My Father's Gift
My Father’s Gift
Leanne Fitzpatrick
Copyright © Leanne Fitzpatrick 2015
Visit my website at www.leannefitzpatrick.co.uk
A shorter version of this story was originally published in the Static Movement anthology Deals with the Devil
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales are entirely coincidental.
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My Father’s Gift
Against a torrent of rainfall and the thunder of droplets smacking against the domed umbrellas, the priest struggled to be heard. As they stood there, heels sinking into the mud, dampness creeping into their bones, the mourners tried to hear the final blessing.
Wind whipped around them, slashing the water up into their eyes and onto their clothes, adding to the chill that already clung to the graveyard. The priest shouted above the roar, the cheap paper of his bible pages already pasted together and the ink bleeding the words into one another. The workmen struggled to lower the coffin as the ground became oversaturated; every shoeprint sinking into its own private pool of muddied water.
Annalise let her gaze wander- from the man still trying desperately to speak over the tempest, down to the coffin that held her father, and finally to the people around the grave. No one met her eye. All they could do was stare at the coffin as it finally sank into the watery depths, displacing the water that had already filled the hole.
Her lips twitched as the women pressed damp tissue to their faces. How many wiped away real tears, she wondered. How many were crowing and eagerly awaiting the divvying up of his estate behind their sombre looks?
She gazed back to the priest, his vestments billowing in the wind despite their sodden fibres. Mud and water had soaked up through the hem, leaving the white robes tainted. She was glad. There was no purity there now. Nothing deserved to be pure today.
She watched as he finished whatever verse he had been quoting- no one knew what it had been, and the tempest had drowned out all but the odd word. Thunder cracked overhead as he made the sign of the cross, and she stepped forward, dropping the battered bunch of daisy’s she had been carrying. Petals fell off as soon as they hit the water, floating away from the bunch. Annalise stared at the distorted plaque that had her father’s name engraved on it. The water was now so deep she could barely make out the words. She wondered if her father was still dry inside the coffin, or whether the water had already beaten the air-tight seal it was supposed to have.
She watched as more came forward, paying their last respects. Her mother stood, still crying. Annalise wondered why she herself couldn’t. People squeezed her shoulder, murmuring words that the wind snatched away as they made their way away from the graveside. No doubt she would see them all soon enough. There was a wake to attend- food and drink for the mourners.
The numbers thinned, and in the distance she could just make out through the rain the shape of cars reversing and leaving. Lightning flashed, immediately followed by thunder. She smiled, turning her face up to the sky, glad that the weather was suitably dramatic for such an occasion. Her father would have approved.
Something flashed off to her left. She, along with everyone else left at the grave, turned to look at the young man lowering the camera from his face. She felt a hand grip her shoulder and steer here away.
She stared at the man for as long as she was able before she was forced to turn her head and follow her mother and the family lawyer away from the grave and towards the gravel path.
She was aware that her feet were wet, although she was cold enough all over that it didn’t bother her, and when she finally slid into the waiting car, the heat soon dried her tights. She watched the splodges of dark mud harden and lighten before picking them off with her toes.
No one paid her any attention as they drove through the empty streets. Carefully she reached under her scarf and pulled out a thin chain, holding the pendant in her hand for a moment. The metal was dull with age and warm against her frozen fingers. She popped it open.
Two men stared out of the locket at her. The first photograph, of her father, was new and in colour, showing him in the prime of his health. The second was blurred with age, parts of it bleached almost white while other areas were marred by a bloom of sepia ink. The man in the photo was young and handsome. His collar was high on his neck and his jawline could have cut glass. There was still a hint of mischievous glee in his eyes however, and a faint smile hovered about his lips. Annalise stared at him for a while before clicking the locket closed and dropping it back down her scarf. It fell into its accustomed place over her chest and she returned her gaze to the rain battering against her window.