Falling Off The Edge - Part Two

Previously.

In early spring 1995, my aunt advises me that my adoptive mother, who I haven't seen for more than fifteen years, has passed away,The next day I catch the first plane out of London for Copenhagen to attend her funeral. The service is just about to begin.


Part Two


As I sat down on the front row I felt the same fifty pairs of eyes bore into me. The hairs in the back of my neck stood on end, telling me what was happening. In truth I didn't much care what was going on behind me.

A few feet away from me was the coffin in its lone majesty, the lid covered in a beautiful arrangement of white and red roses. Somebody must have cared enough about my adoptive mother then.

Custom dictated that everybody who attended a funeral would bring flowers and lay them on the floor in front of the coffin as a tribute to the deceased. I noticed that a trail of fifty or so flower bouquets were disappearing in a path down the aisle.

I had brought none.

The organ still played its mournful, yet pompous piece of music. I shuddered and realised that the sound coming from it still held the ability to intimidate me. This particular church had not yet released its grip on me.

And there, all of a sudden, was the Vicar in her long black gown with the tell tale white collar that resembled that of a clown. All curly along the edges. It gave her quite the regal look, and for all I knew she may have been present all the time I had been there, but if so, I hadn't noticed.

It was then that I became aware that she looked straight at me, although her look was somewhat impassive. Of course, she must have recognised I was family from my position in the church, but she appeared to have chosen to ignore the fact. To give her credit, if I knew my adoptive mother at all, the poor woman would never have heard about me.

I had been denied a long time ago.

The organ faded away, and the vicar took up her position in front of the coffin facing the congregation. She looked out towards all of us, and once the initial biblical ceremony was over, she went on to talk about the life of the deceased.

When she continued to talk about the virtue of my adoptive mother's life, I faded out not able to listen to the nonsense and my thoughts began to wander. I looked up at the ornate ceiling of the church, beautiful as it was in its golden splendour, and wished I was somewhere else.

While the Vicar's voice droned on, my thoughts went back to a time of late nights when my adoptive mother had called me and repeatedly told me how she regretted that she had ever adopted me. I could hear her calm voice when she said, "listen, you never know what you get, and I see some traits in you that are all your own, but which defy everything I've ever believed in."

Yeah. Right!

Now, as I sat there in the church, I was struggling to suppress a giggle, but twenty years earlier it had been pretty ugly. I remembered the panic attacks I had suffered. They came on without warning, made me feel as if suffocating. I could barely breathe. It was then that I realised I had to stop seeing her. Put her out of my life all together. At least for a while. My adoptive father, who I loved very much had been dead for several years so no help could be had from him. I had to stand on my own two feet.

I sat up with a start as a blast from the organ brought me out of my reverie.

Everybody started to sing a hymn I recognised very well, and for a moment I was lost in the beauty of it. For once the organ was just a background tool to keep the hymn on its track.

Once it had finished, the vicar was back continuing the service, and from now on it was all biblical formality. She soon arrived to the part where she threw the earth on the coffin while reciting, "from earth have you come and to earth will you again return," and the service came to its natural conclusion.

I stood watching as six men from the congregation, who I didn't recognise, carried the coffin out to the waiting hearse parked outside the church. It must have been hiding at the side of the church when I had arrived earlier on.

A few people who I vaguely remembered from my youth came to give their condolences, which I greeted with grace but found rather odd. Surely they must have known what had come between my adoptive mother and me.

I slowly made my way to the exit, being stopped by some more who I remembered from a life so long ago, and finally I was outside breathing in the fresh air.

Almost five hours to kill before my return flight. As I started down the stairs, my thoughts were filled with the pleasant prospect of where to have lunch, when a voice rang out calling my name. All I saw was a thin man with mousy brown hair, not much older than me, gesturing as he shouted.

"I know who you are, Ulla. I was your adoptive mother's lawyer. If you think you are going to inherit, then I can tell you that since you were adopted in 1954 you are not eligible to get a single thing!"

Everything went quiet. I stopped in my tracks, and took a deep breath as I turned around and looked straight at him.

And in that instant I knew why I had come.

To be continued.