing
glue?)
I’d
tried
to
copy
his
example
myself,
a
couple
of
times.
But
I’d
just
felt
silly
and
had
gone
back
to
what
I
was
used
to
–
reading
the
headstone
and
feeling
empty.
Tonight,
perhaps,
would
be
third
time
lucky. I
closed
my
eyes
and
brought
my
parents’
faces
to
mind.
Then
I
lowered
my
chin
and
thought
about
those
strange
and
terrible
months
almost
four
years
ago.
The
images
swirled
and
tilted,
fell
into and
out
of
sequence.
The
Guard
on
the
street
saying:
“Blow
into this
for me,
love.” The
Guard
at the
door saying: “Prepare
yourself
for
a
shock.”
Melissa
avoiding
my
gaze. Robert
rolling
his
eyes.
Chrissy
biting
a
fingernail.
Gerry slamming
a
door.
Tony
kissing
my
tummy.
Then
I
thought about more recent events. Gerry and Lisa in the front room. Melissa
greeting
me
at
her
door.
Chrissy
denouncing
her father.
Robert
giving
me
a
hug.
Melissa
crying
on
her
bed
.