Free Dirty Old Man (A True Story) by Moll French Page A

on underneath the old one. I wasn’t going to let anybody in that house ruin Darren’s day.
    The teachers took their cars and drove us to the crematorium but we’d pretty much have to fend for ourselves once we got there as they were talking to Darren’s parents and I was relieved to be blending in like everyone else.
    The funeral was a very unusual experience, and not what I expected at all. As the Hurst pulled up outside the building, people began to cry. There was an arrangement of flowers that spelled out Darren’s name and a coffin that looked a lot smaller than the ones you see on the television. I could feel the tears running down my face and wanted to blame the emotional people around me. I didn’t want to cry in front of everyone.
    One of the teachers stood me next to a boy called John; he was in Darren’s year at school and knew him quite well.
         “John will look after you,” said the teacher, “he’s a nice boy.”
    We sang hymns, some I didn’t know and some I knew from school. We sang ‘Morning Has Broken’ the same song that made me cry that day in school when my mum came in. The teacher was right, John was nice and he didn’t mind at all that I cried into his t-shirt as I listened to his voice croak out the words.
    As the room was at full capacity, all the children stood at the front and I found myself shielded from Darren’s parent’s grief.
    The red velvet curtains closed in front of Darren’s coffin to ‘I Will Always Love You’ by Whitney Houston, and then it was all over.
     
         We walked quietly out of the crematorium as a line of people stood outside for the next funeral. It seemed so sudden and impersonal, like we were being moved along on a conveyor belt, just like Darren’s coffin had been.
    We stood outside where the flowers lay, and talked quietly amongst ourselves, I’d found a friend for life in John who didn’t leave my side. Some of the children’s parents turned up in their shiny cars to take their children home, as my mum was at work and my dad probably still in bed, I went to visit my granddads grave before making my way slowly back to school. The teachers had business to attend to before they could come back.
     
         The poem I had written for the memorial received a lot of praise which became apparent when I got back into school.
    I’d asked Mr Elliott to read it out. We hadn’t always seen eye to eye in the past but I knew he’d be the right person. He’d told me that lots of tears had been shed amongst staff and pupils and he believed it may have helped some of them with their grieving process.
    Friends told me afterwards that it wasn’t so much the words, but the way in which Mr Elliott had read it out. He gave those words meaning and read each one with passion. I’m glad I put my faith in him that day.
    I often wished I’d given his parents a copy, but felt it was insignificant at their time of grief.

Chapter Eight.
                 
         A short time after Darren’s funeral, a lot of things happened. I won the ‘Cadet of the Year’ award at The St. Johns Ambulance, mainly through pity I think as I didn’t exactly try hard there. I remember my mum being cross with me because I wore a pair of trainers with no socks to accompany my uniform, when everybody else was wearing smart black polished shoes. I honestly couldn’t have cared less. Things seemed pointless.
     
         I found myself giving up on school and I’d fallen out with Amy too. One of her new friends, Jane, was from a very rough family indeed, and Jane’s younger sister had been bullying my little sister, Cara.
     
         Me and Beth had to pick Cara up from an after school club one day, I recall it being Scottish dancing and Jane’s sister went there too.
    I told Cara to point her out to me told her to stay awa y from my sister; nothing more - nothing less.
    It w asn’t until we got home that I found the school had rang my mum, they complained