While We're Apart (14 page)

The past week had been emotional, but she'd managed to put on a brave face for everyone – especially Barbara – and had set to with a will to help cook, clean and do the shopping. Mary had soon discovered that after their initial show of genuine goodwill and generosity, people found it difficult to talk about her loss, either glossing over it or stumbling through awkward, embarrassed condolences before hurrying away. She came to the conclusion that death divided the living not only from the dead, but from those who were left behind, and she'd made an effort to smile so people felt more at ease with her.

And yet she felt strangely distanced from everything, as if she was sleepwalking through the days, adrift from reality as she carried out her chores and tried to get through each long hour. Even the visits from her friend Pat couldn't cheer her as they usually did, for she was cold inside, her spirit withered, and she was still unable to comprehend the enormity of her loss and the consequences of it on her future.

Mary returned to her room after she'd helped Barbara to prepare and clear breakfast, and to put the finishing touches to the food for the wake. They'd been cooking all the previous day, and the villagers had kindly raided their larders and donated what they could, for it was expected that Gideon's parishioners would come from all three parishes to mourn the passing of their much loved vicar and his wife. Pat and the other village girls had wanted to support her, but their boss at the factory had refused to let them have the day off, and so they'd each written lovely cards which Pat had brought over the night before.

She plumped down on the side of the bed, regarded the thoughtful, handmade cards displayed on the dressing table, and then reached for the precious letters that she kept under her pillows.

Jack had been as good as his word and written every day, and although she now knew each letter by heart, she needed to read them again to garner strength for what was to come. His frustration at being so far away, and not being allowed to return home to be with her, was clear in every word, but his love for her shone through, and she was warmed and comforted by his endearments. When she'd read them all, she held them to her heart for a moment, soothed by the knowledge that although he couldn't be with her, he'd be by her side in his thoughts.

Returning the letters to their hiding place, she realised it was almost time to leave. Once she'd washed her face and hands, and stripped off her Utility trousers and thick sweater, she brushed out her hair and then twisted it into a tight bun at her nape. She carefully rolled up the neatly darned thick black stockings that Barbara had lent her, fastened them to her suspender belt, and then stepped into the simple black dress she and Barbara had fashioned from the donated ballgown. With cap sleeves and a square neckline, it skimmed over her narrow hips to her knees, the silky lining cool and smooth against her skin.

As she tethered Barbara's black felt hat with a hatpin, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and quickly looked away. Without make-up or jewellery to lighten the sombre outfit, she looked ashen, the shadows of her sleepless nights bruising the skin beneath her dull blue eyes, her almost bloodless lips drawn down with sadness. Not wanting to linger, she stepped into her low-heeled pumps, picked up the Bible she'd found amongst the books at the WVS, and went downstairs.

They were all waiting for her in the kitchen: Joseph in his Sunday suit, Barbara in her best tweed suit, polished brogues, dark brown hat and fox-fur wrap. The eight land girls were neat and solemn in clean trousers, polished boots and thick overcoats, and even the two elderly farmhands had made an effort with their best tweed jackets and caps, and freshly pressed trousers.

Mary gave them all a wan smile of greeting as she pulled on her dark grey overcoat that, despite having been sponged down, still held the faint reminder of smoke from the fire. Tying the belt firmly round her waist, she pulled up the collar against the chill outside and drew on her woollen gloves. She was as ready as she ever would be.

With a nod to Barbara, she slipped her hand into the crook of her arm and followed everyone as they trooped out of the kitchen into the hall.

As she stepped out of the front door beneath the shelter of Joseph's large umbrella, Mary was gratified to see the crowd of people waiting in the street, and could recognise not only those from her village, but from the outlying hamlets, and even Hillney. Yet all she could really focus on was the big shiny black car and the two coffins which lay side by side in the back.

There were no flowers, for it was the wrong time of year and all the growers had turned to planting vegetable crops, but Barbara had helped her to make a wreath of holly and ivy. They'd threaded this with a white ribbon which was tied in a bow over the small card Mary had written in loving memory of them both.

Mr Clough, the undertaker, wore black tails, pinstripe trousers, a pristine white shirt and black tie. He took off his top hat and bowed to her, his long pale face solemn. Holding the hat in the crook of one arm, he went to stand in front of the hearse, then raised his ebony-handled umbrella to signal to the driver and led the way down the lane and past the shuttered shops.

Men and boys took off their hats and caps as a sign of respect, and women dipped their heads before they joined the cortège. Mary soon became aware of a low murmur, and the tramp of many feet behind her, yet her gaze barely lifted from those coffins as she walked behind them, for this was the last time she could accompany her parents down the village street.

As they walked past the pub which wouldn't open today until after the service, and then past the deserted school and playground to the last house and the final bend, Mary's footsteps faltered, and she had to hold tightly on to Barbara's arm as she steeled herself to face what she'd been avoiding all week.

She stood trembling in shock as her horrified gaze took in the piles of rubble, the remains of a windowless wall, the charred beams and the single blackened chimney breast that stood like a sentinel above the ruins of her home. The lawns had been trampled into mud, the garage was merely a heap of ash and the nearby trees and shrubs had been scorched and withered by the heat.

She looked from the rectory to the skeleton of the lovely old church. The high, damaged walls were windowless, the altar and nave open to the skies beneath the few surviving blackened ribs of the once-soaring roof. The square tower was still standing, but looked forlorn without the flagpole and clock. The large stone font seemed much smaller than before as it stood stripped of its wooden cover, abandoned between the remaining pillars, the rubble surrounding it containing the detritus of sodden hymnals, burnt pews and charred vestments. Even the grass in the graveyard had been seared, and the new white headstones had been stained by the oily grime of smoke.

‘Come, Mary,' Barbara said softly as Joseph turned away to do his duty as a pall-bearer. ‘Everyone has congregated, and it's time for us to follow them.'

Mary made herself concentrate, for the undertaker was now organising Joseph and the men of the Home Guard who would help carry the coffins. Yet, as they were slowly brought from the back of the hearse and lifted on to the pall-bearers' shoulders, she was overwhelmed with grief and had to force down the lump in her throat, struggling to remain calm.

Determined not to cry or make a show, she kept her head erect and her back straight as she followed the coffins into the rain-soaked churchyard. Quiet dignity was what her parents would have asked of her, and she silently prayed that she would find the strength and courage to fulfil their expectations.

The dean was waiting at the graveside, sheltered from the elements by the umbrella his wife held over him, resplendent in his white surplice, the deep purple sash hanging around his neck. He began to intone the first words of the service once the coffins were reverently laid on the ground before him, and the gathering drew nearer.

Mary stood between Barbara and Joseph, aware of the lingering smell of burnt stone and wood, and the chill of the wet grass beneath her feet as the rain pattered on their umbrella, and the wind blew shrivelled leaves to scurry and swirl through the silent headstones and among the church ruins. She was numb with grief, barely able to concentrate on the dean's seemingly endless speech, and his dreary reading of the Bishop's equally long eulogy.

Then her spirits lightened as Dr Haywood stepped forward. He gave her a smile of understanding and encouragement, and began to talk about Gideon and Emmaline with great affection. He told them how he and Gideon would sit long into the night playing chess or discussing books and poetry – and how Emmaline had worked so tirelessly for her charities and been such a wonderful comfort to him when his wife was dying.

‘And now,' he said in his warm, deep voice that carried even to those furthest away, ‘I will recite something that Gideon was passionate about. I doubt I'll do it justice, for I cannot hope to emulate his wonderful speaking voice, but I hope he will approve of my poor effort.'

As Mary listened to him, she suddenly felt at peace. The words of Dylan Thomas's poem were a comfort, and it was as if her father was speaking to her in his beautiful, musical Welsh lilt that had never faded despite his years of living in England.

The actual interment was an ordeal, but thankfully the dean kept it short, perhaps at last aware of the bitterly cold wind endangering not only his own health, but that of the many elderly mourners who were sheltering from the driving sleet beneath umbrellas.

As the dean solemnly intoned the final few words, there was a general shifting of feet and then a decorous but swift departure from the churchyard towards the promise of warmth and a strong cup of tea.

Mary turned to Barbara. ‘I'd like to stay for a few minutes,' she said. ‘Just to say my own goodbyes.'

‘Will you be all right?'

Mary nodded, and as Barbara and Joseph turned to leave, having insisted she take the umbrella, she closed her eyes in prayer. Her parents were together as they had been in life, and were now at rest. She hoped that her father still watched over her, for his guiding hand had always been steady – and she would need it in the days and weeks to come.

Turning away finally, she realised it had stopped raining. Furling the umbrella, she slowly picked her way through the grass and around the headstones to the stone archway that still soared above the entrance to the church. There was nothing left of the oak door and wooden porch, and she carefully made her way down the worn stone steps that worshippers had trodden for centuries, into the heart of the devastation.

The majesty of this ancient building had not been diminished, she realised, even though the roof was gone, and the Gothic windows were empty. Her footsteps echoed as she walked amid the ruins, but she could feel an all-pervading sense of peace wash over her. This was where her father had felt most at home, and the knowledge that this lovely ancient place still held the power and presence of God gave her comfort.

Mary managed to get through the rest of the day by keeping busy. She passed round sandwiches and cups of tea, made sure she'd thanked everyone for coming, and listened to the stories of her parents' good works in the three parishes.

They had been loved and admired by everyone, it seemed, and Mary had found it difficult to reconcile this view of Emmaline with the woman who'd been her mother. But today was not the time to hold grudges and remember past hurts – it was a day to give thanks for all the good she'd done in the parish and for her unfailing years of loyalty to Gideon.

The dean had shaken hands and pontificated at length to anyone he could trap in a corner, as his wife Marjorie scuttled about with cups of tea and tried to fade into the background. The elderly women soon got into a group by the fire to try and outdo each other with tales of other funerals they'd attended, while the men ate voraciously, watched the clock, and wondered how soon they could decently leave. Joseph and the farmhands went back to work, while the land girls continued to make tea, cut sandwiches and wash the piles of crockery that soon mounted up.

Conversation ebbed and flowed, and by mid-afternoon the sense of solemnity and gloom had been replaced with chatter and laughter as people forgot why they were there and simply enjoyed the chance to gossip in the warmth of the farmhouse sitting room.

Barbara finally closed the door on the last of them and leant against it with a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘I thought they'd never leave,' she said.

Mary gave her a hug. ‘Thank you, Auntie Barbara. You've worked so hard all day, and I couldn't possibly have got through it without you and Uncle Joseph.'

Barbara's smile was warm as she regarded the clean kitchen. ‘None of us would have got through it if it hadn't been for those girls. They've done sterling work today, and, as if that wasn't enough, they're now out with Joseph and doing the milking.' She cupped Mary's cheek in her hand. ‘And what about you, love? The day must have been a terrible ordeal.'

‘It was to begin with, but after Dr Haywood recited that poem, I found I could cope much better with everything.'

Barbara nodded and lit a rare cigarette as she kicked off her shoes and settled into a kitchen chair to relax for the first time that day. ‘He's a lovely man,' she murmured. ‘And he recited that poem so beautifully it was as if I could hear your father again.'

Mary took a deep quivering breath. ‘Yes,' she replied softly. ‘I felt that too.'

Barbara got up from the table, checked on the stew that had been slowly cooking throughout the day in the range oven, and fetched a bottle from the dresser in the corner. ‘Why don't you sit down with me and have a glass of my parsnip wine? Supper's still two hours away, and I think we've earned a pick-me-up.'

Mary smiled. ‘No thanks. The last time I tried that it went straight to my head.' She watched as Barbara filled a small glass and took a sip. ‘If you don't mind, I'd rather like to be alone for a little while,' she said hesitantly.