normality at its best

three

'about today' the national

I took her up there myself. Travelling north into the English countryside with my best friend beside me, carefully placed in a box, sat on the passenger seat of the shitty rental car. I did not stop, not for hours, but for petrol once. For five and a half hours I drove, and it took me almost two to realise that Alex would have hated the stone cold silence we sat in together. I pressed the button on the radio and the tinny speakers spewed forth a warped version of ABBA's 'Dancing Queen'. Another two hours passed, and my car went through the small town of Bellingham, not stopping for food and water, not stopping for the mysterious old lady who waved at me urgently. I followed the road that curled upwards, then found myself pulling over into the shoulder of the road where the crest of a hill opened a glorious spreading view of English countryside. The car went off at my command and in the silence my throat ached as I admired the stunning truth of Alex's anecdotes. My fingers grazed the cool surface of the urn beside me, then I jumped out of the car and leaned against the bonnet, willing the cruelly icy wind to blow away the ache. It took only a few minutes for me to finally surrender to the tears that built, leaning against the sorrow and allowing myself to hurt for just a moment, then a singular tear managed to fall into the grassy ground and from it bloomed a single, strange, blue flower. I let out a breath and plucked it out of the ground, scowling at it for a moment before grinding it under my foot and getting back into my car. A sign barely a hundred metres further along told me that Falstone was one kilometre away. The radio began to shit itself and I switched it off as I turned down the road to Alex's home town. And town was a very strong word for it. I passed the cemetery first, a pretty looking place— very green and leafy and enclosed in a nice iron and stone fence— and a little later down the road it opened on either side as I crossed the lovely North Tyne River, or so my phone informed me. I almost wanted to stop and sit beside the river to think, but I was meeting with Alex's grandfather and cousin, and it was nearly night time— which had the light retreating down the sides of the great dome of sky. I drove on til I reached the tiny centre of town, where the inn was the first thing I saw, and I parked my car. I was to meet the grandfather and the cousin inside. For a moment there was a silence, punctured only by the faint sounds of life within the building next to me. Then I scooped my best friend's urn carefully into a cloth bag and left the warmth and safety of my car.

The inn was like a scene from a movie. There were just over a dozen people inside, mostly men who appeared to be farmers in for a pint after a day of heavy work, and there was a TV on the wall, playing some kind of sport game at which half of them were cheering. But as soon as I entered the space, all fell silent. I squirmed under the attention of them all, then my eyes fell on an ancient looking man with a walking stick, seated by the fire. He wore the very hat I had heard described in all of Alex's stories, so I awkwardly, hesitantly made my way over to him, the urn wrapped in the cloth and clutched protectively to my chest as I expected some sort of Occurrence to endanger the brittle clay. Nothing happened. Slowly, murmurs began again, then something happened on the television and a cheer went up, returning the hubbub of the room to it's original levels. I approached the man on the armchair, and cleared my throat. I wasn't used to addressing elders. I generally avoided them so as to Avoid any occurrences with wise women and wizards. He blinked up at me with his rheumy eyes, and appeared to register who I was.

"You must be Marley." He reached out his hand and I hesitantly set my hand into it. Rather shaking it, he clasped it between his own and pressed them to his forehead with a tremble.

"Oh my dear, I am so sorry for your loss."

My heart cried out for this man, who professed his sincerest condolences to the new friend of his granddaughter upon meeting her for the first time, as if I felt it stronger than he himself. I lowered myself to his knee level, still grasping his hands.