St James Infirmary

 

I don’t recall music at Bill’s funeral. Maybe the boys didn’t think of that. They – only mid-twenties – arranged it all.

I was one year married to Andrew by then, and we’d recently moved interstate. Not only that: in the middle of moving house. (The first was just temporary to get us here.)

 

They delayed the funeral for me. ‘You have to be here.’  

I supposed it would be odd if Andrew came too, and difficult for him. Anyway, someone had to finish our move.

The funeral felt strange. Some people didn’t know we’d ever parted. Others, because they did, didn’t know what to say. Two who never liked me stopped trying to hide it.

I couldn’t exactly play hostess. Not the grieving wife. (Did all my grieving over the divorce. Everyone thought that was my idea. No.)

A huddle of young Vietnamese women looked me over, whispering. Identifying me, I imagined.

I couldn’t guess which was the one he’d tried to brag about. (That didn't work. Someone already told me, and by then I didn’t care.)

Jim Cathcart (best mate) made the speech. Foster-son Robert, a parent himself then, sat beside me and sobbed. My arm stayed around his shoulders for the whole service. 

My youngest, who’d driven me there, latched on to an ex-girlfriend come to pay her respects, and disappeared smartly, taking her to the wake instead.

I stood on my own in the car park as everyone drove away. Hailed an old friend just in time. ‘Room for me?’

Ah yes, there WAS music. 

Much later. Unplanned. 

Dutch was there with his guitar. As he’d always been, throughout my life with Bill. Playing for free at our parties – children’s and grown-ups’. 

Some friends brought their kids this night. Late, when the youngsters were tired and fractious, he sang directly to them. ‘The fox went out on a chilly night …’ They listened with thumbs in their mouths, wide-eyed. 

At parties, whenever Dutch called for requests, Bill would beg, ‘Play St James Infirmary’. Of course I asked, that final night. And he did.

Now Dutch is gone, and Andrew’s gone. Jim Cathcart’s gone. All the children are grown. 

The music lingers on.

NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Twenty-Eight.

Prompt: to write about music at an event.

Linking to Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #176: Slice of Life.  This little slice of death, written in April, is the nearest I can get to (my understanding of ) that literary style – which can also apply to fiction, but this is autobiographical.