REQUIEM FOR JJ
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in fields of gold
When we walked in fields of gold
When we walked …..in fields …..of ……gold….
High, somewhere in the artic shadows of the balcony behind us the singing stopped, not abruptly but with a gradual decrescendo. The song, an unaccompanied and haunting rendition of Gordon Summer’s aka Sting’s ‘Fields of Gold’ had been sung, the memorial sheet informed me, by JJ’s niece, Amy. There followed, a trickle at first then a surge of loud applause.
Gradually the clapping and the echoes ceased and quietness enveloped us again apart from a few rackety coughs escaping into the cold, still January air of the deconsecrated church. A little earlier, outside, at the end of the avenue of leafless chestnut and sycamore trees that corralled me to the former church I had noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign propped up against a headstone in the surrounding cemetery. The grave was that of a former military surgeon under British rule in India.
Inside, the first person to speak at the memorial was John Challmount, JJ's partner in a weekly podcast of political commentary. He delivered a broadsheet obituary of JJ with humour and with genuine affection. Somewhat revisionist, I thought, not recognising some aspects of JJ's depicted life. When he had finished, there was a prolonged burst of applause. Then, again, silence descended. We waited.
After what seemed an age but in essence a minute or so, a tall, elegant, blonde-haired woman stood up from the front pew and after uncoiling to her full majestic height and adjusting the hem of her dress made her way, cat-like, across the silent void of the transept towards the lectern. Karen, the woman, was JJ’s partner. Her gait was determined, her high stiletto heels tapping out a distinct beat on the unpolished stone floor. She wore a black cocktail dress that just about reached her knees, and which was tailored asymmetrically to showcase her most alluring shape, a shape I had once so lusted after and loved.
On reaching the lectern Karen hesitated for a moment to run her finger along the rim of an amber-coloured, antique Japanese cremation urn that sat on a low table towards the centre of the apse. Leaning against the table facing towards the audience was a large, silver framed black and white picture of a smiling JJ, his ever bright louche eyes dominating the composition. On the mount of the picture below the rugged unshaved chin were four stark lines of Palatino typeface:
Jerome Joseph (JJ) Mulligan,
1964 -2024,
sub ortu solis,
RIP.
The old church seemed to rattle, in sympathy almost, as an increasingly bitter east wind howled through the headstones in the cemetery – a motley mixture of Celtic crosses and plain limestone and granite slabs – and gnawed at the old and warped Gothic revival windows of the building, unadorned except for plain, multiple panels of diamond-shaped stained lead glass: no attributions, no remembrances, no Great War heroes venerated. Behind me there appeared to be a constant battle to close the doors against the wind as they crashed open with the arrival of every latecomer and even when closed there remained a constant plaintive whistle through the gaps of ages.
Karen turned to face us. She rested her forearms on the lectern, her fingers lightly gripping the edges. Looking out over the audience she remained there, statute-still for a moment until suddenly she gently smiled, nodded her head slightly in the direction of the urn and then in a strong, steady and precise voice began,
“Thank you all for coming to remember JJ. As some of you know this building was one of his last magnificent projects. He had bought the old church on a whim with every intention of converting it but then ran out of both patience with the planners and money and put it back on the market again.” She paused to look around the building before continuing, “That was almost 5 years ago and as you have realised by now has not been heated for probably much longer than that.”
From the audience, a mixture of people wearing real and faux mink, tailored Crombie’s, worn Tayto-smelling duffle coats and designer-label, artic expedition, insulated jackets there was an outpouring of laughing agreement accompanied by real but exaggerated displays of shivering.
Karen, who was wearing next to nothing, laughed as well but then went on,
“To quote Tom Cruise in the film The Last Samurai and forgive me here but JJ knew how much I loved Tom Cruise, where Algren, Cruise’s character, said about his captor and friend Katsumoto when answering the Emperor’s request to Algren to tell him how Katsumoto had died. ‘I will tell you how he lived’, Algren had replied.”
Karen released her grip on the lectern to push back an intruding lock of hair from her forehead,
“…And so, I will.”
I thought from where I was in the third row of benches I caught her eye but then realised she was engaging everyone and no one in the audience. She used no notes as she spoke,
“JJ was an insatiable addict,” she began, matter-of-factly. “An alcoholic, a gambler, an adulterer, a serial drunk and sex addict who retained no memory-of or no attachment-to the last bottle polished-off, to the last horse bet upon or to the last woman, and occasionally man, screwed…..”
Down the aisles there was a collective sharp intake of breath which, when I turned briefly to sneak a curious look, was then being expelled in short bursts. Like the wet-blanket warning signals of a Plains Indian you could see these exhalations rising up in small clouds of condensation through the apologetic January light that filtered into the building.
Karen resumed,
“I am so happy that many of you are here,” she said without any hint of sarcasm or condemnation. “From early on JJ recognised that he had a choice, to be a functioning addict or a shambolic one. He chose the former and thus could navigate blindfold to the local off-license, bookies and STI clinic; each place of course keeping their own meticulous records of the excesses of being JJ. Because he could function so effectively JJ was able to sustain, firstly, an admired career in the civil service and academia and more lately as a sought-out freelance political and social commentator. Because he could function so effectively, in what must be admitted was an absolute state of denial, JJ, in addition to his bottles, betting slips and lovers, had acolytes, had students, had bosses, had friends, had some enemies, had a current driving licence, a roof over his head, any number of rescue dogs along the way and a lifelong partner…. me.”
The collective breathing of the audience became quieter, reflective, the sense of cold easing perhaps with individual memories of better, sun-filled days. Karen sensed this weather change and her tone became less strident and more intimate. She continued,
“As some of you here know, along the way I also had my dalliances. Not as a revenge for JJ’s wanderings but as a necessary distraction from the chaos that often accompanied him. Weird to say but I was seeking not an escape or alternative but more often a sense of normality for a moment in time where a shared sense of tenderness, of exploration, of adventure could be a salve, or even a salvation.” Karen’s gaze wandered over the by now fog-bound pews. “I so want to thank,” she stressed. “Mainly on my behalf but also in truth on JJ’s behalf, those of you who facilitated and for the kindness shown to me.”
From certain sections of the audience the exhalation condensations now imitated the old Flying Scotsman steaming northwards at full pelt on a Lothian track.
“A short life,” Karen went on. Her voice had lowered its volume making it somewhat difficult to hear. Using the app on my phone I dialled my hearing aids up a notch. Also, I thought, a slight look of an annoyance appeared to crease her otherwise timeless face. “A too short life it must be said. Far too short!” she emphasised. “Too much left undone, too much left unsaid. For those of you here who do not know JJ died from liver cancer, 5 months from diagnosis but 40 years in the making.”
Karen stopped speaking for what seemed an age but then gripping the lectern very tightly, she regained herself and her purpose. “My dearest JJ, I loved you so much. But now sweetheart the shimmering is over and the gossamer threads that linked you to our reality, all reality really, are sundered and you are at peace. We all are at peace. Thank you all."
She exhaled deeply but then added, "I’d like you to come back to the house for tea and buns and more lethal stuff to warm you up.” As she stepped away from the lectern she rested her hand on the urn once more.
For a moment there was an intense silence in the old church, a black hole of intensity, sucking any background and foreground noise into a vanishing point. But then a single rhythmic clap near the rear of the chapel began and awakened a loud collective surge of applause and some nervous laughs as Karen made her way back to the front pew.
Agitated, I stood up suddenly as I was determined to make my way to her as quickly as possible, to be the first to offer condolences. As I reached her, she appeared lost in thought. I touched her bare shoulder. She looked up but seemed discomforted somewhat, I thought, by the intrusion. An unwelcome touch perhaps, I thought.
“Rod,” she said kindly as she took my hand in both of hers. There was no sense of warmth. She stood up and allowed me to lean forward to kiss her cheek. “A surprise but I am glad you are here. It also saves me a great deal of unwanted trouble tracking you down.” Her tone was not cold but pragmatic.
“Karen, I am so sorry,” I began then stopped short. “What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
She leant forward and whispered in my ear, “Of all our friends JJ despised you the most.”
“What …. why”, I stammered, caught completely off guard by the comment.
She pulled back to look at me. Through a fixed smile she spoke quietly out of earshot of the people behind, “Because JJ knew that of all my “distractions” the only man I ever loved, besides him, was you. He knew that if you had asked me back then I would have gone anywhere with you and as a consequence of course, away from him. He hated you for creating that possibility,” she said bluntly. Karen held me in a direct stare as she released my hand to wipe off a smudge of her lipstick from my cheek. “But then Rod, you never asked me…did you?” she accused as she cleaned.
“I …I ….” I stuttered, red faced, putty.
“Anyway,” she continued as she leant in again to whisper in my ear. “JJ has left specific instructions for you to dispose of, bury, enshrine his ashes in any way you see fit. His final revenge or forgiveness perhaps. In any event call up to the house tomorrow and we can sort some of the details.”
I could sense agitation in the queue gathering behind me. Forced coughs and shuffling brogues. I was poleaxed.
Karen smiled, “I am out of here Rod. Where the departed JJ ends up is of no real concern. I was here for the living not the dead. I am now selling up, leaving to live with the most wonderful, intelligent, beautiful, unique woman I know and who incidentally, also has loads of male admirers that need tending to. So, if you don’t mind, excuse me now as I must give my attention to the other guests. I will talk to you tomorrow. Say 11am?”
And the Karen I once loved, brushed brusquely past me, the scent of Oud wafting behind her, not waiting for my answer. Stunned by the brutal dismissal I lingered to look at the bloody urn on its pathetic little table and the Mona Lisa-like eyes of the picture that were following me. "You bollox," I accused, him and me.
“Rod, how’s it going mate?” I turned to see JJ’s Australian brother-in-law Shane, father of Amy, rounding Karen and coming towards me. He had aged. “You look as happy as a bastard on Father’s Day,” he grinned.
“Hi Shane,” I managed. I found his acquired outbackness annoying. “Amy sang beautifully,” I added, truthfully.
“Did she tell you?” he asked.
“Did who tell me what,” I grumbled defensively.
“Karen of course! JJ wanted you as executor of his will.”
Taken aback I tried to hide my surprise. “What? No. Karen only mentioned that I had to find a place to bury him,” I said harshly.
“Hah! Forget that mate. She’s pulling your wire, you drongo!” he announced with glee. “Look around you Rod. This place came with a crypt, you are already standing in JJ’s mausoleum.”
“Fuck me dead,” I mumbled, imitating him.
Behind us, at the back of the church, the “For Sale” sign suddenly clattered in through the open doors, driven in by what was now a snow laden gale. In the rafters Amy began to sing again, yet another song by Sting,
Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I’ll be watching you……………
