Episode 3. Dispatches

Yesterday I went to my first Spanish funeral. I didn’t know the lady at all, having only met her once, briefly at the wedding of José’s cousin Tom some years ago, but as I’m now “fa-a-a-amily” (pronounced as if in Eastenders), it was my duty to attend; which I did. I’m still not totally sure what happened, but I’ll try and make sense of it.

Sandwiches

Here in Spain, when someone moves onto a better place (and no, I don’t mean France), they are required by law to hold the funeral within 28 hours. It’s a bit of a bugger if Great Uncle Ricardo lives in Mexico now, because unless he’s got access to that ‘beam-me-up’ thingy they have on Star Trek, he ain’t coming to the send off. In the UK of course, we put ‘em in a fridge while every single relative and hanger-on is contacted. They then starve themselves in eager anticipation of a good funeral tea at the house of the deceased after the service, whilst all the time looking round the place and wondering if they could sneak that Clarice Cliff teapot into their handbag. (‘Well, the deceased had always said they could have it when they got the calling from beyond’). After my father died, I still remember my mother’s disappointment when she knew his brother and sister-in-law would be coming to the funeral tea as it meant buying another half dozen rolls, because “she eats like she’s got a tapeworm”.

Back to yesterday, or to be more precise the day before when we heard about the old lady’s passing. I casually mentioned to José that I didn’t know where my black tie was and he laughed. A lot! Apparently, no-one wears ties to funerals, only the immediate relatives. We were to be smart, casual and in sombre colours, but still allowing the topping-up of the tan line around my neck.

My mother-in-law has been
washing up regularly since 1944

Getting up at 5.45am yesterday, we drove the 90+ miles to the village where the deceased lived, going straight to her house to gather there. Outside, the men stood in homage to testosterone, which was there in abundance. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so out of place in my life. We said our hello’s, offered our sympathies and I was introduced to a few family members I’d not met before. I wondered where the womenfolk were and presumed they were inside buttering baps. Before you all shout at me, this is still a VERY patriarchal society, so I’m only saying what I see day after day. I have to say it suits me though, I’ve not washed a pot since I got here, leaving that particular chore to my 82 year old mother-in-law who is happy to do it. Of course, I will help her in time, but she’s got another good 10 – 15 years of work left in her yet!

So, we went to look for the ladies of the parish to say our hellos. Inside the house, a young guy gestured that they were upstairs, so up we went. I can tell you now, my flabber had never been so gasted as much as it had at that moment. Curtains were closed, the heat was stifling, an enormous crucifix came into view as we climbed the steps and suddenly there they were, all gathered around the coffin. Someone was silently weeping and it was all a little surreal. I noticed that the coffin had a sun roof and the old lady could look up at the stars, which I thought was a nice touch, although greeted by that miserable bunch of crying faces, she wisely had her eyes closed.

It’s now confession time. It’s a well known fact that comedy and tragedy are not that far apart on the grand scale of things. I’ve never wanted to laugh at a funeral before, unless of course someone said something intentionally funny in the service, but as we stood upstairs in respectful silence, I wanted to laugh. Don’t get me wrong, the situation wasn’t actually funny and to be invited in to pay respects is a powerful and moving experience, but I just wasn’t prepared for it. The situation hit me like one of my mother-in-law’s punches (more on that in another post) and that well of really inappropriate nervous laughter that we all have started to bubble up from way down inside. José could have let me know what to expect, but it slipped his mind apparently. Funny that. He just loves toying with me. I’m his plaything!

We soon shoved off as I couldn’t stand it anymore and went back outside where the paddling pool of testosterone had become something of a tsunami in the intervening period. Moving to a little nook by the chicken run, I was able to smile broadly and share my thoughts with José on what I’d seen without attracting funny looks or someone slapping me. From this vantage point, we watched as more and more and more people arrived. Of course, in a Catholic country such as Spain, everyone is related to everyone, because in the olden days, no-one knew what actually caused pregnancy. There were uncles, great aunts and cousins to greet, some of whom José didn’t know at all. There were also neighbours from the village, or The Village People as I liked to think of them, but that was a mistake. That set me off again and I had to stuff a fist in my mouth to stop the visions. I could see them in my mind’s eye doing YMCA around the old dear as she lay upstairs.

Altogether now...........Y            M            C            A!

Sitting there on the wall by the chicken run, we thought we were safe. Our relative comfort was shattered some small time later when a rather short, fat little man walked by us, went behind the feed shed and proceeded to pee. There was a perfectly good toilet in the house, but well, this is the countryside after all. We didn’t look, but the sound of that man’s urine hitting the ground will stay with me for some considerable time. Dementia has never seemed so appealing.

Black widow

As for the clothing, we needn’t have worried. Traditionally, in the villages widowed ladies wear nothing but black for the rest of their natural days, so a funeral gives them an excuse to blend in perfectly. There was one lady there in black whose tights had been stitched so many times, they made her legs look like Frankenstein’s monster. I know there’s not a lot of money around, but you’d think that she could keep a good pair of tights back for such occasions as funerals and weddings. Apart from the black widows, there were jeans in abundance, with around half of the congregation in them. I did think it was inappropriate for the priest though. (Kidding!!) Many were in other colours and it seemed that white was the couleur du jour as it was 29 degrees in the beating sun (read that and weep UK.......you only had 17 degrees yesterday!) One lady even came in silver dancing shoes and I imagined her having to rush off to some illicit pasodoble class afterwards.

Eventually the priest came to the house, looking for all the world like he might be the next one in need of the services of the funeral directors. Prayers were said and grandma was brought down to the waiting hearse. A man walked in front with the crucifix and the family and friends walked behind to the church. Thankfully it was only about half a kilometre away, otherwise there would have been people dropping like flies into the roadside ditches by the cornfields, given the temperature of the day. When we got there, the mad dash for the seats in church didn’t respect family or age, with many family members & infirm elderly being left outside. No-one seemed fazed by this – it is apparently quite normal. All in all there were just over 200 people there. With the church only holding about 100 maximum, the rest of us were outside. Did we stand in reverent silence, listening to the service through the loudspeakers? Did we bogroll! There was talking, laughing, smoking and spitting going on – and that was just the women! Actually I don’t know why Spanish men spit so much; perhaps it’s in their genes? Can’t say that’s something about José I’m looking forward to in old age. I’ve told him, if he starts spitting on my parquet flooring, he can damn well get on his creaking knee joints and clean it up.

Plenty of room up top

Eventually the service came to an end and the coffin was carried outside by her grandchildren for the interment. In Spain in the villages, no-one is buried as there’s no room left. Instead, they have these walls of coffins outside the church where people are slid in. The front slab then slides over, hiding the coffin from view and has on it what we in the UK would have written on the headstone. A sort of high-rise graveyard, although not run by the council, which is a good job because the damn lifts wouldn’t work half the time. We solemnly gathered round to say final goodbyes and in my case, a quiet ‘sorry I didn’t know you better’. Interestingly, grief threatened to overwhelm me. I didn’t really know the lovely lady so wondered why I felt as I did. It struck me then and there that the emotion was for my little sister. She recently had a very serious accident which was near fatal. The first few days were touch and go and I realised that what I was experiencing was the tail-end of emotion from that chapter in my life. We could so easily have been at her funeral recently. Thankfully we weren’t and I have no intention of that happening until we’re in our old age, but the realisation of how thin the thread is that attaches us to life, engulfed me for that moment.

Final prayers were said, people stood – this time in respectful silence – before gradually saying their goodbyes to friends and family members and then dispersing. I went to join the family members I knew and once more hugged my condolences into them, not being able to express myself so well in Spanish just yet. With my arms around gorgeous cousin Pili, some man started stuffing black plastic bags in the space around the coffin. I wondered if this was a further Spanish ritual – your last bags of rubbish go in there with you as the binmen will no longer collect once you’ve passed on? Pili asked what was going on as neither she nor José knew. It turns out that it’s a powder that aids decomposition and in another bag, the remains of her long pre-deceased husband that had been taken out of the space the old lady now resided in to make room for her. Honestly, shoved into a small space with two old bags jammed in beside me...........it sounds like a trip into town on the number 23 bus.

In loving memory of Doña Julia Sanlés Luaces

With massive appreciation to Cousin Tom, who had power of veto over the content on this entry and from whom the blog title comes. Thanks my Spinach friend!