A Blessing In Disguise (17 page)

It is Cliff's job to carry out his part of the funeral but mine to arrange the service and, I hope, in this case as with the Parkers, to do what I can for the family. It's one of the times in my life when I can feel really and truly of use. It matters nothing to me whether the family have been churchgoers or not. Perhaps in the latter case they have more need of me than otherwise.

I call Mrs Leigh as soon as I've finished talking to Cliff.

‘I'm so sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs Leigh,' I say. ‘How are you? Do you have someone with you? Do you have someone to stay? Your daughter Marilyn? Oh, that's good. Well, Mr Preston has been in touch with me and we'll do all we can to help. For instance, Monday morning is fine for the funeral, and before then I'll take you and your daughter to show you just where the grave will be.'

She seems relieved by that.

‘I'll want to come and see you,' I say. ‘You can tell me then just what you want – any special music, readings and so on – but I'll give you time to think about it, discuss it with your daughter. What about Thursday morning? Would that suit?'

‘That will be all right,' she says. ‘And Marilyn will be here.'

I arrange to be with her around ten-thirty. ‘But if there's anything you want to talk to me about before then,' I tell her, ‘or if you just want me to come round and see you, then ring me. Any time.'

She sounds a reasonable sort of woman, a bit shaky in the voice, a bit incoherent at times, but who wouldn't be? Aside from the grief, if her husband's been ill for a long time I haven't the slightest doubt that she'll be bone tired and short of sleep. I know I was.

I can't say I enjoy a good funeral, ‘enjoy' is the wrong word, though sometimes I can feel I've helped, so there's a certain satisfaction, but when I was at Holy Trinity I knew a woman who did enjoy them. Mrs Fanshaw was quite elderly by the time I got to know her and she'd seen off several friends and relatives, and even mere acquaintances – she never missed a funeral. Which was why, she once confided in me, that although she had no intention of giving up buying new clothes should she wish to do so, she always stuck to black because it came in so handy.

An hour or so later I meet with Cliff in the churchyard and we sort out where the grave will be. A nice position, it will catch the morning sun. ‘I've arranged to see Mrs Leigh on Thursday morning,' I tell him. ‘She sounds a very reasonable woman.'

‘I thought so,' he says. ‘I think she's looking for advice, but I don't think there'll be any difficulties there, not unless she has awkward relatives.' Which, as he knows and I know, because we've both experienced many funerals, she could have.

‘I had this woman last week,' he goes on. ‘She was in the Chapel of Rest, funeral due next day, and her sister came to see me. “Do you think we could have Lucy's nightdress back before you bury her?” she asked. I thought she wanted it as a very special memento, but I should have known better. “You see she'd only got it from Marks & Spencer's a few days ago,” she explained, “so it's as good as new. It won't fit me but if I take it back I'll get a refund.”'

He laughs heartily. I daresay it's episodes like this which keep him so cheerful. I don't have any difficulty in believing the story; I could match it with several of my own.

At that moment my mobile rings. It's Molly Nugent.

‘Do you mind if I come round a little bit later this evening? Something's cropped up – nothing serious, but it would suit me if I came slightly later. Is that OK?'

‘Absolutely!' I tell her. ‘I don't have to leave the Vicarage before ten-to-eight, so I'll have a bit of time with you and Becky, and then I'll be back soon after half-past.'

It will in fact suit me better. I'd like some time with Becky after school. If she comes home worried again it will give us time to talk about it well before Molly arrives, if she will talk, that is.

‘Do you have children?' I ask Cliff as I put my phone back in my pocket. I know he's married, his wife helps him in the business. I met her briefly and thought she seemed a nice woman.

‘I have a son at university,' he says. ‘Doing Modern Languages. He seems to be doing well enough.'

‘And is he going to follow in your footsteps?'

Cliff shakes his head. ‘I'm sorry to say he's not. What he
is
going to do I don't know, and for that matter nor does he. Says he wants to travel. You don't do that in my job. I've lived in Thurston all my life, and my father before me. He inherited the business from
his
father and I started with my father straight from school, learning everything there was to learn. Then he handed it over to me when the time came, though he worked until he was well in his seventies. He built it up a lot.'

I wonder, vaguely, how one builds up an undertaking business. You can't actually get more people to die, can you? Then, having checked on the final details of the Leigh plot, we turn to walk down through the churchyard and he answers what I haven't liked to ask.

‘There used to be two funeral directors in Thurston – we're all funeral directors now, but my father would have called himself an undertaker – and I can't say we were ever on bad terms, but there was a lot of rivalry, especially about who would get what I'd call the big funerals. My father buried Lord Frazer, we won that one.'

‘So you know Miss Frazer?' I asked.

‘Oh yes!' he says. ‘Who doesn't? She used to teach me in Sunday School. She was very strict, frightened the life out of me sometimes. We had to learn the catechism, and all the prayers, and know who was who in the Old Testament – she was more for the Old than the New and I reckon she knew most of it by heart. Put me off for life, I can tell you. You'll have noticed you don't see me in church.'

‘I had noticed,' I say.

‘But then she had her good points, she used to take us – the whole Sunday School – on this trip every summer. We'd go to Eastbourne. Of course we kids would have liked to have gone to Brighton but she reckoned Brighton was common.'

‘But there's only one funeral business in Thurston now, isn't there?' I ask.

‘Oh yes,' Cliff says. ‘We won in the end. The other fellow sold up two or three years ago. I think we had the edge, the family having been here so long.'

By this time we are standing at the parting of the ways. His business is at the bottom of the High Street and I'm going back to the Vicarage.

‘Are you disappointed your son isn't going into the business?' I ask him.

He nods his head. ‘Oh, I am indeed! “Preston and Son” it's said on the sign, ever since my grandfather's time. It can't stay like that, can it?'

‘Cheer up, Cliff,' I tell him. ‘You've a lot of years to go yet!'

‘That's true,' he agrees. ‘And by the time I pop my clogs then they might have thought up totally different ways of doing things!' He's smiling again.

I haven't been in the house more than a minute when the phone rings again, and this time it's Mark Dover.

‘Hi!' he says. ‘You left your scarf behind.'

‘My scarf?'

‘Navy silk?'

‘Well, yes. That sounds like mine, but I hadn't even missed it. I don't remember taking it off,' I say.

‘Perhaps when you took off your jacket before lunch?' he suggests.

And then I remember. I did take my jacket off, and I put the scarf in the pocket. It must have fallen out. Being silk it's very lightweight, weighs practically nothing. I might never have missed it until I'd wanted it again.

‘I'm sorry,' I tell him. ‘Anyway, not to worry. I'll get it back some time or other. There's no hurry.'

‘Oh, that's all right,' he says. ‘I'll be down in the village in the next day or two. I'll bring it to the Vicarage.'

‘That's kind of you,' I say. ‘But please don't come specially – though if I'm not in you can push it through the letter box. Anyway, thank you for ringing, and thank you again for my lunch!'

When Becky comes in from school I take one look at her face and I know immediately that things are still not right, far from it. She is pale, unsmiling, and there is a new tightness about her which seems to extend to her whole body. It's a tightness which is holding something in, afraid to let go. And to my shame and chagrin I do not know how to deal with it, what to do for the best. Do I ask questions, probe if necessary, or do I keep quiet, act as though everything is normal? As if I hadn't noticed? If she had come into the house angry, furious with something or someone, or just with life itself, if she had hurled at me a selection of the swear words children seem to know as soon as they can talk, or if she'd burst into tears, then I'd know what to say next. But she doesn't. This is something different. She is hiding herself. So I decide, since I don't know what's for the best, to act as though none of it was obvious, while hoping that she will spill it out.

‘Hello, darling!' I say, almost casually. ‘How was school today?'

‘As usual,' she says, not looking at me. Then she switches on the television and sits herself down in front of it as if it was the only thing in the world which mattered. It happens to be a cookery programme, people rushing around preparing things against a stopwatch, and I know her interest in cookery programmes, even though she enjoys food, is non-existent.

‘I thought we'd have an early supper,' I say, ‘since Mrs Nugent is coming round later. But would you like a snack now?'

‘I'm not hungry,' she says, her eyes firmly fixed on the screen where a man is chopping onions at great speed.

I told her last night that Mrs Nugent would be coming round to stay with her for a short time while I went to church, and she seemed to accept it. At least she didn't make a fuss. She's not unused to such arrangements, though not usually with someone she doesn't know.

‘So what sort of a day did you have?' I venture. ‘Did anything special happen?'

‘Nope!' she says, without for one second taking her eyes off the television. And that, I am given to understand by her manner, is the end of that. So I take myself off to the kitchen and set about preparing ahead for supper. From time to time I slip back into the living room on some pretext or another but always she's glued to the television. In fact, after the cookery she sits, without bothering to change channels, through a quiz, an animal programme, ‘Neighbours', and is still there when the six o'clock news comes on and I call her to the table. She eats hardly anything, which adds to my worry.

Molly Nugent arrives, a bit later than we'd arranged, full of apologies.

‘I had this woman with me,' she explains. ‘She just wouldn't go. In the end I had to tell her I was going out. Anyway, here I am now. I brought Junior Scrabble in the end because I haven't managed to see my daughter. If you haven't played it before I'm sure you'll soon learn. It's quite good, actually.'

I have to leave, but they seem to be getting on amicably. Molly has a flow of interesting talk – she is such a nice woman – and all Becky has to do is listen, which she is doing.

‘Back in forty minutes!' I tell them.

I arrive at the church early enough to open up, switch on the lights, and still leave myself with time to say my prayers before anyone is likely to arrive. I desperately need that time of quiet, not because it's been an especially full day, I've known many far busier, but because at the back of my mind I've been worrying about this evening, dreading it. It's never been quite out of my mind. Even while I was so concerned about Becky – and still am – I couldn't quite keep Miss Frazer at bay. And now, in a very few minutes, I shall have to face her.

I try to clear my mind, to leave it free for God, and having done that as best I can I think of those who need his help. I pray for the souls of Mr Leigh and Mary Parker and for their families in their grief. I can never say to anyone, ‘I know just how you feel,' because it wouldn't be true; we can never quite know another person's feelings, but at least I know how it feels to be widowed, so I can feel close to Mrs Leigh there. And poor Mr Parker. Possibly worse for him. I pray for Becky, my poor little Becky – I wish I knew
her
feelings and what it is which troubles her – and I ask for enlightenment. I pray for the people who will attend this service, including Miss Frazer. I ask for understanding and patience, and even while I'm doing so I'm thinking that where Miss Frazer is concerned this is likely to be an ongoing prayer. God will see the end, but I can't.

And then I hear them coming in, and by the time I'm on my feet they're sitting in the pews – separate pews, of course, I don't suppose they ever sit together – the two women, the elderly man, but there is no Miss Frazer!

‘We'll wait a few minutes,' I tell them, ‘just in case anyone else comes.' I suppose all three of them know who I mean, but no-one says a word.

I do wait, but Miss Frazer doesn't arrive. At the end of the service they glide away down the path like three ghosts. They bid me ‘good-night' quite pleasantly, none of them mentioning Miss Frazer, and as far as I can tell they don't speak to each other. I can only think that Miss Frazer's cold is worse and that she's not well enough to come. Can I, with a clear conscience, thank God for this deliverance? I'm not sure.

It's Thursday morning and I'm seeing Becky off to school. It's stalemate as far as Becky and I are concerned. When I returned from church on Tuesday evening she seemed to be getting on well with Molly Nugent – they were in the middle of a game of Scrabble – and there was a better feeling in the room.

‘I'll stay to finish it,' Molly said. ‘We've not long started this one and I won the last but I've a feeling Becky is going to wipe the floor with me this time.' She turned to Becky. ‘You've picked it up remarkably quickly,' she said. ‘Are you sure you've never played before?'