Death In The Afternoon

Kevin Grant filed into the church with his family and friends of his late uncle. The sight of the coffin in front of the altar knocked him for a moment. It was one thing hearing his uncle had died, it was quiet another seeing the coffin. His lips trembled as the emotion hit him. He slid into the creaking wooden pew. 

The priest moved slowly down the aisle, heading for the altar, bidding people good afternoon as he went. When he reached the front, he turned and addressed the congregation. While the priest began speaking about his Uncle Peter’s life and his personality, Kevin’s mind went over the time he’d spent with him. Peter had been a real character. Writing and story-telling had been his thing. When Kevin had come along, Peter had revelled in the new, albeit younger, audience for his stories. As well as his usual writings, Peter would also write stories, just for Kevin. Growing up, Kevin would listen to the stories his uncle would write for him.

When Peter would visit, he would arrive with stacks of scribbled pages, eager to share his latest tale. As a child, Kevin enjoyed nothing more than hearing his uncle’s new story. Even as an adult, his uncle would send Kevin stories. Every few weeks, Peter would email the story he’d just finished. Peter would not only email Kevin, but his circle of family and friends. A thought occurred to him, bringing tears to his eyes. He had read the last story his uncle had written. There would be no more stories. 

Kevin would really miss his uncle and the wild, crazy stories he would write. Peter had just had this imagination. He would get inspiration from the most unlikely of places. Kevin smiled sadly in the hush of the church. An event like this, the funeral of a writer, this would have definitely inspired a story. But, there would be no more stories. Kevin wiped the tears from his cheeks.

The funeral wake was being held in the function room of Peter’s local pub. Peter had been a regular in the pub, enjoying the draught beer and the real pub atmosphere. He had been a regular, except when there was football on the television screens. Peter just hadn’t been able to get his head around the whole sports thing. On the rare occasions his friends dragged him to the pub while there was a match on, Peter would find a quiet corner and bury himself in a paperback book.

Kevin ordered a pint from the bar and mingled with the other mourners. As family and friends, drank and munched on buffet food, they talked about their late relative. After a few funny anecdotes, talk turned to Peter’s passion for stories. At the mention of the stories, Kevin had a lump in his throat. His uncle’s stories meant so much to hi. As he listened to the group chatting, he discovered that the rest of the family did not hold Peter’s stories in the same regard as he did. 

‘What about those stories he used to write?’ his cousin laughed. 

The others laughed and groaned at the thought. 

Kevin spoke as calmly as he could, trying to keep the anger and outrage from his voice.

‘Fair play to him. I used to love reading his stories. He did what made him happy, that’s the main thing. Whenever I asked him about life, about what I should do, his advice was always the same, do what makes you happy. And for him, that was his writing, so good on him.’ Kevin said.

‘Oh yes, I get that, but if he wanted to write, why did he have to subject all of us to his stories?’

‘And,’ someone added. ‘he never made a penny from the stories, so what’s the point?’

‘Those emails, those stories, there definitely should have been an opt-out option.’ another said.

‘I had them go straight into the junk folder on my email.’ 

‘I wish I’d thought of that.’

‘He was no Stephen King, that’s for sure.’

Kevin took a long swig of his pint of beer, he had heard enough. He spoke, his voice louder than he had intended.

‘You are all missing the point. He did something with his time on earth that meant something to him, and to me. He was passionate about something.’ Kevin said. 

‘But, come on Kev, his stories weren’t great, were they? And what did he actually achieve with his writing? All those hours writing these silly stories, and for what?’

‘He had an interest, and he enjoyed it. Writing was his thing. By the time he was done, he’d written hundreds and hundreds of stories and six novels. How many of us can say that?’ Kevin replied.

The group erupted in howls of derisive laughter. Kevin’s cousin Max rolled his eyes. This was all just too much. Kevin turned on his younger cousin.

‘Alright, then, what have you ever achieved? What have you done that you are proud of? Uncle Peter was a writer, an artist. Who are you to mock him? What have you done that’s so fantastic?’ Kevin ranted.

Max smiled, straightening his tie. 

‘I’ve been top sales rep at the firm for over six months. I could make Team Leader by the end of the year. You see that Mercedes outside, with the personal number plates? That’s mine.’ Max replied.

‘Yeah, I saw your car, double-parked, obviously.’ Kevin said. 

‘It’s a lovely motor.’ Max said.

‘When your day comes, Max, is that what people will say about you? Top sales rep? Lovely motor?’ Kevin asked.

‘I could make director, actually.’ 

‘Wow,’ Kevin replied. ‘what a legacy!’ 

Kevin headed to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. He leaned on the bar, glad to be away from the group. He raised the whiskey glass, in a toast to his uncle. He sipped the Irish whiskey then sighed. He wanted to be far away from these people. He just wanted to be alone. No, in fact, what he wanted more than anything, was for his uncle to tell him one more story.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom