I was chatting on twitter last night with Maria Duffy, author of ‘The Letter’. Maria shared that someone had turned up to her book launch a week early. Not good. Ever hear the saying, Wrong Place, Wrong Time?
Well this tweet stirred up a memory for me that I had buried deep in my embarrassed subconscious. A few years ago, I too suffered a ‘wrong place, wrong time’ moment. I went to the wrong funeral.
Oh yes I did.
So who wants to hear my sorry tale? It’s a good one I promise you! Well this happened back in the day when I was living in Dublin. Late one afternoon whilst slaving away in my office, I received a call from my Dad, that went something like this……..
‘My second cousin has died.’ Daddy tells me.
‘Oh God I’m sorry Daddy. Who died?’ I ask
He tells me, but I’ll be honest and confess I didn’t actually know this second cousin of my Dad’s. Let’s just call her Mary for the purpose of this story.
‘The funeral removal is on tonight in Crumlin and me and your mother can’t make it. You’ll have to go and represent the family.’ Daddy informs me.
‘Oh No, do I have to?!’ I moan. The prospect of getting from Dun Laoghaire to Crumlin in rush hour traffic not filling me with joy, I have to admit.
‘Someone has to go from the family.’ he insists. ‘Make sure and speak to Mary’s mother when you get there and tell her we’ll be up in the morning for the funeral mass. Good girl.’
So cursing under my breath, I promised to go and represent the family. I finished work as quickly as I could and made my way to the church but despite my best efforts I was still about 10 minutes late.
‘No worries.’ I think to myself. ‘I’m here and I’ll slip in the back of the church quietly as if I’ve been here from the beginning and then afterwards have a chat with the family and offer my condolences.’
Now here’s when my first clue that something had gone wrong should have jumped out at me. I had a quick sketch around the church but couldn’t see a single person I knew. Our extended family is big and I should have recognised at least one or two cousins and certainly all my great aunts and uncles would have been there in front of altar.
Maybe they were all travelling up the next morning too.
Service over, I go outside and join the queue of family and friends who are waiting to offer condolences to the chief mourners.
Now here’s where the second clue should have slapped me about the face. All of a sudden I felt like I was auditioning for a part in Gullivers Travels. Our family are a tall bunch. I’m 5’10 in my bare feet, I have a brother who is 6’7. And standing in that queue I stood out like a sore thumb. I was at least a foot taller than the majority of people standing around me. It felt odd. I felt odd.
After a few more minutes of feeling conspicuous, I get to the top of the queue and am standing in front of a lady who was in her 60’s. Mary’s mother I assume. She is flanked by several members of her family. I recognise noone. But as I said earlier, I’d not met Mary before. Understandable that I’d not recognise anyone. Maybe.
This is how it went down.
‘Hello I’m Carmel, Mick’s daughter.’ Says I. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Mick’s daughter?’ This with a confused raised eyebrow from chief mourner aka Mary’s mother. She clearly didn’t recognise me either. She did smile encouragingly at me though, bless her.
‘Mick from Wexford? He’s so sorry he couldn’t be here this evening. But he’ll be here tomorrow.’ Says I quickly.
‘I’m sorry, Mick who?’ She asked me again, looking even more puzzled, whilst simaltaneoulsy getting a crane in her neck as she looked up to the giant woman standing before her.
‘Mick, your cousin from Wexford.’ I reply feeling slightly worried. ‘Mammy will be up too. Tina.’ I add helpfully.
In fairness at this point she makes a decision. She obvioulsy hasn’t a barney who I am, or indeed who Mick or Tina are, but a cousin is a cousin, even if they are from Wexford and and she’s not heard of them before.
So she pulls me in for a huge hug and thanks me profusely for coming. I shake hands with the rest of the family.
I begin to feel less conspicuous about my giant like size and also about the niggling worry that I can’t see a single soul I know anywhere. I relax and think to myself, these lovely (albiet vertically challenged) second and third cousins of mine were really nice. I was glad I had made the effort. It’s nice to get to know extended family. Daddy was right to make me go.
‘It’s just so sad.’ I murmur to the ever increasing group of mourners who have gathered to have a nose as to who yer wan’ from Wexford was.
‘Yes, it is.’ Mary’s mother wipes away a tear.
‘And she was so young.’ I add. ‘Just tragic.’
‘Who was so young?’ Mary’s mother asks.
‘Mary, may she RIP.’ Says I respectfully.
‘Mary?’ Chief mourner asks, looking around her for support. ‘Who’s Mary?’
And it was in that moment that the realisation hit me like a ton of bricks.
I was at the wrong funeral.
Whomever was in the coffin sitting in the church certainly wasn’t Daddy’s second cousin. In fact, it wasn’t even a woman. It turns out it was an old man. The woman’s husband. May he RIP.
And so, as I retreated, mortified, I was grateful for for my long legs that facilitated a quick getaway.
I get home and once I’d poured myself a large glass of brandy, I call Daddy.
He answers the phone cheerily. ‘I was just about to call you. The removal mass isn’t on until tomorrow night. I got the night muddled up. I can make that after all. No need for you to go.’
Really Daddy? Really?
And that my friends is my tale of Wrong Place, Wrong time.
Anything similar ever happen to you? Please say yes!
Chat soon, Carmel x
