Evelyn

Evelyn was furious with her son Andy for dying from a drug overdose. She stormed up and down her tiny living room, three paces and turn, three paces and turn, while I sat on the sofa trying to project tranquillity.

'Stupid bastard!' she said. 'He knew not to take drugs. But he still did, and now he's dead. What fucking use is that?'

I didn't have an answer, but luckily it was a rhetorical question.

'I'd like to give him the biggest damn telling-off he's ever had in his life. He may be nineteen years old but he's not too buggering big to slap.' She sat down hard into an armchair, rammed her elbows onto her knees. 'He doesn't deserve a fucking funeral. And I don't want one. So why the hell are we doing this?' She glared at me over her clenched fists.

'If you don't want a funeral,' I said, 'you don't have to have one.'

Evelyn's body sagged, her energy visibly draining away. 'I do,' she said quietly.

'There's no legal requirement. The funeral director will oversee the disposal of his body if that's what you want.'

'But you're here now, and…' There was an appeal in her eyes.

'I can go right back out that door,' I said. 'No obligation. No charge. And no hard feelings. The important thing is that you get what you need.'

'It's not just me, though, is it? It's all Andy's bloody cousins, and his mates, his school-friends, the neighbours, bloody everyone. Word gets around so fast, people keep phoning to find out when the fucking funeral is. Nobody says "are you having a funeral?".'

'So you don't want a funeral, but you feel you have to have one.'

Her face lightened. 'That's exactly it.'

'What would make it easier for you?'

'Can it be short?'

'As short as you like.'

'Really? Really, really short?'

'Absolutely. No readings, no poems, no music, if that's how you want it.'

'Oh no, I do want music. Do you know The Needle And The Damage Done, by Neil Young?'

I nodded.

'I want that. It's all I can think of.'

'We can just play that, then, if you like.'

'You'll need to say something, or people won't understand.'

'You don't want to speak, yourself?'

'No. I'd only start swearing at Andy.' The image brought the edge of a smile to her lips.

She didn't want a procession. The coffin was placed in the chapel ahead of time, then the funeral director and I seated mourners as they arrived. When everyone was present, I explained that this was especially difficult for Evelyn and she had asked for a very short, low-key service. She felt that the Neil Young song said everything that needed to be said, so we would listen to the music and then leave the chapel together in silence.

And that's what happened. Evelyn sat in the front row, her face tightly drawn, tearing a tissue into tiny shreds with her fingertips.

I felt very sorry for Evelyn, and not just because of Andy's death. It was as if the way we choose to mourn didn't work for her. She truly didn't want a funeral.

I know a funeral isn't compulsory, and I know some people choose not to have one. I've done a number of funerals where the deceased had said he or she didn't want a funeral, but the mourners over-rode those wishes because of their own need for a ceremony. But this was the first time I'd planned a funeral with someone who really didn't want one herself. I guess by definition I'm not likely to come across this situation often. For myself, I can't imagine a situation where I wouldn't choose to get together with friends and family to celebrate the life and mourn the death of someone we have loved. But I think I need to be more sensitive to the fact that some people feel differently.