The Pallbearers

The Pallbearers.
When my grandmother died I wasn’t sure how to feel. She was always a little old lady to me. A great supporter of the English Monarchy which I never understood. At only 5 foot and about 7 stone dripping wet she wasn’t intimidating in any sense of the word. But many people proceeded with caution after a swift clobbering from her ever present umbrella.
The night before the funeral was a get together with all the relatives. Lots of old people I have never seen before constantly telling me how much I have grown. Well when you haven’t seen me since I was 10 I thought that would be pretty obvious. This was one instance where alcohol played a major factor. Well not at the beginning as there was two thirds of bugger all in the place. With Granny not being a drinker and in fact she had a hatred for the Devils Liquid and the people who sinned but consuming it.
A quick round up of the cousins and the Alcohol Relief Team was formed in a matter of seconds. Wallets opened and money exchanged. Two members of the ART slipped silently out the door, into the car and off to the drive through bottle shop. Myself and my other ART member slide open the curtain, went down the stairs and opened the back door. Finally the old fridge in the workshop has come in handy.
Twenty minutes later the ART mobile unit returned with enough beer to sink a battle ship. We open a few bottles and sit around the workshop drinking. The topic of interest turned to who was going to stand where when carrying the coffin. We went for the “dragster” format. The two short guys at the front and two taller guys at the back.
I awoke the next day with looking for the bastard who filled my head with cement and the camel that took a dump in my mouth. Too much and beer and a funeral to get through. Pretty standard for this family.
The service at the church is fairly routine for these matters. It is weird being in a church for me. Reading through the Hymns that are to be sung I manage to get my brother and cousin laughing as I have confused the word Prostrate with Prostate and tell them I think these songs are fucked up.
Anyway the time has come to carry the coffin The Coffin Carrying Crew, which is really just the Alcohol Relief Team, move into their unrehearsed positions. Looking out into the pews from the front is one morbid feeling. Dark, sad, not familiar. My brain races to find a humorous thought to get me through. No time, we have to lift the coffin.
We all bend at the knees. Prepare to lift, LIFT. Groans and grunts, knees crack. How does such a small woman weigh so much in death? Will we make it to the hearse without dropping her?
I am at the front with my brother. I say “ready to walk” his response was “by the feel of this she is taking all her gold with her”. Sunglasses down I face the front, look at the floor and walk. I can’t look anyone in the eye. Not from sadness, not because I will be an emotional wreck. Because I am holding in the laughter. Biting my tongue, biting the insides of my cheeks.
While this may have seemed in bad taste. Grandma wouldn’t have expected anything less from her Grandchildren.