I was told to go into the dining room. On my own. A shaft of sunlight. I blinked. On the table a long box. Bigger than I was. And a funny smell like petrol.
I was eight when I went to my grandma's funeral. I didn't want to go. I was sent as a grandchild representative — the only one there. I’d been to Auntie Peg’s before with Mum and Dad — but that day grown-ups I didn’t know were dressed to the nines, and no-one smiled. I kept quiet, sat and waited — swinging my legs in the hall — until it was my turn to go in. No one told me what I’d see.
I pulled up a chair and saw her feet first — no shoes, just tights. And those twisty toes on her right foot, caught in a tram door years ago. It was Grandma. Still and sleeping like a lying-down statue. Her best dress on, her teeth in, her face made up. But no specs. She always wore them. I touched her hand — cold, like she’d just come in. I stretched to her cheek — pink and waxy. My finger on her lips — nothing came out.
Grandma always had plenty to say. Hind legs off a herd of donkeys, Mum said. And she always made me laugh. She’d put her teeth in upside down, then give me a grin. And she’d read me Winnie-the-Pooh, doing all the voices. Once we both stuck our tongues out til they touched — and it tickled.
Then, on a bus, coming back from the hospital.
“Grandma, if you could do any job — what would it be?”
She stared out, so I carried on.
“If you could add anything to your house — what would it be?”
“Downstairs toilet.” Still looking out.
“I’d add a slide to my bedroom. So I could slide down to breakfast.”
A sigh.
“Grandma, are you okay?”
“You've asked me that three times.”
At my birthday that year, she got me a magnifying glass. She’d laughed when I held it up to my face — her eyes twinkling, while I played the fool. That was March — just two months earlier — but I hadn’t seen her since.
And there she was. In that box. On the table.
She was dead. They’d told me that much. But not how far away she’d feel.
I jumped down — and spotted her handbag. On a chair in the corner, with her big coat and gloves. Arranged like she was going out. Or going somewhere special. Creamy coloured, with a gold fastener. She took it everywhere — staying for tea, or out shopping, or on that bus.
I walked over and reached.
Behind me, the door opened.
I pulled my hand back.
Mum and Dad came in and went straight to the coffin. They didn’t look at me — just stood, staring down at Grandma. Mum's face went tight and red. She closed her eyes. Dad put his hand on her shoulder.
Then Mum looked up — her blue eyes bloodshot — and smiled at me. Like I’d done something right by being there.
“Grandma’s little soldier,” she’d said.
I frowned.
"Alright, son?" Dad said.
I nodded anyway.
They stood — silent. Auntie Peg popped in. "There's people waiting," she said.
Mum reached into the coffin — then pulled back and turned.
“Said your goodbyes?” Dad said to me.
I looked at the handbag.
"Can I?" Pointing.
Mum looked back. “Grandma's bag?”
I nodded.
She smiled. “Just look after it.”
It felt heavy — and cold. Everything was cold that day.
I didn't want to stay with the grown-ups — all standing about and whispering. So I took Grandma's handbag out to the garden. It was quiet there, just the birds and the breeze. Behind the hedge, where no one could see, I clicked it open. Inside was everything Grandma.
I reached in — like a lucky dip — and took things out one by one. The fold-out mirror she checked herself in, the nail file she let me use, her blue reading glasses, a tissue with lip prints on, and a tin of those mints she liked. They smelt like her. I put one in my mouth.
At the bottom, wrapped in a hanky, a black leather book with a zip. I’d never seen a book with a zip. Inside was a Bible — with thin gold-edged pages. Grandma went to church and prayed every night. I heard her sometimes. She believed in God and Jesus and Heaven. I didn't — but I said nothing.
I opened the Bible — and a note fell out. Unfolded, a print of bluebells and curly handwriting:
I’ll always remember our bluebell walks — W
Grandma never mentioned bluebell walks — or who W was. Both zipped up tight — like my anorak.
A laugh, from the house.
I pocketed the note, zipped up the Bible, and put everything back in the bag. Except the mints. I kept those.
Beyond the vegetable patch, sunlight reflected off the glass of the greenhouse. Where Grandma took me after school. Where she showed me tomatoes growing — red and green and yellow ones. Where we watered with the hosepipe — and planted seeds in little pots, pushing them into soil with our fingers.
Passing the veg patch, Grandma’s handbag slung over my shoulder, I couldn’t tell veg from weeds. The greenhouse door was stiff, but scraped open after a shove. Inside was warm and musty with soil and tomatoes. Unwatered plants, tall and tangled, clung to canes, and shrivelled shoots poked from pots. Grandma wouldn’t have left tomatoes like that. She’d have tied them up with green string. I’d hold them, while she tied. ‘Good lad,’ she’d say, and ruffle my hair.
Overhead, a pane of glass was missing — an empty square out to the sky. I stood looking out.
That's when I saw it.
In the corner — on the floor by a broken pot. A fluffy little blob. A tiny bird. I crouched down to see. A wren. One of the birds Grandma taught me. Jenny Wren she called it. Lying there on the dusty concrete.
It wasn't run over or squashed. Just stopped. Eyes shut, beak a bit open, head still floppy. The feathers so pretty and neat. Browns and greys and blacks — with a tinge of yellow. On the tummy. I touched it. One finger. Still soft.
Maybe it flew in and couldn't fly out? Maybe it bashed against the glass trying? Trapped with the tomatoes.
I scooped it up in my hands. Light as a ball of air. I could feel its bones through the feathers. Its tiny feet — the claws curled up. Crossed for luck — like Grandma’s toes.
I held it in both hands, like it might break, and walked to the house.
Auntie Peg and two women were fussing about in the kitchen.
“Look,” I said, holding out my treasure.
A woman with red hair turned.
"What is that?"
“It’s a wren,” I said. "A Jenny Wren. It's perfect. Look —"
"Get that dirty thing out of here!" Auntie Peg said, striding over.
"It's not dirty —"
“It's dead,” the red-haired woman said. “It'll have germs.”
"Where did you find it?" Auntie Peg picked it up and held it away — like it stank.
"In the greenhouse,” I said. “Grandma's greenhouse.”
She walked straight to the back door dustbin, opened the lid, and dropped it in. I heard it land softly.
"Now go and wash your hands," she said. "With soap. Properly."
I stood still.
“Go on!” she said, pointing at the sink.
I washed my hands. The soap smelt of fake lemon. The red-haired woman looked at me as though I’d stood in dog muck. And trailed it round the house.
I dried my hands slowly, eyeing the back door.
But I couldn’t get to the bin. Not then. Not with everyone watching.
That afternoon, more people I didn’t know arrived, and Mum made me say hello to all of them. They asked how old I was, and which of them I looked most like. As if I knew. One even said it was Grandma’s wake — when she looked fast asleep.
In the dining room the coffin was gone, and a spread had been laid on. There were sandwiches and sausage rolls, crisps and cakes, jugs of squash and a big teapot. And a long white tablecloth that reached to the floor.
Grown-ups stood around with plates and cups, talking quietly. I didn't want to be patted on the head and told I was ‘being brave’, so I piled a plate with crisps and cake — and crawled under the table.
It was like a tent — a ready-made den — with tablecloth curtains. I could see through a gap — just legs and feet — no faces. Shiny shoes and high heels, tights and trouser legs.
Nobody knew I was there.
Crockery clinked and grown-ups talked. I could hear most of what they said. I crossed my legs and watched the gap — matching shoes to voices.
Two pairs of feet — both women, one flat, one heels. A pair of men’s joined them.
"How's Margaret doing?” A woman said.
“She’s holding up, thanks.” Dad’s voice.
“Losing a parent’s hard.” One voice.
“Especially if you’ve only the one.” Another.
“She was no age.”
“Deserves a good send-off.” Dad again. His feet walked away.
Is that what this was — a send-off? A sending-off for what? And where to?
“After all she's been through.” A woman whispered.
The women’s feet moved closer.
“She never did get over him.”
“Lottie?” Grandma’s name.
“She was only fifteen. Far too young. Family sent her away — for the operation. When she came back, he’d gone. She carried that torch for years.”
Why would she need a torch? Was it darker then?
Grandma had liked someone her family disapproved of. A secret from before that tram door closed — folded up and zipped away tight.
And outside the back door a wren was lying in the bin.
A woman’s voice, drifting in: “I can't sleep any more — I just lie there, eyes open. All night sometimes.”
"Have you —?” another woman.
“I’ve tried everything. Pills. Hot milk.” It was Mum.
“Well, it can’t be easy —”
“It’s the not knowing. What if I don't wake up one day? Or do — and don't know who I am?"
Not knowing what? The gap was quiet — no feet for a while.
Then more feet. More voices. A man and a woman.
“That woman you were with. I saw.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Your days of telling me what to do are over.”
“You don’t know what you saw.”
"I know one thing: it wasn't your wife."
Footsteps moved away — one after the other.
Some secrets were whispered in private, some were shared like sweets, and some were folded up and zipped away.
The wren didn’t belong in a bin — and Grandma would agree.
"Has anyone seen the boy?" Auntie Peg's voice.
“The garden?” a woman said.
"Could someone check on him, please?"
I held my breath. Feet walked past. Out to the hall. The back door opened and closed.
Now was my chance.
I crawled out the far side of the table, away from where people were standing. Nobody noticed.
I went to the back door. Straight out to the dustbin, and lifted the lid. The wren was still there. Under two tea bags and a bread crust.
I picked it out. Wiped it on my jumper. Put it in my pocket. No one saw.
Then I turned my back on the house — and walked down to the greenhouse.
The sun was lower — the glass no longer glinting. I scraped the door open and went inside. It was cooler but smelt the same — soil, tomatoes, and dust. I took the wren from my pocket, and put it down gently by a pot. I looked it over for a long time. Its downy feathers — some smooth, some tufty — and its tiny feet, the claws crossed for luck. I could do better than a dustbin. Grandma would be buried in a box — and the bird should keep her company.
I picked up the wren, pressed it to my cheek, and put it back in my pocket.
The next day, at the funeral, I’d find a way.
The next morning, everyone was dressed up more than the day before. Dad in a black suit and a tie, and Mum in a dark blue dress I’d not seen before. It matched her eyes, but made her face look pale.
A big car that wasn't ours drove us to the church. Black and shiny — moving like it was being careful. The coffin was in front — in a car with curtains round. Flowers on top.
People outside the church went quiet when our car pulled up, and stared when we got out. Mum looked at their faces one by one, then put her head down and grabbed my hand — a bit too tight. Dad stood next to us with his hand stroking Mum's back.
Six strange men in black suits carried the coffin out of the car. It had a lid on with a metal plate. They strained to lift it onto their shoulders, then walked slowly to the church door. We walked behind them, and everyone else followed.
Inside it was cold and echoey. The coffin was put on a stand at the front — flowers laid on top. I had to sit in the front pew between Mum and Dad. Everyone could see the back of my head. But they couldn’t see the bird in my pocket.
The vicar stood — and we all stood with him. His white surplice swayed as he talked about Grandma, how she loved Jesus, how she helped people — and how she was going to heaven with God. I once asked Grandma to show me a photo of heaven — if it was all that great. But she couldn’t. So it was made up — like Santa. I didn't say anything.
The vicar talked — and talked. The organ played, and everyone tried to join in a churchy song. The vicar talked some more — in a sing-songy voice. Mum held my hand. I’d stopped listening. A spider was spinning a web near my feet.
A creak from the back. Mum turned — and let go of my hand. I turned to see.
An old man had come in and stood at the back by the door. Clear blue eyes stared from a craggy face. Straight ahead like no one else was there. A long black coat. A woman nearby leaned over and said something to another woman. Then that woman said something else. Like pass the parcel but with whispers.
“His name’s Walt.”
Walt.
W.
I looked at the old man. He didn't look at me. Only at the coffin. At Grandma.
“Eyes front,” Mum hissed — pulling me back round.
I faced the front, but I could see Walt’s eyes — blue as bluebells.
More vicar talking. More singing. I didn’t hear any of it.
Eventually, the men in suits lifted the coffin, and everyone stood up. The coffin passed us, down the aisle, to the door. We had to follow: me and Mum and Dad at the front, then everyone else.
As we approached the door, I looked over. The old man was still there at the back. Waiting. Watching us all walk past — but his gaze far beyond. His blue eyes watery. Mum took out a tissue and held my hand tight again.
Once outside, they set the coffin down. People were moving flowers and wreaths. Others were coming out of the church door. Mum made me stand, holding her hand, as she thanked people for coming. The graveyard was just through a gate at the side. I could see it. But I was watching the church door.
The old man came out slowly, looking down at the flowers against the church wall. Cards with people's names. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a bunch of — three, maybe four — bluebells. Tied with string. Like on the note. He glanced at the coffin — a flash of blue — pressed them to his lips, and put them down with the other flowers. He stood back and closed his eyes. Then he turned away and strode out across the churchyard. Head down, against the wind, his long coat flapping. He didn’t look back. I watched as the far gate rattled behind him. No one else noticed.
The men picked up the coffin and walked to the grave. People followed, carrying flowers or a wreath.
I pulled my hand from Mum’s and ran to the wall. The flowers had been taken. Only one wreath was left. Small with purple flowers and shiny leaves. The ribbon read ‘Lottie. With you always.’
I picked it up in both hands and walked behind Mum and Dad and Auntie Peg. Looking at the grave, then back at the wreath. I kind of fiddled the flowers with my fingers — a wire holding them in place. I tried to work it loose. My finger caught on the wire. I pulled it out — and blood dripped.
“What have you done now?” The red-haired woman grabbed my arm. “Always making a mess.”
She pulled me away from Mum and Dad and took a hanky from her pocket. Spat on it. Wiped my face.
“Blood stains on your shirt. Who knows where else.” She took my hand. “That needs a plaster.” She rooted in her bag.
Mum and Dad were nearing the graveside.
She wrapped a plaster round my finger. “There now — what do you say?”
Sigh. “Thanks.”
“Off you go.”
I turned my back and knelt — like I was tying my shoelace. I put the wreath down and took the wren from my pocket. I laid it gently on the wreath — in a space I’d made. It belonged with flowers and leaves — not tea bags or crusts. Like it was sleeping. And I twisted the wire so it stayed.
I looked up. Nobody had seen.
At the graveside Mum and Dad were standing by the big hole in the ground. Dark soil piled next to it. The coffin had just been lowered on straps. One man still pulling a strap.
The vicar was talking about dust as people threw soil onto the coffin — and put wreaths and flowers at the edge of the hole. Some had been thrown onto the coffin. I was still holding mine.
I looked over the heads, and past the gravestones. Was someone standing by the far wall? In a black coat? I screwed up my eyes. But it was nothing. Just trees in the wind.
The vicar had stopped praying — and was talking to Mum.
I stepped forward, away from the adults — and held the wreath out over the grave. Looking down at Grandma's coffin — shiny wood and flowers and soil.
I let go.
The wreath fell in slow motion — and landed with a thump. I looked in. The wren’s beak caught the light. Nobody knew she was there. Just me.
I stepped back — and stood next to Mum and Dad.
A man with a digger shovelled soil on top of the coffin. Soon a mound of earth and flowers. People began to leave. Walking away. Quiet.
I looked around for Walt. But he’d gone.
Mum took my hand. Not too tight this time.
“We did right by her, didn’t we?” she said.
I nodded.
As we walked across the churchyard, hand in hand, I looked back — at the grave.
Grandma was down there now. Or wherever the vicar had said. With a Jenny Wren on her shoulder. Her crossed toes. The bird's tiny feet. Together forever — wherever they go.
I never did see Walt again.