Don't Look

In the name of the wee man, yer looking grand, mate!

Announced Cornetto, my Irish friend, leaping forward and giving me a COVID-Care-Less man-hug.

Aye, you too, you mad fucker. How've you been?

I grinned at my old friend Cornetto. He had moved to Ireland about fifteen years ago and we hadn't seen much of each other since. He had just leapt from the train and despite our mask-wearing banditry we had recognised each other instantly in the busy Central Station.

Come on ya mad Irish bastard. Let's get a pint.

I gave him a punch on the shoulder and marched him out of the Station to the nearest Rock pub. Which was just over the road.
_{Do Rockers like trains? Is that a guilty secret of theirs?}

So what's the craic with yew?
_{Craic is pronounced 'crack' and it is Irish for, well, let google explain it...}

Cornetto took a sip of his pint as we sat down at a grubby table and made a happy smacking sound with his lips as if kissing a dog with no ears.

I took a big swig of my own pint, a fine pint of West Beer.

What's with the accent, man? you're Scottish and yet you sound like a fucking spaniel chewing a sock?

It was true, I had only been in his company for mere minutes and already his grafted on Northern Irish accent was grating on me. If you are not familiar with the Northern Irish accent, it's like the sound of farty gas seeping out of decomposing kittens.

Which shouldn't really be a thing but he was Scottish. He had only gone over there for a job, not a voice transplant. Every time he spoke I could feel William Wallace spin in his tiny grave.

Ye cannae help it neither you can. It just creeps on, you, so it does.

He grinned, then his face fell.

So aye, as I said. I'm here for ma Da. Make arrangements for the funeral and all that.

He looked at the wall behind me as if it were very very far away for a few long seconds.

I raised my glass.

To your Dad mate.

Aye, cheers.

We clinked glasses and drank to the memory of fallen Dad's. I looked at a faraway wall myself for a long minute.

It's a rough time. If there is anything I can do just let me know?

I stuck out my jaw as if doing that chinny chinny bony thing you do on a lady's nethers when you are a teenager attempting to impress.

There is mate, I should have said. I have an appointment this afternoon to see him. I was wondering if you were free if you... You know?

Cornetto swirled the beer in his glass.

Of course mate, I will be happy to.

I raised my glass for a cheers whilst my insides gallumped up and down to the point where it felt like my liver was about to make a break for it and escape through my mouth.

Surely he didn't want me to come in with him? I didn't want to see another dead Dad. I had seen my own, I didn't like it. I had no desire to add to my collection of dead Dad's. Dead bodies are not the person you loved. And maybe it was the undertaker that I got for my folks but when I had a viewing of them before the funeral I thought the funeral parlour might be taking the piss such was the display he put on.

I should say though, dude. You don't have to have a viewing. You might just want to remember your Dad the way he was. I didn't like seeing either of my parents. In fact I often wish I hadnt.

It was true, I barely recognised my folks when we had our viewing. It was not the last image I wanted in my head.

Cornetto chuckled.

Ah, Boomy. You haven't changed a bit. Still that sensitive wee soul. It will be fine. It would be wrong not to! And don't worry, I will go in myself. It will be grand, say goodbye to the old feller properly!

He finished his glass, checked his watch and stood.

Come on, its nearly time.

I drained my glass too and together we left.

---

An hour later, Cornetto walked out of the undertakers. His face was pale and scored with grief and his step uncertain.

You ok, mate?

I asked carefully.

He sighed and looked up at the dark clouds above then back at me.

You're right. I should have just left it.

His Irish accent had gone.

I nodded.

Come on, lets go get drunk.