Beneath the Rainbow Read online

  “Just think of them then open your eyes.”

  Freya closed her eyes. At first she could think of nothing but the garden surrounding her, the glory of pulling flowers out of nowhere… then nothing, her mind went blank and try as she might she could not see her family. “I can’t…” she said peeping at the boy beside her.

  “Just relax…” whispered Jake.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and thought hard, still nothing…then the barrier dropped, like sluice gates, slowly but surely, and there they were, her family.

  They sat in a chapel with a small white casket before them. The casket was covered in blue. Masses of bluebells were strewn across it, and Mum still clutched a limp bunch in her white hands.

  Bluebells and tears. Freya stared in silence. Bluebells and tears were all she could see.

  The cream-coloured chapel walls encompassed a congregation full of grief. The teal-green carpet enhanced the white coffin, and the walnut pulpit was decorated with sprays of spring flowers. Someone had spent time and effort filling baskets with primroses, gypsophelia, more bluebells and tiny creamy-yellow roses. Freya stared, and the first thought that came to her was that the roses were out of season. This confused her for a moment, was this still heaven?

  Then her glance moved back to her family and her little heart broke.

  Her parents sat together, both in black, Dad in his Sunday suit and Mum in a familiar black skirt, but a new black top, something Freya did not recognise. The new wrap top suited her mother, whereas the tears that streamed down her face did not.

  Jasmine wriggled in Granddad’s arms, struggling to reach her father sitting so close, yet so far. Grandma was out in the foyer trying to arrange a small group of children, trying to keep her own sorrow in check whilst she supported her daughter. Freya’s other grandparents sat behind their son, her grandfather’s hand resting on her father’s shoulder, wishing he could help when he couldn’t.

  Grandma herded in the children. The organ struck up and they sang, and Freya sang along.

  “They’re singing for me,” she whispered, “for me.”

  When they sat down the minister stood at the pulpit, even his eyes were red-rimmed, but he spoke with a solid voice, one that did not crack like her primary teacher’s did.

  Her schoolteacher spoke of Freya’s joy for life, her intelligence, her fun-loving mind, and her friends.

  Her friends sat by their parents, not all had come, some parents thought services like this were too much for ones so young to bear, but Freya smiled at those who had come. Her friends sat there, stiff and quiet, in awe of the occasion. One or two of the boys had let their minds wander and one was studying a spider crawling up the side of the pulpit.

  Her best friend, Meg, stared at the coffin and swung her legs to and fro. Meg liked the flowers and nodded to herself in approval at the bluebells. She leaned close to her mother and whispered. “Is she in there?”

  Meg’s mother glanced down mortified at her daughter’s question, but relieved that it had been whispered, a child not so well brought up might have said it out loud…that was too much to consider. Her mother nodded twice and put her finger to her lips. It didn’t prevent Meg’s second murmured query. “Is she coming back?” This time Meg’s mother turned to look at her daughter. She saw the wide brown eyes stare back at her and she struggled to maintain her composure. She glanced at the casket and then back to her own daughter. As she shook her head in answer, she bit her lip, some things were just too awful to consider, and her heart, among many others in the congregation, broke for Freya’s parents.

  Freya couldn’t look at her parents. She couldn’t hold the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, so she searched the chapel again. Who had come to see her go?

  Her neighbours, Donald and Daisy, how she had laughed when they’d told her their names. “Like the ducks?” she’d howled. “Yes, like the ducks!” They’d grinned. They sat quietly, holding hands, Daisy clasping a fresh white handkerchief.

  Several teenagers sat together, one of them holding a single white rose, twirling it back and forth in her fingers. Her two girl friends sniffed together, trying to hold back their tears. The boys looked uncomfortable, but smart in their crisp, freshly laundered white shirts.

  Her Headmaster sat beside two of her teachers and was surrounded by school friends and their families.

  Mrs French, the widowed postmistress, mopped her eyes and shared a whispered word with Jen, her daughter who sat at the till.

  The postman was there, so was the nurse that lived across the road, the neighbours from two doors up, and three doors up, and four, next door the other-side…neighbours she’d never even seen before were there.

  Several parents occupied the small chapel nursery and listened amid their toddlers chatter to the service on the radio feed to the room.

  One or two babies slept in their pushchairs with their mothers at the back of the chapel.

  The Hillmans sat up near the front, listening quietly. Thomas Hillman refused to release his wife’s hand throughout; he knew how frail mortality was.

  Singing erupted again, joyous music rising up through the rafters, ascending to Freya herself…

  Freya watched the chorister, a young girl who thought herself far too young and inexperienced to be conducting the hymns for this most beautiful of services. Her hands trembled but Freya smiled.

  Bishop Williams rose again and shared his own thoughts on Freya, including the funny story of when she’d hidden after church and was only discovered, her little face covered with panic-stricken tears pressed against the foyer door after the chapel’s alarm had been set! Some people laughed as they remembered her, many allowed tears to roll down their faces. Freya chuckled.

  Freya blinked and caught Jake’s face beside her. “Is this normal?” she asked, “Can I laugh at my own funeral?”

  “You can do whatever you want,” he replied, “I’ve seen people laugh, cry, have hysterics…and I’ve seen people who have no reaction at all.”

  “Did you see your own?”

  He nodded then held up his hand to stop her next question. “Wait…watch this bit.” He looked down intently. “I’m not being horrible here, but we have bets about this bit…”

  “What bit?” Freya asked, intrigued.

  She stared down and watched the organist fiddle with a CD player.

  “The song…” Jake paused. The chords to a familiar song began and Jake grinned and slapped his knee quietly. “‘Angels’…” He smiled at Freya. “It’s the one we all know by heart!”

  “So do I, it’s one of my favourites,” replied Freya remembering long car trips. “We always sing it loud, me, Mum and Dad, even Jasmine tries to join in!”

  “Then sing…” said Jake.

  Freya did. Below her parents gripped hands and her mother’s tears watered the bluebells in her lap. The congregation in church listened as the words and music filled the chapel…and Freya sang.

  And as Freya sang, and her father mouthed the words, Jake began to sing and accompanying Jake rose a heavenly choir. Freya turned, still singing, and watched as her meadow filled with children. Children her age and younger, children dressed in rainbow colours and white. They sang and even Robbie Williams struggled to be heard.

  Down below the children in church looked up, Jasmine stopped grizzling, and Freya’s parents glanced at each other, stirred by the music. For years after, the congregation would swear blind that they had heard angels, real ones, just for a split second during that song.

  The graveside was a more sombre affair and even Freya didn’t feel like singing. Most of the congregation had cried their tears and said their goodbyes at the chapel. The cemetery was a family gathering. Uncle Pete had turned up late, but that had been expected, he wasn’t much of a churchgoer. He’d left his bike down by the Chapel of Rest and walked the length of the cemetery with his helmet tucked under his arm. His leathers creaked as he joined the silent group, but his sister reached out and touched his gloved hand
in gratitude.

  Freya yearned to leap into his arms. She closed her eyes and remembered how Uncle Pete would catch her, hug her then spin her round and round…

  Uncle Pete placed his motorcycle helmet on the ground, peeled off his gloves and moved beside his parents. He nodded and the minister opened his scriptures.

  Freya watched as her closest family stood around her grave. She saw Jasmine whimper in Gran’s arms and reach again for her father, but Gran clucked softly to soothe her. Grandpa stroked Jasmine’s curly hair, but kept a stiff expression on his face. Beside them stood her parents, side-by-side, hands gripped in grief. Then stood Grandma and Granddad, and behind them was the shadowy bulk of Uncle Pete.

  Freya didn’t listen to the words that flew around her grave, but turned her attention to her parents instead.

  They both stared down into the grave, at the white box covered with bluebells. Tears no longer fell from her mother’s eyes, but grey streaks stained her cheeks. Her husband gripped her hand so hard her fingers were white, but she did not notice, or maybe the pain was comforting in some strange way. She still held the bluebells in her other hand but the stems were squashed and the flowers were stressed.

  Freya’s father stood firm, his feet planted in the grass, his lower lip quivering, but his eyes never left the coffin in the ground.

  Grandma held a sheaf of nine roses, pure white rosebuds, in the crook of her arm, and as silence fell she gently released the lilac ribbon tied loosely around the stems, and handed one to each of the relatives. She was left with two. “For Anna, who couldn’t be here today,” she said, speaking of her absent daughter, as she dropped the rose into the grave.

  Up above, Freya left the graveside and spied across the ocean. Aunty Anna was quiet. It was dawn in the part of Canada where she lived, and she sat on a wooden bench in her garden, hugged in a fleece to keep out the snowy chill. She held a single white rose in her hand and thought of her three children asleep in bed only moments away from her.

  Grandma then released her own rose and moved to allow her husband to do the same. Uncle Pete shook his head and a tear slipped down into the hole with his flower.

  “And me!” came a plea from Jasmine, “And mine fower!” she cried.

  Gran stepped forward and Jasmine threw her rose with gusto. Gran’s dropped beside it, as did Grandpa’s.

  Freya’s Mum glanced up at her husband. He nodded then dropped to his knees. A choked sob left his throat and his daughter’s name with it. “Freya…” he croaked, “Oh Freya…” His wife bent and touched his shoulder, but that only made his pain worse. His sobs echoed across the tombstones and Freya watched as her mother took him in her arms. They knelt together, his tears spilling onto the grass, until he wiped them away and his wife softly spoke his name. “Joe…say goodbye…”

  He sniffed and cleared his throat, a thunderous noise in the solitude and silence of the cemetery, and got back up onto his feet. “Freya,” he whispered, “goodbye, I love you.” And he cast his white rose into the grave. “Rachel?” he said and his wife took his hand as he helped her stand.

  “I know,” she said, “but I don’t know if I can…”

  He kissed her wet cheek. “It’s not forever,” he whispered.

  Rachel stared first up into the sky, and Freya gazed down at her intense stare and wondered, for a moment, if her mother could see right into heaven, then she looked down and tried to focus on the casket in the earth. She bit her lip and gripped the rose so tight that a stray thorn, that hadn’t been removed in the florist’s careful check, pierced her finger. She began to shiver, as if an icy wind had chilled her, and her teeth chattered. It suddenly all began to feel surreal and Rachel wondered for a moment why she was even there. Surely seven-year-old daughters don’t die? She’d go home to find her playing, riding up and down the road on her purple bicycle…then she remembered and her tears began again.

  “My little Freya…” she wept, “goodbye my little baby.” She let the rose slip through her fingers and turned away. As the rosebud’s soft thud echoed on the casket Freya’s family walked away across the emerald grass.

  “I need white roses.” Freya jumped to her feet.

  Jake leaped up too and grabbed hold of her. “Wait,” he said, as she struggled against his grip. “Just wait.”

  “I need roses, white ones!” she cried, and as she did brambles appeared pushing through the grass, no, not brambles, but rose bushes. Thorn-less rose stems erupted, thickening into bushes, and as they grew buds appeared and the swollen buds burst open into luscious white flowers.

  Jake released his hold and let Freya drop to the floor, just as her father had. “White roses…white roses…” she sobbed.

  Soon the roses were everywhere, spreading across the meadow and Freya’s sobs turned into quiet moans. “They gave me white roses.”

  Jake crouched beside her and put his arms around her shoulders, and there they sat until Freya had run out of tears.

  As Freya recovered she lifted her tear-streaked face to Jake. “Is it always that hard?”

  He let out a little laugh and ignored her injured expression. “At least you only ever have to go through it once!”

  She managed a small smile. “So that was my funeral.”

  He nodded.

  “So, I’m well and truly dead then?”

  He nodded again.

  “Well, I’d better get used to it then.” She slowly stood gazing about her. “Did I really make all these roses?”

  He nodded.

  She allowed herself a little laugh. “I don’t think I need that many!”

  As she whispered the bushes began to shrivel and disappear, and soon only a small bed remained surrounding the willow.

  She cupped a single rose in her hand and studied the dewdrop confined in the centre, like a stolen tear. “I’ll never forget…white roses.”

  When Freya met the other children, the ones who had out sung Robbie at her funeral, she was a little upset to discover none were flitting around heaven using traditional, bulky, but beautifully feathered, angel wings. In fact she was more than a little peeved when no one explained how she could acquire such wings at all!

  Jake laughed, and not only laughed but actually collapsed holding his sides with laughter, when she requested wings.

  “Wings!” He wiped his eyes. “What d’you want wings for?”

  “To fly,” she said indignantly.

  “Tell me…” he began, “what do they teach you down there?”

  “That there are angels in heaven and they have wings!”

  When Jake guffawed again Freya spun on her heels, crossed her arms over her chest and flounced away.

  “Sorry…Freya,” Jake chuckled, “I’m sorry…”

  “Hmmph.” Freya continued walking.

  “I am sorry, really,” Jake’s voice softened, “I s’pose it’s an easy mistake!”

  “Mis-take?” Freya turned back to him. “Angels on earth have wings. They do in pictures, and on Christmas trees…”

  “And in Michelangelo’s paintings…all chubby cherubs, curly hair and cute feathers,” finished Jake. “Like I said, easy mistake.”

  “So I won’t get wings?” Freya still looked annoyed. “Or a halo?”

  “Why would you need wings?”

  “To fly.” Freya had always fancied flying hence her enjoyment of swinging so much.

  Jake shook his head with a wry smile. “Right, it’s time for a few more revelations then,” he told her. “The children you’ve met, the other children here…where do you think they come from? And do they look like chubby cherubs?”

  A small frown crossed Freya’s face as she considered. She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She gazed across the meadow as far as she could see. “Where did they come from, and more to the point where are they now?”

  “One at a time,” said Jake. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning…” He took a deep breath. “When you first arrive everything is new, and you get a guide…moi,” He
twirled his finger and pointed at himself with a flourish. “We help you settle, make sure you know what’s happened and stay with you while you learn where you are.”

  Freya nodded.

  “At first, while you get used to the idea of…”

  “Death.” Freya finished for him.

  “Death…” Jake continued, “You’re in a place that you make. You made a garden.” Again Jake swept out his arms indicating the mass of flowers illustrating his words. “One little boy recreated his bedroom, another lived in his dog’s kennel for ages…one girl even made a theme park! You made a garden, but although your garden will always be here, you will move on.”

  “Where to?”

  Jake smiled. “I don’t know. I’m not ready yet.”

  “When will you be ready?” asked Freya.

  Jake shrugged.

  “When will I be ready?” she asked.

  He shrugged again. “We’re all told we’ll know when we’re ready.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments then Jake took Freya’s arm. “Look.” He pointed into the woods. Behind a tree, badly hidden, was a child; badly hidden, because a sparkly skirt flared out either side of the thin tree. Freya laughed and her laughter made the girl tilt her head. She caught Freya’s glance and smiled back, she smoothed down her skirt and edged away from the tree. As she did several others revealed themselves and soon a whole troupe of children emerged from the woods.

  Freya was delighted, and her delight grew as they wandered through her garden complimenting the planting!

  Very soon she tugged at Jake’s sleeve. “Okay, so why am I the only one wearing a plain white dress?”

  At first Freya had loved her simple, floaty dress. It fit so well and there were no annoying, itchy labels, no zips or buttons, no too-tight or too-loose elastic, nothing but a perfect fit. But now she noticed that the other girls’ dresses were either shimmery, or lacy, or longer, and they were all coloured. There were no bright, bold colours, nothing like the flowers she’d produced, but rainbows had splashed all the dresses nonetheless.

  “Why is mine plain white?” she repeated.