She made me.

The church is too big really. The mourners tip toe towards their seats whispering and waving to family and friends not often seen, except in churches. There are plenty of mourners but even full this place feels too large. The ceiling so far away, the stone walls cold.

It is a sad occasion. Margot was well loved and had many friends. But it is not a tragic occasion because Margot lived to be ninety two. A good innings as everyone keeps saying. Who ever came up with that expression to describe a long life? And why has it survived?

The only real sadness in the room is felt for me I think. They believe because I am so very old and so very wrinkled that I do not really hear them or see them as they do me. And so they speak freely as though I'm not there.

'He'll not be far behind poor thing. They never are.'

Bloody hell! Thanks for that.

'Are you alright Dad?' This from my daughter Bella.

'Fine, I'm fine.'

'Do you need anything?'

'No.'

'Is Dad okay?' This, my son George. He is speaking to Bella.

Bella speaks to me. George speaks about me, for me and regarding me. I'm not sure when that happened.

'Gramps, d'you want a sweet?' My grandson Sam. He's a child trapped in the body of a thirty five year old man. I like him very much.

'What have you got?'

'Sours, wine gums and lemon sherbets.'

'I'll take a sour.'

He hands me the sweet and kisses my temple before wandering off.

Everyone is settling down and a sombre silence fills the echoey room. The odd cough.

The priest takes the pew and starts talking about why we're here. Margot's body lies in a box before us. When I was young I fantasised about this day and I'd cry. The horror of Margot trapped in a box, away from me, unable to return. I don't feel that way now. Margot isn't in that box.

The priest talks and I check my pockets. Glasses. Yes. Eulogy. Yes. Keys. Yes. Handkerchief. Yes.

Before long Bella is squeezing my hand and I lift my head to see what she wants.

'It's time Dad,' she whispers, tears rolling down her lovely cheeks.

'Oh right,' I say. 'That was quick.'

I go to stand and find my legs are as stiff as all blazes. Bloody cold church. George helps me up and I totter toward the front. Christ the body is a bastard. It doesn't reflect the inside at all. This old sack of skin and bone once ran through the streets of our home town, chasing a tipsy Margot. I shouldn't be so unkind to the old shell. Its never said a bad word about me.

This is the last thought I have as I step up to the mike.

'He can barely stand,' George whispers.

'He's fine,' Bella says. She wipes at her tears. 'He wanted to do the eulogy George.'

'I know!' George rubs his hands together nervously. 'I just don't think its appropriate. He hardly seems to be here these days, his mind isn't ri-'

'Shut up George.' Bella's patience is worn thin with her stuffy brother and his sense of propriety.

She knows he's written a back up eulogy just in case Dad loses his thread or forgets where he is.

'Go for it Gramps,' Sam whispers his eyes locked on his grandfather.

Bella smiles at him though he can't see it. She turns her attention to the front and watches as her father locates his glasses and puts them on. Removes the folded paper from his pocket and spreads it in front of him. Then he looks up at the room, his eyes confused. And then he looks a bit longer and slowly a huge grin spreads across his face.

'Oh,' George says.

'Firstly Margot would like me to thank you all for coming.'

'Oh God,' George mutters.

'She's sorry she can't be here herself but she upped and died on us last wednesday.'

Sam laughs in to the stunned silence and pops another sherbet in his mouth.

'Thank you for respecting her wishes. She always hated flowers at funerals. She believed flowers were for the living. Although she did love a good ritual, which is why we're in this bloody freezing church despite her life long atheism. She was contradictory like that.'

He stops speaking and stares at the paper in front of him. Bella can feel George poised to leap at the lectern and places a restraining hand on his arm.

After a moment that to George feels like a century Dad grins once again,

'I'd like to tell you about the day before Margot died. You all know what you know about her; she grew things, had green fingers, spoke Italian, had two children, married me when she was thirty. You know what you know. The day before Margot died was much like the sixty years preceding it. Bloody good fun. We woke around noon. Since my retirement Margot always insisted we stay in bed for as long as humanly possible. She said I'd earned a lie in and she never understood why when people retire they maintain the same routines. So, we woke at noon and the sun was streaming in through the open windows. We always have the windows open in summer. She was lying on her side facing me, already awake, and when I opened my eyes she said “Morning sailor.” She said that every morning. And I said “Hello Gogo.” We lay there in silence for a bit as people who have been in each others constant company for sixty odd years are want to do. And then slowly Margot pulled herself up and clambered out of bed. Its strange to watch someone you've known most of your life slow down. We both have so many pills to take on daily basis. But for ninety two she was doing alright. No zimmer. No stick. Just slow. She went off to make our morning cup of tea like she has done every morning for as long as I can remember. But when she returned she didn't have the tea. Instead she struggled through the door with a bottle of cold champagne and two glasses. I pulled myself up in to a sitting position. What's this? I asked. Is it another bloody anniversary? She smiled at me. “No love. But why not eh. We might be dead tomorrow.” This did make me chuckle. Margot has been using that excuse for as long as I've known her. We might be dead tomorrow. Those five little words have started more adventures than I can begin to recount to you now. The only reason you're here George is because of that sentence.'

George sits there speechless. Bella stifles a laugh.

'We had no intention of having kids. We were quite happy just the two of us and we hated everyone else's children and thought bugger that! Then Margot forgot to take her pill and I said what if you're pregnant and she said “Sod it! We might be dead tomorrow.” And so there you were George. And then Margot said you might grow up lonely or strange without a sibling so we had Bella too. You still grew up strange but I think Bella keeps an eye on you don't you love.'

A ripple of good humoured laughter rolls through the room. Bella looks sideways to see George trying not to smile.

'Margot crawled back in to bed and I went about opening the bottle. I had a moment of thinking how we'd look to a stranger. Two wrinkly old sods in Marks and Spencer's Men's Pyjamas sat up under our yellow duvet opening a bottle of champagne at lunchtime. I thought we must look marvellous. If I hadn't met Margot and convinced her to marry me I'd have been a very different man. Every adventure we had. Every good and bad decision was made by Margot. She made me. I've used that as an excuse quite liberally over the years. When we missed your wedding anniversary party George, remember? We got drunk on cocktails in the garden and never showed up and you were so angry with us. And what did I say to you?'

George coughs, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 'You said “She made me”'

Another ripple of laughter.

'That's right. We went to Morocco, India, Italy, Canada, Greece and Alaska because she made me. We saw the Northern Lights because she made me. And we'd bring you kids back hideous souvenirs knowing you'd hate them but put them out whenever we came around. God that made us laugh. We sold the house and bought a bungalow in the middle of nowhere because she made me. We held boozy extravagant dinner parties way past an age when it was deemed respectable because she made me. We took up painting because she made me. And she made me because we might be dead tomorrow.

We spent the whole day in bed drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes like we used to when we first met. We got drunk. Margot read me a poem from a book on her bedside table which made me cry a bit. I won't recite it here, its none of your business. We ate cheese in bed too and we stayed up later than we have in years. And we talked. We reminisced. We laughed a lot the day before Margot died. And then when I looked out of the window and saw the moon and the stars hanging themselves up for us, Margot curled in to my side and fell asleep. And soon after so did I, my breath matching with hers. I woke first the next morning. Margot didn't wake at all. And here we are, a week later. And yes Clare, you're probably right, I'll not be far behind. And that's good. That's as it should be. The world is a dull place without Gogo, but the last sixty odd years have been gravy. Every single day. I think I'm the luckiest old bugger alive. Now. If someone could help me down off this lectern, my grandson Sam over there has promised to take me to the pub. Because we might be dead tomorrow. '