Last week my neighbour was in mourning. I didn’t know that she had a death,

which is just typical of life in England. It’s nothing for someone on your street to die

and be buried and you only hear months later or when you happen to ask, as you

rarely do, ‘where is so and so?’ What it is about how people live in this society that

makes it possible for that to happen time and time again, I cannot fathom. People are

just not neighbourly anymore, unlike in Jamaica where the entire community hears of

a death and you turn out to the funeral whether you knew the person or not. Still, the

down side of that is that you can quite easily find yourself becoming like my friend

Jennifer who finds herself at a funeral every single weekend because this one’s great

great grand aunt died or that one’s neighbour’s friend’s mother’s cousin’s sister-in-

law died and she came to your father’s boss’s ex-girl friend’s nephew’s fifth cousin’s

funeral and so now you are expected to go to hers. It all gets a bit too much. But since

attending funerals is not such an everyday occurrence here in England, I told myself

the least I could do was to be neighbourly and go and show my face.

The first I knew of my neighbour’s bereavement was when I saw the hearse pull

up outside her gate. Several other black Cadillacs pulled up too and when I joined the

rest of the street in lifting the corners of the lace curtains and peeping out discreetly, I

saw the Cadillacs stretched as far as my eyes could see down the street. Maybe this

called for more than just a showing of my face. Maybe I should get dressed and

actually attend the funeral. Before making a final decision, I went to get a pint of milk

at the corner shop so I could assess the situation properly. The funeral was even

bigger than it appeared from behind the lace curtain. The Cadillacs spilled over into

the next street and droves of mourners with their faces hidden behind black veils

walked listlessly in the direction of my neighbour’s house. I wanted to stop one of

them and ask who had died, but their grief seemed so heavy upon them that it felt

almost irreverent to intrude. Plus, how would it look if I asked and then they later

discovered that I lived next door? What sort of a callous picture of me would that

paint? I went quickly into the shop and came out a few minutes later, having forgotten

to purchase the milk, and went home.

I took my black dress from my wardrobe, my only black dress, a slinky Friday

night pub number. Shoot! I’d forgotten about the drink stain all down the front. Funny

how things like that show up so noticeably in the daylight. But not to worry, I could

cover it up with my coat and make sure I kept it on all the time—that would take care

of it. Now to get ready as quickly as possible. Dispense with bathing for a start—it

would cut the getting ready time by at least half an hour. That’s one thing I admired

the English for: they knew the importance of dispensing with personal hygiene when

it was necessary to be punctual and they were punctual for everything! Jamaicans

could really take a page out of their book. So it was just left to pull on my slinky

number and grab my coat. I was ready in five minutes. I gave myself the once over in

the full length mirror in the hall. For crying out loud! It was happening again. Here I

was all dressed up and feeling a million dollars—or approximately £10,000—and

saddled with the need to wear a burdensome coat. For all anybody knew, swathed in a

coat, I might as easily be wearing my pyjamas underneath. And to make matters

worse, both the coat and the dress were short, exposing me from the mid thigh down.

(I’d never worn this dress with a coat before because Friday night drunken binges did

not require a coat. As any Friday night clubber knows, there is no fun in rolling in the

streets in a stupor with your coat on. The more exposed you are to the elements, the

better the thrill. The thousands across the country who do this every week could not

be wrong.) A short dress on its own was fine, but a short dress hidden under a short

coat gave viewers the distinct impression that there was nothing being worn beneath

the coat. Such suggestions would be cause for major distractions of the mind and that

wouldn’t do at an occasion as solemn as a funeral, but since I didn’t have an

alternative I decided I’d better just go and hope no one noticed.

I could hear the mourners weeping and wailing as I walked up my neighbour’s

garden path. I knocked on the front door. One of the mourners opened it and a deluge

of gut wrenching bawling flooded out as if it had been pent up behind the door just

waiting for such a release. I hated funerals because even if I didn’t know the person

who died, just witnessing the grief of the relatives and friends was painful. It always

brought tears to my eyes. Before I even stepped in, my eyes were brimming over, so

much so that I almost stumbled on the threshold. The hallway was jam packed with

mourners. I had to squeeze my way through, trying to find my neighbour so that I

could give my condolences. In any case, I wanted her at least to know I was there

otherwise what would have been the point of troubling myself to come? I was bawling

my eyes out by now, touched by the grief of so many. Oh cruel fate that robbed these

dear people of their loved one!

Half way down the hall, I realised I hadn’t brought a handkerchief with me. I

needed one desperately now to blow my nose. There was nothing for it but to hold my

nose between my forefinger and thumb and blow the thick snot out. I flicked it away

quickly, not even able to see for the crush of people where it landed. I sincerely hoped

that for his or her own sanity and sense of composure, whoever the poor sod was

whose clothes it landed on he/she would not be able to distinguish it from his/her own

snot—assuming of course, he/she likewise didn’t have a handkerchief and his or her

grief was also brimming over with nothing to contain it.

I made my way to the reception room door and managed to peep inside. It was

packed. My neighbour was at the far end of the room—I didn’t see her, and alas, this

meant that she likewise couldn’t see me—but one of the mourner’s at the doorway

who had taken a respite from the bawling told me she was there. Those inside the

room were consoling my neighbour. And then I heard the loudest, shrillest wave of

bawling that I had heard since arriving. From the crowd inside the room, I saw two

arms flung into the air and then a leg with a pointed shoe—like the old time Jamaican

kick me kill me pointed toe shoes. They were coming back in fashion in England

though—and a stirring in the area as everyone nearby attended to the flailing wailer.

A few seconds later and I heard a composed voice say, ‘That’s how you do it.’ I was

puzzled, until the mourner who had told me earlier that my neighbour was inside

explained to me that a Jamaican lady was in there showing the people how to mourn

convincingly and that people were being given a chance to practice before going to

the graveside.

“It’s the British stiff upper lip, you see,” the mourner explained. “Can’t have

that at a funeral. Would let the poor corpse think we’re glad to see him off.”

All I could say was, “Oh, right.”

Then the mourner looked at me as if really noticing me for the very first time.

“But you look like a Jamaican,” the mourner said. “You could do some more

demonstrations for those of us out here in the hall.”

I looked behind me.

“But they seem to be doing fine without me,” I said.

“No, no,” the mourner said. “They’re amateurs. I haven’t seen any fine arm

flinging and leg kicking like what we just saw in there.”

And before I could say anything else, he shouted above the bawling in the

hallway that I was a professional mourner too and had come to show them how to

grieve properly. A group of them propelled me into the kitchen, not letting up on their

own bawling, which of course, soon brought my tears on again, and for the next half

hour they watched me and bawled. The more they bawled, the more I bawled; and the

more I bawled; the more they bawled.

Then someone said, “But she isn’t doing any arm flings and leg kicks and

fainting spells? Is she an authentic Jamaican, anyway?”

Someone sucked their teeth, a real Jamaican suck teeth, (obviously a good pupil)

and one by one they drifted out of the kitchen and returned to their own devices in the

hallway. I was just about to call them back to prove I was authentic when I caught

myself. Are you nuts? I thought.

By and by, my neighbour emerged from the reception room clutching an urn to

her chest. Cremation, I surmised. Everyone bowed their heads reverently and made

way for her through the passage as she headed for the front door.

“Do you know the person who died?” I asked a nearby mourner as if trying to

make polite conversation, but really trying to elicit information while concealing my

own ignorance.

“Oh, yes,” the mourner replied. “Cat died quite suddenly.”

“Cat?” I said. “Cat as in Catherine who again?”

“I don’t know the surname,” said the mourner, and resumed sniffing, burying

her face in her handkerchief, obviously unable to talk further.

Just then, the Jamaican who had been doing the mourning demonstrations in the

reception room was passing by us. As was the custom in England, I grinned at her for

no other reason than that she was also black. She was obviously still in mourning

mode and didn’t grin back. I would still try to be polite.

“Do you know Cat…Catherine who died?” I asked her.

She was obviously from downtown and replied in the most brawling tone ever,

“Cat! A nuh Cat as in Catherine. A cat as in puss!”

I was taken aback. “Surely not! All this fuss over a cat?” I said.

“Yuh tink a Jamaica yuh dey?” she said at the top of her voice. “A civilised

country dis. Dem nuh fling dem puss when dem dead over gully or lef dem a roadside

fi johncrow nyam dem. That’s why unoo black people still backward. Yuh nuh see de

ooman cremate har puss, me mean har cat, and a carry him go a cat cemetery fi bury?

Wha so strange bout dat? A dat me can’t tek bout unoo. Unoo nuh learn fi move wid

de times.”

She sucked her teeth (I suspected she had taught the mourner who sucked his

teeth earlier in the kitchen how to do that) and elbowed her way through the crowd as

if she was trying to get on a bus back home in Jamaica.

I’d had enough of this farce and when the crowd had filed out of the house

behind my neighbour my only desire was to head up my own garden path and go

home. But I couldn’t, not without the uncomfortable feeling that the crowd was

watching me and would think me unfeeling and callous as a neighbour. So I ended up

shuffling along with the crowd and found myself in one of the Cadillacs and on my

way to the cat cemetery.

At the graveside, they sang a song based on Tweety bird’s favourite saying: ‘I

thought I saw a pussy cat. I did, I did, I did!’ The second line said: ‘I thought I saw a

pussy cat. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.’ I couldn’t identify the tune as the

mourners went through discordant paces, falling into silence after the third round. But

from somewhere immediately near the graveside, the deep, brawling tone of the

Jamaican mourner chided them for their lifelessness.

“How unoo so dead?” She demanded. “Nuh because a funeral, yuh know. Unoo

sing like unoo have life nuh man. Sing! De puss mus feel bad when him hear unoo.

Unoo sing, man! Sing!”

And she whipped them into song again. They sang the song over and over and I

stopped counting after the twenty-eighth time. I sighed. My mouth was dry and I just

wanted to sit down now.

Finally, the grave was completely filled in and the mourners started to leave. I

decided to get a taxi home and headed towards the main road to look for one.

Someone directed me across a park to a taxi rank on the other side.

All around me were people showing undivided devotion to their animals: people

walking their dogs, feeding bread to pigeons, feeding nuts to squirrels. One woman a

few yards away gave her poodle a kiss and said, “Good girl,” as she scooped into a

plastic bag the deposit it had just put down. No matter how hard I tried I just could not

understand the devotion these people had for their animals. It wasn’t that I and other

Jamaicans were totally cold hearted towards animals. After all, in Jamaica I myself

had stepped in in defence of the poor creatures when rogues had stolen Mass Harry’s

goat kids. The whole village had caught the two thieves and beat them to within a

hair’s breath of their lives. I landed a few good blows on them right there along with

everyone else, like the good citizen I was. So no one had any right to accuse us of

being cold hearted and indifferent to animals. But there was just something about this

British way of expressing their regard that was alien to me.

I mean, even if I liked dogs, I thought, when that law came in saying that you

had to clean up your doggie deposits when you were out on walks I’d certainly have

to think twice about bothering with a dog at all. How could this woman just walk

around the park with a bag containing the processed remains of the dog’s dinner?

How utterly distasteful! Still, that law was not such a bad idea, I thought, because if

people were supposed to be picking it up and there was still so much of it around all

over the pavements, what would it be like if no one was picking up any?

As I walked across the park pondering all these things, I looked up (I kept my

head down for the most part, you see, on the lookout for doggie deposits because I

was certain there would be several loads lurking like mines in the grass)—I looked up

and was appalled to spy a man stoning a dog. This was a country of such

contradictions. Here I was coming from a top notch cat funeral, surrounded by people

who loved their animals and would spare no personal comfort to accommodate them,

and here was this uncouth barbarian flinging missiles at a pedigree dog. As was the

Jamaican custom, I wasn’t about to stand by and do nothing when the poor and

dispossessed were being hard done by.

“Oi!” I yelled at the man. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man looked round, felt certain that I meant someone else and turned back to

the dog, his arm raised over his head to sail the missile. The poor dog was so scared it

was already yards away in its flight and the missile hadn’t even been launched yet.

“Oi,” I shouted again and ran up to the man. “Why don’t you go pick on a polar

bear? It’s people like you who are into this fox hunting wickedness as well, I bet.

What’s the dog done to you, anyway?”

I grabbed his arm and wrestled the stick out of his grasp.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” the man said. “Get off me.”

“Why are you stoning the dog?” I demanded, still scuffling with the man.

The dog stopped running away and was now running towards us.

“I’m not stoning him, I’m throwing a stick for him to fetch it.”

The dog was a few feet away. It slowed and started to growl, baring its teeth.

“Oh my giddy ants!”

I unhanded the man, took a deep breath that seemed to draw the adrenalin down

from my brain and legged it in the opposite direction. The dog was after me, snapping

its jaws and I swore the man let him chase me for a while on purpose before calling

him off. I kept running and all but collapsed against the metal railings of the park near

to one of the park gates. I lay there panting for breath and clutching my side because I

had a stitch just as a woman and her child were entering the park.

“Mummy, what’s wrong with the lady?” the child asked.

They slowed and the woman bent low towards me.

“Are you alright, love?” she asked.

Still breathless and unable to speak, I nodded and waved my hand which

indicated nothing in particular.

The woman straightened up and walked on.

“What’s the matter with her, Mummy?” the child asked again.

“Oh, she’s probably just drunk,” the woman replied. “Come on, dear. Watch

where you’re going.”

I was okay after about five minutes and pulled myself up and staggered through

the gate. I wasn’t going to risk crossing that park again looking for the taxi rank so I

ended up walking the two or so miles home, still somewhat under the influence of the

adrenalin from the dog chase.

I staggered through my front door and slumped down in the hall at the foot of

the stairs: cold, hungry and thoroughly worn out. What I wouldn’t do for a decent

meal right now! We had come to the end of a funeral and my neighbour had provided

no refreshments for her guests. Not even a chicken drumstick. Not even an

escovitched fish. Not even a bammy or a plate of rice and peas. Not even a shot of

white rum. And to make matters worse, in my rush to get to the funeral, I had not

taken anything from the freezer for dinner.

As I sat there on the step, reflecting on my afternoon’s ordeal, I vowed never to

become like the British or to be assimilated into their strange culture. And certainly,

never to be caught dead at another of their funerals. Getting up, I took off my coat and

without bothering to change out of my black dress—it would definitely have to go to

the cleaners now, anyway—I hauled myself off to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.