Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 50

Arrangements went smoothly as Geoff called in a few favours, only to be told in most cases that the “favours” were not required.

As the story of Melanie’s death became more widely known, there seemed to be a groundswell of revulsion. People were comparing it to a case where school bullies had chased a child until they jumped to their death, and another where bystanders had urged a suicidal man to jump, and then filmed it on their mobile phones. Despite a few nasties surfacing on the local newspaper letters pages, there was a consensus of shame in the community, that someone could be hounded for nothing, hounded till they cracked, just when their new life was opening up.

Some people pointed out that the men weren’t local, and that was meant as a defence, as if bigotry was extinct on the Surrey-Sussex border. Yes, dear, of course it is.

I went round to St Nick’s, the local Anglican church, to beg a favour of my own from the vicar, Simon. He was aware of the incident, of course, and was more than willing to lend us the attached hall and nearby grounds for Geoff’s idea.

“Stephanie, I can do more, you know. I am aware of her views on religion, but if it would be helpful, you can have the use of the church itself. Think of it as a community space. If your speakers don’t mind a few religious trappings around them, I don’t mind a humanist ceremony, and I can also lay my hands on some other things you will need. This is a chance to show the world that evil must be faced, and life celebrated. I can even manage a eulogy with minimal mention of our Saviour, if you wish, as long as you understand that He will be in my heart all the time I am speaking…”

He trailed off.

“No, I am not going to give you platitudes and reassurance in eternal life to come. She died horribly, and she died alone, and we will let the world see that nobody is truly outside humanity”

Another pause. “No, not even those four. That would be wrong of me. I will pray for them, but will also pray that they never get out of prison. The Lord does indeed love them, but I am having a very hard time of it.

“Can we meet up tomorrow to confirm a few things? I am, in an odd way, looking forward to this funeral, if you take my meaning. Shout at the Devil, and all that”

Things moved on very quickly after that. The local press were ready to rip our hands off to secure such a huge story , as well as several nationals. The Beeb were even sending a camera crew. Geoff’s idea had exploded into life, and after a few funny looks, everyone agreed that it was a wonderful way of affirming that life would go on.

Shout at the Devil, indeed.

The cars arrived for us that Friday morning. I was in a dark grey suit with a white blouse and black cravat, black court shoes and a simple Spanish-style brimmed hat. I had my fiddle with me, as well as a small bag. The family looked elegantly superb, Kelly in particular looking beautiful in the first formal clothes I had ever seen her wear. I made sure I had a copious supply of tissues, and together with Sally we stepped out to meet the funeral director, elegant in her riding hat and hairnet. Two horses tossed black plumes n front of a beautifully polished ebony and glass hearse, and buried amid a mountain of flowers and under a Union flag lay Melanie. After the post mortem, and as an obvious result of the massive injuries inflicted, there had been no possibility of an open-coffin affair, and so the last sight Sally had had of her patient had been in the hospital morgue.

She was trembling, and I kept her close. It was only a short ride to St Nick’s, the horses clopping along in front, their trappings leaving no doubt what their errand was. As we passed an older gent working as a school crossing lollipop man he stood rigidly to attention and doffed his hat. Traffic parted for us.

We turned into St Nick’s and I was shocked. There were loudspeakers set up on the grass, and a huge crowd was gathered either side of the lych gate. The director walked to the back of the hearse and bowed to the occupant, and the pallbearers slid the very large coffin out and with smooth precision lifted it to their shoulders, turning an odd pirouette to face the gate.

Madam Director bowed again, and then with measured pace led the cortege into the church. Simon was waiting at the door, in civvies, to greet the people we thought of as the core of the proceedings. As we followed Melanie in, I heard a song playing. Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”

Thank you, Simon.

The church filled rapidly, with all sorts of people. A few drag queens had indeed come, in their version of mourning dress, and there were a fair few very obvious transgender people, their friends, their partners, their fellow humans. A small group of men in what looked like army uniform were sat to one side, as well as a group of older men with medals who were stood by the pulpit holding British Legion* banners. It seemed Melanie still had a few surprises for me. Despite the arrangements for the funeral, I knew very little of her background.

Melanie was placed on the trestles at the front of the church and Simon ascended the pulpit.

“Brothers, sisters, this is an unusual event for me. I am in my house, the house of God, but as always it is also your house. I am going to ask Him to be so kind as to remain an observer here, as we celebrate the life of, and say goodbye to Melanie Stevens, who died because of blindness and ignorance. Let us see if we can make a difference today, let light into the world and rejoice that we were privileged to know this person, if we did, and if not that we live in a world that she made richer.

“Melanie was born fifty years ago, and as a result of a genetic disorder was forced to live most of her life as someone she never felt she truly was. Many of you here understand that pain intimately, but she bore it for most of her life with dignity and good humour, until after half a century she was ready to be reborn. That rebirth was tragically not to be allowed, but that is not what we are here to celebrate. I have a number of friends here who wish to speak of her, and we will start with Sergeant Stewart McDuff of the Royal Marines”

A spare and wiry man stepped up to replace Simon, in uniform and dark green stable belt. He had more than a few medal ribbons, and I wondered what the connection was.

“Ladies, gentlemen, fellow Marines, Mike Stevens was one of the bravest men I ever knew. We did our basic training together, we drank together, we fought pongos and pussers together, we were bootnecks. I remember days at Bosigran in the sun on warm granite, I remember days in pouring rain at Warcop and on Dartmoor. I particularly remember being next to him as we cleared an Argentine trench with bayonets while friends died around us.

“I never knew his problem, her problem, sorry. It is so new to me, I have to remember the man who kept me alive was fighting her own private war at the same time. She never told me, and after we left the service she dropped out of sight. Mike, Melanie, I can only assume you thought we would feel betrayed by your need, but that was never going to be the case. You are one of us, one of the Corps, and we never forget. I hear you showed four scum what fighting a bootneck is all about, too, and I take pride in that. So I say this: there are people in this world with tiny closed minds, and they are the poorer for it. You met four of them. The rest of us can see, and hear, and think, and we pay our debts. If there are any more Melanies out there, needing support, feeling alone, wanting to finish it, we are here. We are the majority. Fuck the rest of them!

“Sorry, vicar, am I allowed to say fuck in here?”

He finished with a few absolutely shocking anecdotes about her capacity for beer, and roadkill stew, and sharp sense of humour. Sally followed, crying gently as she gave the other side of what seemed a huge personality. She spoke of the gentleness in the giant frame, of her joy in the news of her upcoming surgery, and of her own shock that terrible Friday night.

Jerry said a few words as well, not platitudes exactly, but a reaffirmation of the fact that there was a community around us, and that we should never feel alone, nor ignore those who did,. Big Bill spoke about karma, and being excellent to each other, with an easy grace and his gentle smile.

Simon managed to get in some religion, with the parable of the Good Samaritan, and then asked me forward. I had to doff my hat, and as the Legion men lowered their banners I played a section of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade to occasional sobs.

Madam Director and her team reappeared to take Melanie outside as Eric Idle’s voice sang “Always Look on the Bright Side”, and preceded by the banner men she made her journey to the graveside. As they lowered her in, under a soft breeze and warm Autumn sun, a bugler played the last post. It was done.

Geoff stepped up. “If people would like to make their way round to the recreation ground next door…” he called.

We filed round, and everything was warmed up and ready to go. A figure stepped up to the microphone.

“Lades and gentlemen, four couple square sets for La Russe”

*British Legion: charity for ex-service personnel and their families.