TRASH CAT LIT

Madeleine Armstrong

Listen to Madeleine read her story

Jim barely knew Auntie Brenda. All he remembered were birthday cards with crumpled tenners stuffed inside, and a twinkle in her eye when she told him to spend it unwisely.

But Mum had promised him fifty quid and free drinks if he did the slide show at her wake.

“You’re tech savvy,” she said, mainly because he was the only person she knew under forty. “And it’ll get you out of the house.”

So here he was, in a pub back room that smelt of sweat and ham sandwiches, watching old biddies weeping as he scrolled through photos of Auntie Bren on various Saga holidays, to a soundtrack of Barry Manilow’s Copacabana. It was all sangria, sunhats and surgical stockings.

But, hello, what was this? The screen showed a black and white image of what could only be described as a vintage stunner. A cream fur coat was pulled down to expose bare shoulders; her eyes were cast down coquettishly.

There was something familiar about those eyes…Jeez, it was Auntie Bren. Someone must’ve slipped in a photo of her in her heyday, to make this shindig slightly less depressing. Who would know how, though, in this room full of octogenarians?

He clicked through to the next photo and nearly spat out his Stella. Young Bren was lying on a bed, the fur coat pulled right down to expose a voluptuous cleavage. From what he could tell, she wasn’t wearing anything else.

Panicking, Jim looked up and scanned the room. Mum stared at the floor. The blue rinse brigade were still crying into their perfumed handkerchiefs.

Jim glanced down. The next picture, previewed on his laptop, was worse. The fur coat was gone. It looked arty, yes, but he still felt sick at the sight of Auntie Bren’s bush. Whoever had tampered with these photos had a lot to answer for. Talk about disrespecting the dead.

Jim decided enough was enough. Sod his fifty quid, he couldn’t let his aunt’s memory be besmirched by this filth.

Barry Manilow kept crooning about Lola and her faded feathers.

A few of the old ladies seemed to be smirking.

Jim stopped the slide show and slammed down the lid of his laptop.

He rushed to the bar to get something stronger than Stella.

Mum found him there nursing a whisky, and slipped him a disappointingly thin envelope of cash. She was smiling strangely.

“Thanks, love. That was beautiful, wasn’t it? I added a few photos last minute, like she asked.”

With shaking hands, Jim knocked back his drink. Come to think of it, hadn’t Mum done some computer course a while ago? He had a sudden feeling he didn’t know her at all, either.

“She was a looker in her day, wasn’t she?” Mum wiped a tear from her eye.

Jim couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“Can’t blame her for wanting us to sneak in a few old photos,” Mum added. “That’s how she wanted everyone to remember her.” Jim looked back at the screen and nearly choked on his whisky.

There was Auntie Bren, bush and all, in her full glory.

Madeleine’s prompts were: at a funeral, an unlikely hero, strange photos

Madeleine is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly and Urban Pigs. She lives in London.

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