The Funeral Crashers

by Joanna Nell

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

A delightfully heartwarming story of four or more funerals and at least one wedding, from the bestselling author of Mrs Winterbottom Takes a Gap Year

'There are a lot of lonely people in the world, Martin. Especially when you get to our age. This is the one place you can come where nobody judges. Besides, you don't need to have known somebody personally to celebrate their life.'

Retired academic Martin Pottinger's romantic aspirations for the delectable head of his former university's archaeology department, Professor Mary Blake, seem about to be realised. If only he could devise a plan to manage the demands of his eccentric elderly mother, Edwina.

Recently bereaved Grace Cavendish spends her days helping out at All Souls Church, making it her mission to drown out the Reverend Rod's tone-deaf hymn-singing and give each funeral recipient a hearty send-off. Yet the peace she craves remains elusive despite the comforts offered by psychic medium Rhondda and her eight-year-old son, Hudson.

When Martin and Grace meet and bond at an All Souls service, they unwittingly set off a chain of events with far-reaching consequences. They become funeral crashers. But who could have predicted that crashing funerals might have such life-changing and life-affirming outcomes?

'A warm, witty and uplifting tale of love in later life . . . I giggled, I was moved, and I now want to join Martin and Grace's choir. This is a story about life in all its mess and glory' CASSIE HAMER

'Delightful and wise, heartfelt, heartbreaking and hilarious . . . a superb reminder that it is never too late in life to rediscover love, joy, redemption and friendship' SARAH CLUTTON

Praise for the beloved novels of Joanna Nell including The Single Ladies of Jacaranda Retirement Village:

'Takes readers on a sweet journey' AUSTRALIAN
'Tender and funny' WOMAN'S WEEKLY
'Her best yet . . . a wonderful read about growing older and grabbing hold of life' WEEKEND AUSTRALIAN
'A delight. Warm characters and observations and great pace' AMANDA HAMPSON
'This heartwarming story about growing old gracefully - and disgracefully . . . is a funny, witty and thoroughly enjoyable read for all ages' DAILY TELEGRAPH

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 336

Sample

A TOXIC PLUME OF ESTÉE LAUDER YOUTH DEW SEEPED LIKE mustard gas through the cracks around the bedroom door. Martin’s handkerchief was no match for the concoction of rose, lavender and earthy moss. He was mid-sneeze when his mother emerged wearing a dead fox around her neck, identification made easier by the fact that the creature’s head, feet and tail were still attached. Martin had learned to expect the unexpected where his mother was concerned and simply blew his nose. Only the cat seemed surprised, unsure whether to snuggle up to the moth-eaten carcass or claw it to pieces.

‘He is rather spectacular, isn’t he?’ Edwina flicked the stole’s brush tail over her shoulder while admiring herself in the gilt mirror by the front door.

Martin raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little macabre?’ The fox’s glassy eyes followed him. ‘Nobody wears real fur in public anymore. Especially not to a funeral.’

‘Cynthia loved animals.’

‘Live ones, surely?’

His mother looked him up and down. Here it came. Black pawn takes White pawn.

‘No wonder you’re still a bachelor if that’s the way you dress, Martin. That Oxford don get-up might have been ironically fetching fifty years ago, but you’ll never find a wife wearing tweed.’

Edwina was relentless in her quest to see him married off before she died, as though his bachelorhood was the final clue in a tricky crossword. Martin was cautiously optimistic that things were about to change on the romantic front. It was early days; so early that the object of his affections was still unaware. He certainly hadn’t mentioned the delectable Mary Blake to his mother yet. Edwina was over ninety and the excitement might prove fatal.

When Martin, the university’s expert on Egyptian ceramics, had been overlooked for promotion yet again, he’d announced his retirement in a fit of pique. He’d soon regretted his hasty decision when it was made known that none other than Professor Mary Blake had been appointed as head of archaeology. The selection panel had chosen her over Martin on the basis of her public profile, her vision for the future of the department, and on a glowing reference from Dominic Smythe, the university’s vice chancellor. Martin had always admired her work – had always admired her – and when he’d finally met Mary in person at his own retirement party, he’d been charmed into a more gracious defeat. Not to mention instantly smitten.

‘How are you getting to the church?’ Martin asked his mother, glancing at his wristwatch.

She seemed surprised by the question. ‘You’re taking me.’

Martin’s stomach swooped. ‘Me? Oh no, no,’ he stumbled. ‘Can’t one of your friends give you a lift?’

‘Cynthia was the only one of us still driving.’

She gave him a pointed look, reminding him of his part in the conspiracy to have her stripped of her driving licence.

‘How about a taxi? I’ll pay.’

‘You expect me to get a taxi to my best friend’s funeral?’

‘I can call that fancy limousine company,’ he said quickly. He knew how to play her.

‘Shirley Temple wouldn’t take kindly to being driven by a stranger.’

‘You’re taking the cat to a funeral?’

‘Of course. She and Cynthia simply adored each other. It’s only proper that Shirley pays her respects.’ Hearing her name, the cat looked up from where she’d been sitting on a Victorian brocade cushion licking her private parts.

‘Remember to bring money for the collection,’ said Edwina, already halfway out the door.

Realising he was beaten, Martin fetched his wallet. Predictably, the task of manhandling the hissing, clawing Shirley Temple into the carrier fell on Martin and his trusty gardening gloves. Her yowls of protest continued all the way to the church.

‘Did I know Cynthia?’ he asked as they turned into Church Lane. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Cynthia from Bend and Sip.’

That Cynthia. He remembered now. His mother had become friendly with a group she’d met at hydrotherapy after her hip operation. The women had bonded over their joint replacements and had begun meeting regularly to compare progress. They were a competitive bunch, both in terms of their rehabilitation goals and the number of martinis they could put away at each gathering. They’d dubbed themselves the Bend and Sip ladies and stayed in touch long after they’d stopped bending. Cynthia had always been more sip than bend.

‘She was so fond of you, Martin.’

‘She used to call me David.’

‘She always sent you a birthday card.’

‘And she always addressed it Dear David.’

Edwina tutted and traced the arc of each pencilled brow in her compact, signifying the end of the argument. Martin wondered what his mother saw when she stared back at her reflection. She’d always been a glamorous woman, and never, ever underdressed. With the fox around her neck and her earlobes drooping under the weight of a pair of giant earrings, she looked like something out of National Geographic.

The church carpark was already full when they arrived.

‘There’s a space,’ said Edwina pointing to a vacant spot.

‘We can’t park there. There’s a Reserved sign.’

‘It must be reserved for me.’

There was no time to argue. He’d drop Edwina and Shirley at the door then, if he timed it right and parked sufficiently far away, miss the entire service. His mother refused his arm.

‘I’m not an invalid, Martin.’

He hadn’t noticed her shoes until now. Watching her totter up the stone steps, he understood why they were called killer heels. An usher, one of Cynthia’s red-headed progenies, rushed to Edwina’s side. She smiled and took the young man’s arm, leaving Martin holding the pet carrier.

‘What’s in there?’ Another towering Celt, who looked more bouncer than usher, pointed to the grey plastic cage.

‘A cat.’ Spotting an opportunity to escape, Martin turned to leave. ‘Don’t worry. No animals allowed inside. I understand. No hard feelings.’

‘Take the cat to the front,’ the Celt instructed, pushing Martin forward.

‘She’s all yours.’ Martin tried to hand over the pet carrier, but at that moment the hearse arrived. Now Martin realised why the reserved sign had been placed outside as the hearse tried to manoeuvre around his mother’s car.

‘Whose car is that?’ somebody called out.

Martin shrugged in innocence. The decrepit vehicle conveniently belonged to his mother and, even though she was no longer allowed to drive, it remained a symbol of the independence Edwina refused to let go.

The hearse finally came to a stop behind the parked car. Six men in black suits got out.

‘I’ll move out of the way,’ Martin said, edging toward the steps and the chance of freedom.

But a hand gripped his shoulder. ‘Wait a sec. You can go in afterward.’

‘I really should leave. I didn’t know Cynthia, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to attend her funeral.’

Or any funeral, ever.

‘I said, wait.’

The usher pinned Martin against the heavy gothic door while the pallbearers lifted the coffin out of the hearse. They marched Cynthia up the steps with a haste that suggested they had another gig straight afterward.

Meanwhile, Martin’s lungs constricted until there was no room left for a breath. His bladder joined in and threatened to expel the single cup of tea he’d drunk that morning. His body remembered a long-buried memory and, unable to choose between fight or flight, settled on freeze. Martin watched the coffin pass, so close that he could have reached out and touched its shiny mahogany lid.

‘Off you go,’ said the usher when the pallbearers had passed.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Martin tried to say but there wasn’t enough air to project the words. A firm pat between the shoulder blades forced them out as a wheeze.

Shirley Temple began to meow her indignation once again. With the only exit blocked by Cynthia’s ten-foot-tall grandson, Martin joined the procession behind the coffin. Head down, he tried to fall into step with the twelve shiny black shoes ahead, but his arms and legs had forgotten which was left and which was right. They refused to take turns. No wonder he’d been thrown out of cadets at school.

His mother was sitting near the front of the congregation.

‘Over here, Martin,’ she stage-whispered at the very moment the organ fell silent. The minister stood expectantly at the pulpit, his beatific smile holding firm while the meowing cat was passed along the pew to Edwina. Martin hid in the wings behind a pillar. Resting his forehead against the cool stone, he tried to compose himself.

The minister welcomed everyone to celebrate the life of Cynthia Louisa Preston. Several mourners were already shedding tears, passing pocket-packs of tissues between them. Edwina sat dry-eyed and attentive.

‘As we all know, Cynthia was an animal lover,’ the minister said into the microphone, ‘and I can’t think of a more fitting way to begin our service than with the wonderful hymn, “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.’

By the time the organ played the first chord, it was already too late. The thump of the familiar notes that followed unleashed such a harrowing memory that Martin forgot how to breathe, the very thing he’d been doing since he was seconds old. He sucked and blew; sucked and blew. This was it; he was going to die. At a funeral too. It was actually quite funny, and he imagined his friend Andrew having a good laugh as he delivered Martin’s eulogy.

One or two braver members of the congregation sang the first line of the hymn.

All things bright and beautiful.

The others hesitated, waiting to see what everyone else would do.

All creatures great and small.

Something swooped overhead. Martin ducked in time to see a large grey bird land on the lectern beside the minister. A parrot of some kind. The bird flapped its wings and squawked, raising a chuckle from two young children standing nearby.

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.

A small white dog began to yap. This excited a large retriever that had been dozing on the cool tiles beneath a neighbouring pew. Not wanting to be left out, Shirley Temple added her unmistakable yowling meow. At the pulpit, the young minister tried to keep in time. And in tune. Martin couldn’t believe his ears. He’d heard more melodious dental drills. Was the minister even singing the same hymn?

Then, above the cacophony, a single voice soared. A perfect soprano. The sweet, crisp notes filled the old church. A most glorious sound. A ray of sunlight burst through what looked like a hole in the stained-glass window above the altar, setting Cynthia Louisa Preston aglow. Martin took a breath and hurled it at his vocal cords. To his surprise, it came out as a B, then an A, then a D. He sang a line, then a verse.

Each little flower that opens.

Another breath. In and out.

Each little bird that sings.

In that moment it was only him and the woman he couldn’t see, tenor and soprano.

The purple-headed mountain …

The cold wind in the winter …

The tall trees in the greenwood …

He gave us eyes to see them …

At the end of each verse, the rest of the congregation joined in the familiar refrain. The minister flicked through the order of service, then glanced at his watch. Martin started to believe he might survive this ordeal after all. As long as he could sing, he could breathe. If he kept singing, he could endure this purgatory.

Martin waited for the organ’s echo to fade to silence before turning to look for the woman who’d spared him from public humiliation. Who was the mysterious soprano? How would he recognise her in the sea of faces? He was exhausted from the effort of not dying in public and yet the hymn had left him strangely exhilarated. He’d been surprised at how good his voice sounded, too, considering his lack of practice. So why did he feel so guilty in the aftermath? How could something as harmless as singing a hymn have evoked such a visceral reaction? He’d missed singing out loud, for years resisting the urge to hum along to the radio or croon in the shower. He’d done so well, too, until today’s slip-up. Once was enough. A single hymn was all it had taken to resurrect the memories he thought he’d laid to rest. He’d been right. This had been a mistake. He never should have agreed to come in the first place.

When the service ended, the congregation dispersed and once again Martin was left holding the yowling cat. Her protests continued until they were outside in the fresh air once more, and Edwina had donated fifty of Martin’s dollars to Cynthia’s favourite pet rescue charity.

BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, GRACE CAVENDISH HAD MADE HERSELF breakfast, unloaded the dishwasher and cleaned the benchtops. Barely twenty minutes later, she’d showered and dressed, made her bed and put on a load of washing. By eight, she’d swept and mopped the kitchen tiles, vacuumed the living room carpet and re-filled the birdbath. Only another eleven hours to fill before bedtime. Perhaps this was why older people slowed down: to stretch out what little they had to do to fill their days. Not Grace. It was important to keep busy, she maintained. It wasn’t called the human race for nothing. To slow down even a little was to risk grinding to a halt altogether. The house was immaculate, with everything in its place. If only her thoughts were as easy to organise.

With a fresh cup of tea, Grace sat down with her diary. It was one of those slim week-to-a-page versions, and served as a reminder that she had no social life. Sometimes she wished she had an ailment, something that required regular trips to the doctor. Nothing too serious or life-threatening, more an excuse to talk to other people. She wouldn’t mind a trip to the dentist now and then. But apparently, she was too healthy, her teeth too pristine. Even her lovely optometrist had pleaded with her not to return for twelve months. The next entry in her diary wasn’t until Wednesday 26th.

11 am. All Souls.

Whose turn was it on Wednesday? The name would be there, in the notices section of The Chronicle. Unfortunately, her copy had been tossed from a speeding bicycle and as usual landed nowhere near its target. After a fingertip search of the front garden, she discovered it wedged in the lilly-pilly hedge. Luckily, it was still readable. Turning straight to the Death Notices, her finger traced the individual tales of tragedy and loss until she reached the bottom of the second column.

Sheila Rosemary Webb. Beloved sister, aunt, great-aunt, grand-great-aunt, and friend to many.

Grace tried to picture Sheila while she finished dusting. She was using the brightly coloured microfibre cloths her daughter had insisted were better for the environment.

‘You don’t need furniture polish, Mum. You can throw out all those nasty, toxic chemicals,’ she’d said.

So Mr Sheen had flown on a one-way ticket to the recycling bin. Melody was right, of course. Such a wise head for such young shoulders.

Grace ran the cloth over the photo frames on the mantlepiece, stroking away the non-existent dust on her daughter’s faces. Here was a whole gallery of happy smiles from that first wrinkled grimace, taken moments after she was born, through to the young woman in a velvet evening gown centre stage in her first solo performance at the Opera House. The next thing Grace knew, her cheeks were tight and salty. She mopped her tears with the microfibre cloth.

With nothing in the diary for today, and with the scalloped fair-weather clouds offering a reprieve from last night’s rain, Grace decided it was the perfect day to tackle the pesky vine that was smothering a family of she-oaks in the reserve. The path through the reserve was a popular shortcut to Parklea Primary School where she’d been both a teacher and a parent. With petticoats of green ferns, red bottlebrush flowers heavy with butterflies, and spotted gum bark that cracked and peeled like sunburn in spring, this overlooked square of bushland was a haven for wildlife. Melody used to love spotting the tiny birds that fluttered in and out of the tree canopy and could identify each species by their distinctive calls. Sadly, despite numerous letters and phone calls to the local council, years of neglect had turned Grace and Melody’s special place into a tangled jungle, choked with weeds. The litter was piling up too with chip packets, chocolate wrappers and soft drink bottles half hidden in the overgrown undergrowth. There was even a garish party balloon impaled on a branch. On one of the tracks that branched from the main footpath, some local kids had piled up the earth to make a bike ramp. While it was good to see children playing outdoors in the fresh air for a change, she was sad to see her little piece of paradise carved up like an open-cast mine.

Grace arranged her things next to a particularly neglected area and set to work. Few people would derive as much pleasure in collecting litter as she did. Most people walked past, oblivious. Melody couldn’t have been more than seven or eight when she’d read that a single plastic item could take up to one thousand years to degrade in landfill.

‘Plastic never disappears completely, Mum,’ she’d said one night while lying awake. ‘It only breaks down into tiny pieces that stay around forever.’ She’d fallen silent then, tiny creases remaining in her forehead. What followed broke Grace’s heart. ‘Why can’t humans live forever?’

Grace doubled down on her rubbish foraging, not willing to risk losing herself in that memory. Not in public. The biodegradable bin bag was soon full. Her haul included half-a-dozen discarded vapes in assorted colours and flavours, three chewed tennis balls, and a round of mouldy sandwiches, probably jettisoned from a schoolbag days ago. The sandwiches were neatly cut into quarters and still wrapped in cling wrap.

She surveyed the foliage, settling on a tall-stemmed plant with a head of pendulous orange flowers. She waded through the more innocuous undergrowth and grabbed the offending weed by the base. Gotcha. The sensation as the roots gave way was pure pleasure, a rush almost. She reached for another plant, a ragwort or was it an African daisy? Either way, it didn’t belong. Grace uprooted the trespasser from the soft, damp soil, enjoying the tiny thrill. She continued, raking backward through the undergrowth like a brush turkey building a nest.

‘Your turn,’ she told a creeper when they came face to face. ‘Other people might be fooled by those pretty purple flowers, but not me.’

She yanked and, ignoring the sting of sap on her skin, tried to coil the mass of dark green leaves and winding stems into a manageable bundle. Instead she ended up tangled in the sticky strands. Then she noticed a vine that would have impressed Tarzan. There was no point in simply cutting through the thing with her secateurs. Pruning would only encourage it to grow back thicker and stronger in the future. She needed to dig it out roots and all. After hacking away some of its larger tributaries, Grace traced the stem back to its source and pulled.

‘Come on, you bully,’ she taunted.

When it wouldn’t budge, she splayed her legs and tugged with her entire body weight. The vine gave way without warning, catapulting Grace into reverse. For a minute or two she lay winded on the ground. It was a ridiculous thing to have done. At her age, she could easily have broken a hip. Luckily the ground was soft, and her backside even softer. Her sleeve was snagged on a blackberry bush that was coiled like razor wire, otherwise she was unscathed.

‘You’re next,’ she told the spiky bush.

When Grace stood back to admire her handiwork she was impressed. Tree trunks freed from choking climbers, shy grasses untangled, and glorious sunlight once again streaming through the unclogged canopy. She arched backward, hands in the small of her aching spine. It would be worse tomorrow, even after a hot soak in Radox. Her forearms were covered in dried blood from the many thorns; battle scars from her war on weeds. With any luck she’d removed the noxious plants in time, before the breeze or passing creatures had spread their seeds. It was important to spot them early. Before they’d had a chance to metastasise. Before it was too late and nothing could be done.

Grace wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she looked up from her pile of vegetation and noticed a young boy watching her. Her first thought was that he was too young to be walking to school alone. His blue uniform shirt was covered in stains and one shoe was held together with silver duct tape. The boy’s unbrushed hair reached his shoulders.

‘Why are you picking the flowers?’ he asked.

‘They’re weeds.’ Grace held up a thistle. ‘This one is called milk thistle.’

‘Because it contains milk?’

‘No, but some people eat it.’

‘What if they’re lactose intolerant?’

Grace was thrown. The boy pointed to another plant.

‘What’s that one called?’

‘It’s called asthma weed.’

‘I’ve got asthma.’

‘Oh, right. Do you use an inhaler?’

‘Only when Mum’s been paid.’ He pointed to a bush covered in tiny black berries. ‘What’s that one over there?’

‘Don’t touch it. That’s deadly nightshade.’

The boy tilted his head. ‘How deadly?’

‘Very deadly.’

‘Deadlier than a celestial claw rocket launcher?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Deadlier than the Axe of the Black Labyrinth?’

Grace was out of her depth. ‘Look, the point is you shouldn’t touch any plant you’re not familiar with.’

He eyed the pile of weeds, then the red welts covering her arms.

When things got tricky in the classroom, one of her favoured teaching tactics was to pose a new question. She pointed to a white flower on the top of the pile. ‘Why do you think that pretty one is called angel’s trumpet?’

The boy looked at her as if she was stupid. ‘Because it looks like an angel’s trumpet.’ He wiped his nose on the hem of his shirt. ‘Why are you killing them if they’re so pretty?’

Fair point. ‘Weeds don’t belong here,’ she explained. ‘They’ve come from somewhere else, from a foreign country most probably. If we don’t keep on top of them, they can take over.’

‘Like immigrants, you mean? My dad says they should all go back to where they came from.’

An insect flew into Grace’s gaping mouth. She accidentally swallowed.

‘You’d better hurry,’ she said. ‘The bell went ages ago.’

The boy kicked at a stone. ‘The teacher doesn’t even notice if I’m there or not.’

‘Don’t your parents make sure you get to school on time?’

‘It’s complicated,’ he said, sounding much older than he looked. ‘Mum works all the time.’

‘What about your dad?’

He shrugged in response.

‘Do your grandparents live nearby?’ She was being nosy, but he didn’t know that.

‘Poppy wets his pants and lives in a home for nurses. Nanna Gwen went to heaven because she forgot what day it was.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about your nanna.’

‘It’s okay, she was old, like you. We went to her funeral and sang songs. Then they burnt her coughing.’

‘You mean they cremated her coffin?’ Grace stifled a snort. ‘That must have been very sad.’

‘Not really. Mum bought me a Transformer. It had a missile launcher and a blaster and everything.’ His eyes lit up as he described his consolation prize. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to the plastic bag.

‘All the rubbish I collected from the bushes.’

‘Can I see?’ Before she could stop him, he’d rummaged through the bag and found the sandwiches. ‘Can I have these?’

‘Don’t touch them, sweetheart. Somebody dropped them on the ground. Don’t you have a packed lunch or money for the canteen?’

‘Not really.’

What kind of parent sent their child to school without lunch or a snack?

‘Here, have one of these instead,’ she said, offering a tube of toffees from her pocket.

His face lit up momentarily, then he backed away.

‘Teacher says we shouldn’t accept anything from strangers.’

‘Well, that is right, but how about we introduce ourselves properly and then we won’t be strangers anymore? I used to be Mrs Cavendish when I taught at the school but you can call me Grace.’

He took another look at the toffees, decided it was worth the risk. ‘I’m Hudson.’ With his missing front teeth, it came out as Hud-thon.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Hudson. Here, take this for recess.’ She tried to give him a few coins for the canteen. He refused, which Grace took to be a sensible move on his part.

‘Why are you doing all this?’

‘I’m getting rid of a nasty big creeper that’s been bullying the smaller plants. It steals all their light and food and they can’t grow properly.’

A shadow of recognition passed over his face.

‘Do you get paid?’

Grace laughed. ‘I do it because it needs doing. It’s more of a hobby than a job. You know, like collecting stamps.’ Would he even know . . .