Clive and Min - Chapter, the Fourth

Another Sunday, another chapter. Thank you for your continued encouraging comments about 'Clive and Min.' They are keeping me writing!

The Chelwood Operatic Performance Society commandeered the arrangements for Clive's funeral. Min didn't mind. When the vicar, the Reverend Trainor Bridge, arrived the  following week to take notes for Clive's eulogy, he had to stop Min when the first five memories she came up with proved to be less than the positive sibling experiences he was hoping to hear.

            'Min,' he said, 'why don't I get hold of Audley Runcorn at C.O.P.S? This is proving quite difficult for you and it is a tradition at funerals to remember the dearly departed with fond memories and not the time when he used a page from your first edition copy of Peter Rabbit to light a ciggie from the fire because his lighter had run out and in retaliation you grabbed the cigarette and stubbed it out on his arm.'

            Min agreed. Audley Runcorn would be far more positive in his appraisal of Clive's character. Like Lolly and Pat had been at Mother's funeral. Listening to their fond and wittering memories of her mother, Min had barely recognised the woman lying in the coffin before them. Certainly didn't sound like the mother she knew and tolerated.

            'Good,' said Reverend Bridge. 'Perhaps, instead, you could provide me with the facts of Clive’s life, as it were.'

            Min did so. And as she did, she began to realise exactly how little she and her younger brother had in common. Chalkier and cheesier you could not imagine.

            'Is there anyone you would like me to contact?' said Reverend Bridge, as they took a tea break from the tedium of trying to remember significant dates and people. Min paused, teapot in hand. She was hoping there was some cake in the tin, or at least a packet of biscuits. The vicar liked a bit of cake, and Min liked the vicar, which was a rare thing because generally she wasn't that keen on people in uniforms. Or people, full stop. Her associations were few and carefully selected. To be an acquaintance of Minerva Thing was an honour indeed.

            'Contact?' said Min, frowning.

            'Well, you know – long-lost relatives, old school friends,' said Reverend Bridge. 'One can work wonders tracking down folk with social media these days.'

            Min finished pouring the tea and gave the cake tin a tentative jiggle. The shift in weight told her something lay within. Hopefully, something mould-free. She couldn't remember if she'd done any baking since Clive's accident. And it wouldn't do to present the vicar with anything green, furry and sporous.

            'Well,' she said, peering into the tin. Thank goodness – the marmalade loaf still looked in good shape. 'There's our sister. Half-sister.'

            'You have a half-sister?' said Reverend Bridge.

            Min nodded. 'Yes, only we didn't know about her until our father died. This woman, veiled heavily in black and wailing like some mad widow, turns up completely unannounced at his funeral with a spindly, sniffy, watery-eyed slip of a girl in tow. Then at the wake the spindly girl pops up next to the buffet, egg mayonnaise vol-au-vent in one hand and an embroidered hanky in the other and announces that she is Cecelia, our half-sister. Honestly, Reverend – who uses embroidered hankies these days? Unhygienic.’ Min sliced the marmalade cake. ‘I don’t know where the mad widow had disappeared to,’ she continued. ‘Quite frankly, I didn’t care. There was never any solid proof this girl was related…’

            'Goodness me,' said Reverend Bridge, in a tone of voice that expressed both woe and optimistic surprise at the unexpected revelation. 'A family skeleton released from the closet. How was the news received? Good or bad?’

            'Both,' said Min. 'Mother had an apoplectic seizure and demanded to be taken home immediately. Cecelia didn’t hang around. In hindsight, the revelation wasn’t a complete surprise as I’d always had my suspicions that Pa was a bit of philanderer. I think Clive was enthused by the idea of having a younger sister because she would make a pleasant change from his bullying older sister…’ She paused and grimaced a smile. ‘But, as a family, we never spoke about her properly. She vanished as quickly as she had appeared and I saw no point in pursuing her. Clive, I seem to remember, was incapable of any sort of action because of the amount of spirit he'd consumed, and I don't mean of the Holy Ghost variety.'

            'Ha ha!' said Reverend Bridge. 'Very droll, Min. I might use that in my next sermon.'

            'Shall I invoice you for commission?' said Min. My, the vicar did entertain her. She placed a  slice of cake before him and topped up his tea.

            'So, do you think Cecelia should be told of Clive's departure from this mortal plane?' said Reverend Bridge, adding three sugars to his cup.

            Min shrugged. 'It is neither here nor there to me, but I suppose you could try and contact her. To save an unexpected dramatic appearance at the funeral. As you know, Vicar, I have little patience for fuss.’ 

            She gave the vicar the scant details she had about Cecelia – her home town, her approximate age - which he duly pocketed before taking his leave. 'I'll be in touch soon, Min,' he said, as they parted at the front door. 'Look after yourself, oh sheep of mine.'

            The day before Clive's funeral, an odd thing happened. Min woke earlier than usual to the sound of a persistent scratching at her bedroom door. Her initial thought was that by opening Clive's hobby room, she had released an army of vermin into the rest of the house, especially given the contents therein. Sliding from her bed, she took hold of the nearest heavy object – a copy of Halliwell's Film Guide – and tiptoed to the door. As she approached, the scratching paused then started again. Stealthily, Min put her hand on the door knob and, raising the book above her head and bracing herself for an encounter with the biggest specimen of Ratticus Ratticus ever to exist, she whipped the door open with the speed of a mongoose seeking a cobra sandwich for lunch.    

            On the landing stood a large black and white cat. It was hard to tell who looked most surprised.

            'What on earth?' said Min, lowering the book. The cat strolled past her and leapt onto the bed with the sanguine ease. 'And where do you think you are going, Mr Puss?'

            The cat turned three times widdershins and sat, its front paws coming together in neat composure. It stared at Min, then blinked very, very slowly. Twice.

            Min knew a little about animal psychology. Years ago, when she had thoughts of training to be a veterinary nurse, she had spent her quiet times in the library reading up on animal physiology including one particularly gory tome entitled, 'The Manual of Wound Management and Reconstruction' which she’d had to order in especially. For light relief she also read popular animal behaviour books, one of which informed her that when a cat blinks slowly at you it is, in fact, saying, 'I am happy in your company.'

            'Well, cat,' said Min. 'That's a bit forward of you, given we have only just met.'

She replaced Halliwell's Film Guide on her bedside table, and sat next to the cat. Extending a hand, she placed it on top of the cat's head and gave it a gentle bounce. In return, the cat gave a gentle 'meep.' Min sighed.

'Breakfast, Halliwell?' she said.

            And together they walked downstairs.

            'A cat?' said Florence. Florence Bell was Min's longest serving and most tolerant friend. She was patient, kind and unobtrusive, qualities Min much admired in other human beings, possibly because they were lacking in herself.

            'Mmmm,' said Min. 'Bold as you like. I checked all the doors and windows and they were shut tight.  Lord knows where it's come from.'

            'Where is it now?' said Florence.

            'At home,' said Min. 'Sitting in the sunshine by the French windows. It seems very content.'

            Florence picked up her knitting needles. 'Boy cat or girl cat?'

            Min shrugged. 'There's nothing obvious in the back end department to say it's a boy. Could be either. I've called it Halliwell.'

            'Ah well,' said Florence. 'It'll be company. The house must seem very quiet with Clive gone.'

            'It's certainly less pungent,' said Min. 'And food lasts longer. I never realised how much he ate.'

            'He was a big chap,' agreed Florence.  She paused. 'Are you all fit for tomorrow? What are you going to wear?'

            If she was honest, Min had given her funeral outfit little thought. Black, she supposed. Traditional. She still had the black two piece she bought when Pa died, although she doubted it still fitted because it had been a bit of squeeze getting back into it for Mother's funeral and she'd definitely put on weight since then. She glanced at the clock on the wall. There was still time to go shopping for something new but she didn't feel inclined and besides, why should she waste good money on a fresh outfit for someone she preferred infinitely more now he was dead?

            'I'm sure I can dig out something suitable,' she said.

            'And where's the do afterwards?' said Florence. 'The wake.'

            'C.O.P.S have arranged something in the function room of  'The Happy Tapster,' said Min. 'I tried to give them some money for the catering, but they wouldn’t accept. Said it would be an honour, ‘a parting gift to their brother in performance.' She grimaced at the sentiment.

            'Well,' said Florence, 'he was very well-liked by the C.O.P. S, your brother.'

            Min nodded. It was odd but Florence was right. The affection with which Clive was held by the operatic society was undeniable. She couldn't understand why but then one often finds that the temperament of a person varies depending upon the company they keep. She was the first to admit that she and Clive always brought out the worst in each other.