#i have my own system for writing anyways. the sliding scales of different qualities that guides my general word choices for dialog

[reekierevelator]

The Art of Success - Chapter 3

“Just in time to help with the coffin,” shouted the man in the blue linen suit, as Tabitha ran over to exchange kisses on both cheeks with the women from the car.

Having shouted introductions to each other the men looked to Ralph, the elderly blue-suited gent, as he opened the car’s tailgate and began struggling to remove a long cardboard box.

“This do is all DIY,” Ralph entoned in his deep bass voice. “Minimal cost. The way she wanted it. We’ll need two either side I think. And Roxy, could you take the wreath off the roof.  It should be on top of the coffin as we bring it in.”

Up close, Peter noticed that, though disguised with make-up, Roxy’s forehead was furrowed and the odd freckle tarnished the porcelain whiteness of her hands. He realized she was a little older than he’d at first imagined; probably more his own age, late thirties or early forties, but she had an elegant beauty that was in no way diminished by her greater maturity.  

“Glad you could make it; looking pretty neat,” said Josh, holding out his hand to shake Peter’s.

“Yes, long time no see Joshua. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Very busy.”

“Sure useful that Georgy was pint-sized.  Don’t know how we’d have fitted a six-footer in the car. Probably would have had to fold her up in the trunk, or stand her upright with the roof open.”

“What a morbid idea – but I suppose black humour is unavoidable at a funeral like this. Glad to see you Joshua.  The short notice must have been tricky for you too.”

“Could have been. I’ve been working clubs in France and Germany the last few years. Still based in Edinburgh though, and fortunately – if that’s the right word - I was here when it happened.  So no need to travel.  Mind you, even back home in the Big Apple it’s getting easy to catch a quick flight over the pond these days.”

“It was hard enough getting that coffin into the car,” Humphrey was saying, his hands resting on his potbelly, “never mind getting it out. We all had to squeeze in beside her. I was altogether crushed into a corner. All the same, I do like your idea of standing her upright, the cadaver staring out from the vehicle’s roof window. If I had the money for a block of Carrera marble I’m sure I could make a perfectly stunning modernist piece based on that image.”

Pulling his large maroon blazer straight, stretching the sides to allow button to reach buttonhole, and then pressing his hat tighter over the silver hair that ringed his bald head, Humphrey proceeded to help Ralph haul a cardboard coffin bound with rope, which was resting side-on over the tops of the van’s seats, out of the vehicle.  

Peter took a corner, glad the heavy rain, which would have rapidly rendered the coffin soggy and bendy, had finally ceased altogether.

Peter caught Josh’s eye as he struggled with the opposite corner. “How’s the music business going these days?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, long time since blowing jazz made anyone rich.  A couple of dozen aficionados turned up at the launch of my last original collection.  Took the best part of a year to write.  Jazz is improvisation and I can’t find quality players who can improvise.  Laboriously scoring each note, each chord, for each instrument in the band – it’s no fun.  And that was really just so we could pretend to improvise in performance.”

“But surely it will be performed many times in future?”

“Who can tell?  You know, as Bohr said, prediction is very difficult, especially about the future.  And a jazz piece shouldn’t be the same two days running anyway. I’d like to at least have the chance to record one version though.  But who’s going to pay for that now that Georgy’s gone?”

“Georgy was still your benefactor?”

“Benefactor of most of the people here I should think.  Sure, she helped you out too, didn’t she? I mean, Ralph said she did when he asked me to phone.”

“Well, yes.  Quite a lot, as it happens.  Selling original paintings is always a bit hit and miss; feast or famine even for the best.  To be honest she evened things out for me these past few years, kept me going.  She bought my paintings, sight unseen, for more or less fixed amounts.  I shipped them over to her and I understand she aimed to place them for sale in small local galleries.”

“I’m sure she did her best for you.”

“Well, I hope so.  I don’t really know if she managed to sell any, or what she might have got for them if they were sold. It didn’t matter.  Having already paid me according to her basic sliding scale based simply on size, Georgy was naturally entitled to retain any income from actual final sales. I suppose she may occasionally have made the odd small profit, but there again, she also had to bear all the losses when they didn’t sell. I‘m not quite on the breadline Josh but I do know my limits.  I don’t think I’ll ever be the next David Hockney.”

Humphrey overheard Peter’s confession and put a plump hand on his shoulder to console him. “That’s the trouble with us Brits.” he said, “Too self-effacing, always ‘putting ourselves down’ as Josh would say. I’m sure you’d never hear an American like him minimise his ability.”

“Remember the wreath,” Josh shouted to Roxy.

Roxy placed the exotic wreath on top of the sagging coffin, and with a man taking the strain at each corner the transfer into the chapel began.

Peter was surprised at the weight. Huffing and puffing, the four men somewhat unsteadily, haphazardly, carried the coffin through the doors of the tiny church, followed by the three chattering, giggling ladies, who gave every impression of arriving at a Christmas party.

Tabby led the tall, white dressed Roxy up the aisle like a father leading the bride. The diminutive Nicole, kitted out in orange and lemon and candy striped leggings, scurried along close behind, prattling away to Catriona, for all the world like an exuberant bridesmaid.

Ralph guided the men in laying the coffin down in its allotted position. Then he sat down, apparently exhausted, in the front pew beside Humphrey, and wiped his brow with a white handkerchief.

After his exertions Peter stood, stretched his arms, and turned back toward the ladies. He noticed various other people had arrived. One wore a fluorescent yellow shirt and another sported a tie-dyed denim jacket. Several others had trickled into the small chapel’s pews at the back of the coffin-bearers. One or two continued to wander in, chuckling and pointing as if they were attending some art show preview. Some then sat down in the pews while others stood in the central aisle chatting animatedly.

It ran through Peter’s mind that each of the mourners seemed to have located a different version of Joseph’s coat of many colours. He plopped down next to Josh.

“Josh, I’ve kind of lost touch with all the Edinburgh people. Mind you I wasn’t really one of the arts crowd when I lived here anyway, just a barman on the margins. Apart from Ralph, who acts for Georgy and briefly communicates when I offer a painting, you’re about the only one I’m acquainted with in this town any more.  Would it be ok if I gave you a call while I’m here?”

“Sure thing man.” Josh took a pen from an inside pocket, wrote his phone number on the blank page at the back of a hymn book, tore off the scrap of paper, and handed it to Peter.

The feeling that he might be guilty of something sacrilegious slipped through Peter’s mind as he thrust the piece of paper into his pocket.  He shivered slightly. “I met Tabby in the waiting room when I arrived here.” he said. “Who are the other women you arrived with?”

“Oh, well Roxy Paterson, now she used to be an actor.  Did repertory for a while, theatre plays.  That kind of thing.  Had a couple of half-decent roles so I hear.  Too much time resting though.  Ended up touring as some kind of magician’s assistant.  She got interested in the idea of music when she met little Nicky Choudhury.  She’s really the musical one. Father plays the sitar. Then Ralph got involved.  Thought Georgy might be interested in sponsoring a folk music combo. Those women have kind of been around though. In different ways they’ve tried their luck all over the world. But don’t get any ideas. Ralph and Roxy, they’re pretty much an item these days. And Nicky plays for the other side. Take it from me, I’ve tried, there’s no doubt about that. Catriona’s her partner.”  

But there was no more opportunity to talk before an usher slammed the chapel doors shut and nodded to Ralph. Ralph duly raised himself from the front pew, stepped up on to the dais, and positioned himself behind the lectern.

“May I extend a welcome to everyone. I’m glad you could all make it,” he began, his round bass tones filling the small auditorium, and Peter realised that Ralph was to be the event’s MC.

“Is he really a minister?” he whispered to Josh.

“No, but it’s cool, man,” Josh replied. “Did some kind of Humanist celebrant course. Done a few funerals. No weddings yet. As I recall, Georgy was more a Zen Buddhist anyway. But I don’t suppose she’ll mind. Not now anyway.”

“Ah, I see.”

Ralph was saying “We are here to celebrate the life of Georgina Simpson, a great, though unfortunately underestimated, authoress… or should that be author? – so hard to keep up these days.  Though her works never flew off the shelves they are increasingly recognised nowadays and are still selling.  May I say it’s lovely of everyone to have come in such beautifully colourful attire.  I’m sure Georgy would appreciate it… would have appreciated it.  It’s everything she wanted.  And now I’d like to start us off with a song.”  

He inserted a CD in the unit connected to the chapel’s PA system and a karaoke, music only version, of Imagine filled the chapel.  

Ralph raised his arms, both palms upwards, and the mourners rose as one. In response to the sacred music the space filled with the noise of a happily belted out Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try, no hell below us, above us only sky….

After that it was back to Ralph.  

“At this time, it’s right to say a few words about Georgina’s background. Her parents both died young. She was an only child. She attended a private girls school in Edinburgh and then university in Holland, Utrecht, - it’s motto Sol Iustitiae Illustra nos (Sun of righteousness, shine upon us) – seems entirely appropriate to her.

“Of course, she never married and despite a significant inheritance from her grandparents, as well as earning her income as a writer, she always insisted on a frugal lifestyle. She dedicated her life to her writing.  Sadly, her books were not always best sellers, but the short print runs did find a discerning readership and appreciation of her work is now growing. In the increasingly disjointed world in which we live the appeal of her novels, in which a sense of love and common humanity prevails, is obvious.  Her publisher’s expectation is that all her works will not only continue in print but will continue to sell in increasing volume. Some of her wonderful early works, such as Daffodils in old buckets and The innermost layer of the onion which unfortunately fell out of print for a while are now being reprinted.  Others, such as Tom’s lost years, have always been available in most decent bookshops and are increasingly in demand. If, by chance, you have not yet read all of her works then I would heartily recommend, for your enjoyment and edification, that you do so as soon as possible.  

“But although writing occupied most of her waking hours, it was not Georgina’s sole interest. She never talked about it publicly but in fact she sought to use her money for philanthropic purposes. With no children to care for, she dedicated her spare time and available wealth to nourishing the arts instead.  She was the benefactor of so many local artists in so many different areas of practice – poets, musicians, sculptors, writers… that for that reason alone she will be sorely missed by many.”

Ralph fiddled for a moment with the chapel’s music system before continuing.

“To honour her for that part of her life’s work I would ask you all to join me in singing What a wonderful world.”

Rising, the attendees burst loudly into I see trees of green, red roses too, ….

But Peter was thinking that he probably wasn’t the only one whose mind was not so much fixed on trees of green as on the question of whether Georgy’s money would continue to be used to support artists in future.