Ciaran Buckley

funeral of the ice cream queen

Ormo and Des’s supporters gathered in two carefully separate clumps, each side of the entrance to the gothic chapel. Ormo, in a dark suit, wool Crombie, and polished black wing-tipped shoes, clean-shaven and hair cut tight. Des matched him in every respect, except for a carefully cultivated soul patch below his lip. The men and women who gathered around each of them — the Ormo crowd and the Des crowd — also wore sombre clothing, but a mixture of black sweatshirts, black jeans and black athletic shoes. They clumped together around their respective leaders, in solidarity with their grief, although it could have been from the cold. The November wind stripped the heat out of their bodies as they waited for the hearse to arrive.

‘Do you remember that time that little toerag showed up at Lucy’s without any money and had some story about young fellas jumping him and clearing out the till?’ Ormo said to the man on his right, a squat tattooed mourner in a black sweatshirt, with a white Nike swoosh across his chest. The man nodded solemnly.

‘She asked him four questions,’ Ormo said. ‘Are you not from that area? Does anybody who’s not from that area ever go into that area?  Mustn’t somebody in that area know who jumped you? Wouldn’t it be best for you to go and find the money and bring it back here before six o’clock?’ And he did come back; with a good twenty minutes to spare. With the money in an envelope; crisp notes, no manky small notes.”

The supporter nodded solemnly at the wisdom imparted in the parable. But Ormo wondered if he understood what he was really saying, because people could be just pure thick. Ormo’s learning from it was that if you threaten people, then their natural resistance is to fight or run. Many of their sort of people were inclined to fight, didn’t like being pushed around. Lucy knew that fighting is bad for business. But there’s something disarming about a series of questions. So, Lucy avoided using her clout, knowing that using power is the quickest way to lose it.

The hearse, which had been stuck in "mid-morning traffic, pulled up in front of the church. Three traditional undertakers emerged, grey-haired men in black suits and top hats with funeral hat bands. To Ormo their traditional garb seemed old-fashioned; old school; aul daycency. A woman emerged from the hearse, also middle-aged, also wearing a top hat with a black band. Ormo thought that the look didn’t work on a woman, that she looked theatrical, like the circus ringmaster of death.

‘Circus ringmaster of death,’ he said nudging one of his followers. ‘Somebody should do something with that. A kids’ book, or a show on Netflix.’

The tattooed swoosh man looked back at him questioningly, then nodded, as though he wasn’t sure that he had permission to laugh on such a solemn occasion.  

Ormo looked at Des, who returned his gaze inscrutably. As though at a signal, they walked to the back door of the limousine that had followed the hearse to the chapel. Ormo opened the back door and inside was Richie, looking small and frail and old.

‘Richie,’ Ormo said, in a way to convey empathy, compassion and grief. Richie dismissed him with a withering glance.

‘The pair of youse,’ he said. ‘What do yiz want? Haven’t yiz caused enough problems?’

‘It’s a sad day. she was a great woman. She was very good to us; she was a queen,’ Des pronounced solemnly.   

‘The pair of youse broke her heart. She’d still be alive only for yizzers carry-on.’

Ormo doubted it; Lucy always had more of a stomach for a row than Richie and ninety-three was a ripe old age, particularly in their business.

‘Out of respect, we thought you should decide who will follow the coffin into the church first, the Ormos or the Deses,’ said Ormo.

Richie rolled his eyes, muttering as he rose unsteadily from the car. He waved away their assistance and leaned on his stick. He gave them no answer as he shuffled towards the hearse, where the undertakers were rolling the coffin out onto a trolley.

It only then occurred to Ormo that they should have organised three people from each business unit, to carry the coffin into the church. Instead, the undertakers just rolled it onto some kind of trolley yoke. An ecclesiastical tea trolley, Ormo thought to himself. Ecclesiastes, a poet, rumoured to be King David; a badass who rose from the streets, he mused. Like we did.

‘Right,’ he said to Des. ‘Toss a coin.’

‘Best of three,’ said Des.

Des won the first; Ormo the second; Des won the final toss of Ormo’s lucky coin. Luck of the devil, Ormo thought, maybe that’s why you’re still alive.

He half-bowed mockingly to Des, who acknowledged it with a curt nod, then turned and signalled his followers. Richie followed the coffin into the church; then Des and his followers.

Ormo gave Des’s gang a few moments to settle before he entered the church and surveyed the landscape. Richie sat in the first pew on the left, as befitted the bereaved. His trousers were washed-out, his shirt was grey, not black, his tie was shiny and not properly tied, his shoes were unpolished. He was alone and he looked alone, he carried solitude in the bend of his back. Behind Richie the second pew — for close family — was empty. Des sat alone in the third pew, with his followers packed into the rows behind him. Ormo led his group inside and sat in the third pew on the right, alone. His people packed into the benches behind him.

The priest came out onto the altar and said the usual stuff, about Lucy having fallen asleep in the love of Christ; about how she would now receive her eternal reward. But the thing about Lucy was, Ormo thought, she didn’t wait for reward, she took it. She didn’t wait for permission, she saw what she wanted and that was that. A brass neck had landed her on the top of the heap. Or on top of as large a heap as she could imagine. And it was a fine heap.

Ormo compared Lucy to his father, who had a coal delivery business. Every day he loaded coal into his truck and delivered it to houses and flats around the area. He delivered in the good weather, in the bad weather, every day. The aul wans in the flats loved him, because he always made sure that they got their delivery, he never let them down. Part of that was old school decency; he wouldn’t see anybody cold. But mostly it was his belief that if you worked hard and were reliable, you would have a decent life. He did have a decent life, he had a home and a wife and four kids and a business and as long as his strength didn’t fail, things were fine.

One time, Ormo’s mother sent him on a message to his father, down at the pigeon fancier’s club. He walked into the hall and was hit by a wall of cigarette smoke and the smothering damp of gas room-heaters. Dozens of plates were stacked untidily near the kitchen door, congealed with the grease of a pig’s cheek dinner. Now that the meal was over, the men were onto their party pieces, dirty jokes and maudlin ballads. He stood near the door of the low-lit room, trying to pick his father out from the crowd. That’s when he saw him stand on the low stage and start to speak, launching into a soliloquy from Richard III. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.’ His father knew the piece from start to finish, word for word, a man who had left school when he was twelve. That gave Ormo a thrill; that his people were special people, cultured people; people with talent and abilities; people who could, given the chance, achieve great things.

His father had never pursued great things; he was happy to have a decent life, until he got older and his strength failed and when you can no longer carry full bags of coal up the stairs of the flats, well, where are you then?

Ormo’s wool suit flattered the figure of a fifty-five-year-old who liked processed food. The thick wool and the tailored cut was compensation for ageing; it gave him the feeling of being insulated from some of the humiliations of gradual decline. And yet, when they knelt to pray after the gospel reading, Ormo’s knees hurt. He got constant warnings from his ankles, hips and knees — momento mori; make peace while you can. No point fighting if as a result there’s no prize for the winner.

During one of the hymns he slid across the pew, stepped across the aisle and sat beside Des. Both continued looking piously towards the altar.

‘Fuck you want?’ Des whispered.

‘She had a good run, for a woman who sold ice cream. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with selling ice cream,’ Ormo whispered, adopting a folksy tone. ’Depending on the ice cream of course; ice cream can be bad for your health.’

‘Fuck you want?’ Des repeated, with additional menace.

‘Luttrellstown,’ Ormo responded in a low drone.

‘Fuck off, that’s mine,’ Des responded in the same tone as the mumbled prayer around him.

‘It isn’t really though. You don’t control it, not really.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Des said coolly.

‘I’ll give you Porterstown,’ Ormo offered.

Des didn’t respond for ten, maybe fifteen seconds.

‘And what else?’ he said finally.

‘You’ll have Porterstown, Clonsilla, Ongar, Blanch village, Clonee and Castaheany. None of my people will go near it,’ Ormo said summarising the entire deal, because nothing is agreed until everything is agreed. ‘I’ll have Lutrellstown, Lucan, Dodsboro, Celbridge and Grange Castle.’

‘Why?’

Ormo knew that he meant, ‘why are you doing this and why are you doing it now?’ They used to be close and they retained this shorthand connection. 

‘End of an era; plus other people will be watching us now that she’s gone, eyeing our territory,’ Ormo said. ‘It could be that, soon, we will no longer be each other’s biggest problem.’

Des was silent; Ormo didn’t want to appear desperate, so he slid back across the aisle to his own side. Lucy had taught him that leadership was as much about what you didn’t do, as what you did.

A few moments later, right on cue, Des slid into Ormo’s pew.

‘I’m not saying I’m agreeing, this is just talks about talks,’ he whispered. ‘I need you to guarantee that you’ll rein in that young fellow of yours.’

Ormo felt a surge of dismissive anger, but checked himself. What would Lucy say in this situation?

‘I’ll do the reining in that needs to be done,’ Ormo said.

There was silence between them while the ceremony droned on. Finally, the priest intoned, ‘Let us now exchange the sign of peace.’

Ormo put out his hand to Des.

‘You’re only chancing your arm, we’ve a lot more to discuss,’ Des said.

‘Fuck off and shake my hand, you contrary bollix.’

Ormo watched the way Des crinkled his nose when he was trying to make a rapid decision. He could tell that he was wavering. He kept his hand outstretched. Then Des shook his hand.

Des slid back down the pew and stepped across the aisle and knelt. Ormo kept looking forward,  revealing nothing to his followers. Instead, he would let them turn themselves inside-out wondering and guessing. Leadership involved a certain level of theatre; Lucy had taught him that.

Ciaran Buckley is a writer and storyteller. He is the co-author of Strong Farmer, published by Liberties Press. His work has been published by the Letter Review, Litro, Fictionette and The Vernacular. He has told stories to audiences in Belfast, Utrecht, Dublin , Brooklyn, Bern, Marrakech and Kilkenny. He lives on a farm in Meath, Ireland with his two adult children and two badly-behaved collies. His Twitter handle is @ciaranpbuckley.

Ciaran wrote the following about ‘Funeral of the Ice Cream Queen’:

I have many story ideas buried deep in my memory and imagination, but it takes a lot of emotional energy to dislodge one onto a page. Funerals — as large community gatherings, focused on reflection and remembrance — are a fertile source of ideas. Part of this power derives from the tightly-scripted liturgy and narrow roles; part of this power derives from the way in which people who don't normally meet, find themselves sharing an intense emotional experience; and part of this power derives from the fact that, after a funeral, the world is never quite the same place again. This reflects the form of the short story, where the world is a certain way; something significant happens; as a result of which the world has changed.