The Price of Grief

I seem to have travelled back in time. Mum’s face wears the exhausted look of someone who has just lost the one person who held her entire world together. Dad. I know what grief looks like. The shadows beneath eyes robbed of sleep. The redness of tears that never seem to stop coming. Her shoulders have caved in, making her look even smaller than her already tiny four-foot-eleven frame. Dad died sixteen years ago, and yet some days Mum still wears the same grief, as though it’s as fresh as the morning she lost him. That’s the funny thing about grief. It never really leaves. It simply moves in, hangs up its coat, kicks off its shoes and makes itself comfortable. We stand before an enormous cathedral. It’s breathtaking. Towering stone walls stretch towards the heavens, while stained-glass windows cast great pools of coloured light across ancient flagstones. Gargoyles stare down from impossible heights with expressions suggesting they’ve seen far too much of humanity to be impressed by any of it. I glance at Mum. “Are you ready?” I ask gently. She draws a slow, steady breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Together we push open the vast wooden doors. They groan dramatically, as though the building itself is reluctant to let us in. Our footsteps echo through the cathedral, each one swallowed by the cavernous silence. “Welcome!” The voice ricochets around the building with startling enthusiasm. A vicar appears. Well… “Appears” might be generous. He sort of… Stumbles into existence. He’s somewhere in his mid-fifties, with grey hair sticking up in every conceivable direction, as though the Almighty had looked at it, sighed, and decided to leave well alone. Circular glasses perch precariously on the end of his nose. His dog collar has clearly seen better decades, and his black shirt looks as though it’s been worn continuously since the late nineties. It’s also at least one size too small, with buttons performing tiny acts of quiet heroism simply to remain attached. I’ve seen this man before. Or at least this supposed vicar. He occasionally turns up in my dreams whenever my subconscious needs someone catastrophically unsuited to their profession. And, without fail, he’s always been drinking. Quite what my subconscious has against vicars, I couldn’t possibly say. But I wasn’t impressed by him then. I’m certainly not impressed by him now. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes have that unmistakable glassy sheen. He smells faintly of… Cheap whisky. He extends a hand that’s wobbling just enough to make me question whether I should shake it. “The Vicar,” he announces proudly. Not I’m the vicar. Just… “The Vicar.” Apparently names are considered an unnecessary luxury. “Welcome to the House of Cod…” He freezes. “…God,” he corrects himself. “I meant God.” “Cod works too,” I chuckle. Nobody laughs. Least of all Mum. We’re here to discuss my father’s funeral. I know. What an utterly morbid thing to dream about. As though the first time around wasn’t painful enough. Now we’re doing it all again. Only this time it’s being overseen by what appears to be a thoroughly intoxicated member of the clergy. “Okay…” he says, squinting at a clipboard he’s holding upside down. “Baptism?” Mum and I shake our heads in perfect unison. “Ah.” He nods solemnly. “Funeral.” Another pause. “My condolences.” Jesus. This is going to be a very, very long afternoon. “Follow me.” He gestures grandly towards a row of pews before immediately clipping the edge of the baptismal font with his elbow. It wobbles alarmingly. Water sloshes over the sides. He catches it at the very last possible second. “I meant to do that,” he says. “A little… holy turbulence.” Then he leans in conspiratorially. “All part of God’s plan.” I’m beginning to suspect God has taken the afternoon off. Halfway across the cathedral he suddenly spins on his heel, convinced we’ve both stopped looking. From somewhere inside his robes he produces a silver hip flask. He unscrews the lid. Takes a heroic swig. Winces. Screws it shut. Tucks it away. Then whips back around wearing what he clearly believes is a perfectly normal expression. “Do take a pew.” We do. “Excellent,” he says. “Now… where’s my big book?” Oh no. Please don’t let this be a Bible study. Thankfully, it isn’t. He returns, dragging a leather-bound book roughly the size of a paving slab. Emblazoned across the front in gold lettering are the words: THE FUNERAL BOOK He places it on the pew with a thud that sends a cloud of dust drifting lazily through the shafts of coloured light. “This,” he says proudly, patting the cover, “contains every funeral imaginable.” I immediately dislike where this is heading. He opens to the first page. “Country and Western.” A photograph shows mourners in cowboy hats line dancing around a horse-drawn hearse. “Comes with a complimentary barn dance.” We stare blankly. “Dad never liked horses,” I say. “No matter.” He licks his finger and turns another page. “Pirate theme.” I blink. “I’m sorry?” “Very tasteful.” He points enthusiastically. “Treasure chest coffin. Eye patches for guests. The deceased is placed upon a raft, ceremoniously set alight and pushed out to sea.” Mum and I exchange the sort of look only two people trapped in the same absurdity can share. “That sounds a bit…” I search for the right word. “…melodramatic.” “I’ve had excellent feedback.” “From whom?” He thinks for a moment. “Actually… nobody’s ever come back.” He seems delighted with himself. Another page. “Viking funeral?” “Bit difficult inland,” I point out. “We’ve got an inflatable fjord.” “…An inflatable fjord?” “Premium package.” Next page. “Disco.” “No.” “Mirror-ball coffin?” “No.” “Smoke machine?” “No.” “Confetti cannons?” “Absolutely not.” He sighs as though we’re making this unnecessarily difficult. Another swig from the hip flask, disguised as an enthusiastic scratch of his nose. “Minion theme?” he asks brightly. There’s an entire page. A bright yellow coffin with enormous googly eyes. The order of service is banana shaped. The hearse has been transformed into what can only be described as a giant pair of denim dungarees. Somewhere, someone actually got paid to design this. This man has completely lost the plot. “Would your father like fireworks?” “No.” “Live owl release?” “Also no.” “Bagpiper on stilts?” “Why would he be on stilts?” “Makes him easier to see.” I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. “Perhaps…” Mum says, her voice carrying the quiet patience of someone hanging by the thinnest imaginable thread. “…something a little more conventional.” “Oh yes.” He sighs dramatically. “I do have the boring funerals.” He flicks through what appears to be several hundred pages. Right to the very back. “There.” He thrusts the book into our laps. I glance down. Then glance again. Six thousand pounds. For a wooden box. I honestly wonder whether I’ve accidentally read the postcode. “No,” he says proudly, tapping the figure. “That’s the coffin.” “It’s intricately carved.” “Top craftsmanship.” I don’t care if Noah himself carved it by hand while the angels applied the varnish. It’s still a bloody box. Somewhere along the line, grief stopped being something we carried together and became something people realised they could profit from. The next page is somehow worse. Service fee. Administration fee. Viewing fee. Curtain opening fee. Curtain closing fee. Order of service fee. Flower arrangement fee. Flower placement fee. Flower removal fee. Apparently even dying comes with optional extras. It never ceases to shock me how death has become such an extraordinarily profitable business. At precisely the moment people are at their most vulnerable… …when they’re too heartbroken to question anything… Someone hands them a brochure. Not because they’re ready to make decisions. Because grief doesn’t argue with a clipboard. Sensing our complete lack of enthusiasm, The Vicar clears his throat. “We do have cheaper packages.” Mum actually looks relieved. “Instead of pews…” He smiles. “…we can hire second-hand sofas.” He shows us a photograph. They are, without question, the ugliest sofas ever manufactured. Brown. Floral. Threadbare. One appears to have an alarming burn mark. Another has springs enthusiastically introducing themselves through the cushions. They look as though they’ve spent the last twenty years quietly absorbing people’s grief… and perhaps the occasional cup of tea. “No?” he asks. “No.” He shrugs. “Alternative coffins?” Oh good. Here we go. He flips another page. “Wicker laundry basket.” “No.” “Wheelie bin?” “…No.” “Converted chest freezer?” “No!” “Garden shed?” “What?” “Very roomy.” He nods approvingly. “We’ve had couples.” Mum slowly removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t look angry anymore. Just tired. The kind of tired only grief seems capable of leaving behind. Every few minutes, whenever he thinks we aren’t watching, he performs another discreet little pirouette, sneaks another gulp from the hip flask, spins back around and carries on as though he’s just conducted himself with complete professionalism. Each time he returns, his suggestions become increasingly ambitious. “Premium mourners?” “I’m sorry?” “If attendance is looking a little sparse, we hire professional cryers.” “…Professional cryers?” “Lovely bunch.” He smiles proudly. “One faints every single funeral.” At this point I genuinely can’t tell whether I’m in a cathedral or trapped inside some bizarre late-night sales convention. Eventually I’ve had enough. “I think…” I stand. “…we’ll go away and think about it.” The Vicar nods enthusiastically. “Splendid.” He tries to stand too quickly. Immediately loses his balance. Sits straight back down. “God be with you.” He waves vaguely in the general direction of what appears to be a pillar. Outside, the fresh air feels almost holy. Neither Mum nor I speak for a while. Finally she lets out the longest sigh I’ve ever heard. “Your dad would’ve hated all that.” I smile. “He’d have asked if they did NHS funerals.” She laughs. A real laugh. The first one all afternoon. And suddenly the whole ridiculous performance inside begins to fall away. In the end, we choose none of it. No luxury coffin. No platinum package. No theatrical procession. No premium upgrades. No hidden extras. Just the people who loved him. A simple ceremony. A few of Dad’s favourite songs. A reading from Mum. A reading from me. Stories we’d told a hundred times before. Afterwards, we scatter his ashes beneath the pear tree in Mum’s garden. The same garden he’d spent years happily pottering around in. The same pear tree he’d confidently declared would “have loads next year,” despite producing precisely none. Standing beneath its branches, something quietly dawns on me. Not once during that entire afternoon had The Vicar asked us the only question that actually mattered. Not what coffin Dad would have wanted. Not what package we could afford. Not whether we’d prefer oak or walnut. Just one. Who was your dad? Because funerals were never supposed to be about selling death. They were always supposed to be about remembering a life.