An eight-year-old girl sat for hours by her fathers coffin until something utterly unexplainable happened.
Lucy was eight, standing rigidly beside the polished wood, refusing to budge.
Theyd been gathered at the wake for ages, and not one minute had she drifted away. Her mother had made several attempts to coax her away with the promise of biscuits or perhaps some orange squash, but Lucy wouldnt hear of it.
She declared firmly that she wanted to stay with her dad. She didnt cry. She didnt wailshe simply watched him in a sort of stubborn silence.
People came to offer their condolences, casting her looks of sympathy, but Lucy stood there, hands resting on the edge of the coffin. Everyone tiptoed past, whispering about her peculiar bravery, or perhaps just her absolute refusal to move.
Her father’s name had been Edwardalways Ed to his matesand there he lay, dressed in his favourite white shirt, arms folded neatly across his chest. He’d always liked that shirt for best. Paler than usual, Eds face looked oddly peaceful, if a touch severe. The entire house, a classic semi in suburban Bath, was packed with people.
Some grown-ups whispered in corners, while others had a quiet cry in the kitchen. Children zigzagged in and out underfoot, chasing the familys ancient spaniel Bertie through the garden, delightfully oblivious to the occasions gravity. Lucy, however, was made of different stuff; she wouldnt budge. Since theyd arrived, she hadnt eaten a thing, not even a crumb of her grandmas lemon drizzle cake, nor would she situnless, of course, she could bring a chair right up beside her dad.
People muttered that she must be in shock, while her gran, a woman of formidable common sense, insisted they leave her be: “We all grieve in our own way.” Lucys mum, beyond exhausted herself, swollen-eyed and red-nosed, eventually stopped arguing.
As the hours ticked past and night crept in, the mood in the house began to hum with an uneasy tension.
It was some time yet before Ed would be taken on his final journey to the churchyard, but all eyes increasingly focused on Lucy rather than the man himself.
Shed stopped speaking altogether, merely sitting in her chair, arms draped along the edge of the coffin, gazing steadfastly at her father. Attempts to engage her were met with silence. She didnt make a sound; didnt so much as blink, it seemed.
The hush spread amongst the adults. The children retreated, subdued for once. Something in Lucys composure unsettled everyone, as if something strange was in the air, just waiting to happen.
No one really slept that night. Some clustered on the front steps, smoking or murmuring, a few checked in on Lucy now and then, expectingwhat, exactly, they werent sure. Lucy never shifted.
She looked exhausted, but when encouraged to rest, she flat-out refused.
Gran brought her a tartan blanket, gently draping it over Lucys narrow shoulders, relenting with a sigh. At last, people began to driftout to the garden for a breath of chilly air, in to the kitchen for another cuppa. Lucys mum slumped, eyes closed, in a battered armchair.
At that moment, Lucy quietly stood on her chair, placed one knee on the coffin, and, ever so carefully, climbed inside.
She did it with the stealth and determination of someone whod pictured it a hundred times. No one noticed at firstnot, in fact, until she was lying beside her dad, arms wrapped tightly around him.
It was her aunt who, turning from the window, shrieked in a manner more suited to a lurking spider than bereavement. Chaos erupted.
At first, people were convinced Lucy had fainted or was unwell, but as they drew closer, their confusion only grew. Eds handpreviously motionlessrested gently on Lucys back, as though hugging her in return.
Some insisted Lucy must have moved the arm, but the hand looked quite natural, not twisted or forced; it simply lay there, calm as you like. One uncle made to pull Lucy out, but gran held him back.
“Wait,” she said firmly. “Theres something odd here.”
Lucy remained utterly still, but didnt seem unconscious.
Her face looked peaceful, just as it had when she used to fall asleep on her dads chest after a day spent making sandcastles at Weston-super-Mare. Her breathing was deep and even; she murmured to herself, a soft whisper only she could hear.
Her mother approached, trembling, steeling herself to call out, to plead with Lucy to hop out, but the words stuck. There was a heaviness in the room that demanded silence.
Papas here, Lucy suddenly murmured.
Everyone fell still.
He says Ive nothing to fear. He says he must go, but hell never be far.
She opened her eyes, brighter than before, but without tears. She fixed her gaze on her mum.
Mum, he says you have to live. You must smile again. He says youve been frightfully brave.
Her mother sank to her knees, washed away by a tide of something that wasnt fearpain, yes, but peace, too.
Lucy sat up slowly. Eds hand slid gently down her back, returning to its earlier position. The moment passed.
Not one soul doubted, from that minute on, that something extraordinary had happened.
Gran stepped forward, arms lifted. Lucy melted into her embrace, feather-light now, as if some invisible burden had been lifted.
Hes gone now, she said simply. But hes happy. He said thank you.
The rest of the night passed in a new sort of silence: softer, somehow. The tears still fell, but they were kinder, gentlerparting tears, not the desperate, angry sort.
The next day at the burial, Lucy walked at her mothers side, gripping her hand fiercely. She didnt stray from the coffin, but she no longer stared at it; instead, her eyes sought the clouds.
Weeks rolled by.
Lucy found her voice once more, her giggle, her curiosity. She drew lots of pictures of her fatherEd with a ridiculous grin, leaning against an oak tree, or perched upon a stray puff of cloud. When asked where he was, shed always reply, quite solemnly,
Hes looking out for us.
Slowly, her mum found rest, learned to laugh again. It wasnt that she forgot, but she realised something vital had changed.
Ed could no longer hold their hands.
But hed taught them how to keep walking forward.
And sometimes, when Lucy paused in the middle of a game, shed glance upwards and smile, quietly, to herself.
As if, somewhere unseen, someone was smiling back.
