Nick Hornby - High Fidelity

High Fidelity
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Page 80 of 112
6/20/2006
dying near me. My mum and dad won’t die near me, I’ve made bloody sure of that. When they go, I’ll
hardly feel a thing.
The next day she calls again.
“Mum wants you to come to the funeral.”
“Me”
“My dad liked you. Apparently. And Mum never told him we’d split, because he wasn’t up to it and
… oh, I don’t know. I don’t really understand it, and I can’t be bothered to argue. I think she thinks he’ll
be able to see what’s going on. It’s like … ” She makes a strange noise which I realize is a manic giggle.
“Her attitude is that he’s been through so much, what with dying and everything, that she doesn’t want
to upset him any more than she has to.”
I knew that Ken liked me, but I could never really work out why, apart from once he was looking for
the original London cast recording of My Fair Lady, and I saw a copy at a record fair, and sent it to him.
See where random acts of kindness get you To fucking funerals, that’s where.
“Do you want me there”
“I don’t care. As long as you don’t expect me to hold your hand.”
“Is Ray going”
“No, Ray’s not going.”
“Why not”
“Because he hasn’t been invited, OK”
“I don’t mind, you know, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Rob. It’s your day, after all.”
Jesus.
“Look, are you coming or not”
“Yes, of course.”
“Liz’ll give you a lift. She knows where to go and everything.”
“Fine. How are you”
“I haven’t got time to chat, Rob. I’ve got too much to do.”
“Sure. I’ll see you Friday.” I put the phone down before she can say anything, to let her know I’m
hurt, and then I want to phone her back and apologize, but I know I mustn’t. It’s like you can never do
the right thing by someone if you’ve stopped sleeping with them. You can’t see a way back, or through,
or round, however hard you try.
There aren’t really any pop songs about death—not good ones, anyway. Maybe that’s why I like pop
music, and why I find classical music a bit creepy. There was that Elton John instrumental, ‘Song for
Guy,’ but, you know, it was just a plinky-plonky piano thing that would serve you just as well at the
airport as at your funeral.
“OK, guys, best five pop songs about death.” “Magic,” says Barry. “A Laura’s Dad Tribute List. OK,
OK. ‘Leader of the Pack,’ The bloke dies on his motorbike, doesn’t he And then there’s ‘Dead Man’s
Curve’ by Jan and Dean, and ‘Terry,’ by Twinkle. Ummm … that Bobby Goldsboro one, you know,
‘And Honey, I Miss You … ’ ” He sings it off-key, even more so than he would have done normally,
and Dick laughs. “And what about ‘Tell Laura I Love Her.’ That’d bring the house down.” I’m glad that
Laura isn’t here to see how much amusement her father’s death has afforded us.
“I was trying to think of serious songs. You know, something that shows a bit of respect.”
“What, you’re doing the DJ-ing at the funeral, are you Ouch. Bad job. Still, the Bobby Goldsboro
could be one of the smoochers. You know, when people need a breather. Laura’s mum could sing it.” He
sings the same line, off-key again, but this time in a falsetto voice to show that the singer is a woman.
“Fuck off, Barry.”
“I’ve already worked out what I’m having at mine. ‘One Step Beyond,‘ by Madness. ‘You Can’t
Always Get What You Want.’ ”
“Just ’cause it’s in The Big Chill.”