After the Funeral

by Gillian Poucher

  Mrs Wheeldon brought over three sets of white hats and bootees for our stall. Ada was serving Mrs Morton at the time. The poor lady has aged considerably since the news came that Ronald died in the Battle of the Java Sea last year.

  My sister pushed me aside as I reached out to take the baby clothes and gushingly enquired after Leonard. So far Leonard has survived where Ronald Morton has not.

  I avoided looking at Ada while Mrs Wheeldon spoke to me, complimenting me on my pretty dress. She said she would be back with Leonard later after he had rested from his long journey. I could feel Ada’s glare burning into my back until Mrs Wheeldon made her exit, greeting people to the right and left as she went. I glanced over at the refreshments table to see if Mother noticed, knowing she would be irritated by the other woman’s airs.

  Ada went off to powder her nose. When she returned, I saw she had re-applied her new red lipstick. She was unusually lively during the next hour, speaking and laughing louder than necessary. Observing her frequent glances towards the door, I realised she was hoping that when Leonard arrived he would see her happy and animated. I felt an unexpected sympathy for her, realising her hopes of Leonard run deep. I am sure, though, that her attachment to him is nothing like my instant connection yesterday with Wing Commander Brooke. Leonard and Ada were childhood friends; there is nothing mysterious about Leonard Wheeldon. But I have so much to discover about my Canadian airman. (Already I think of him as ‘mine’ without knowing anything about him apart from his interest in mediaeval churches)!

  As the church clock rang three, Leonard arrived, smart and upright in his naval uniform, deeply tanned from service. His mother hung off his arm proudly, guiding him round the hall. It was unfortunate that just as they arrived Father was judging the best spring cabbages. I couldn’t help comparing Mrs Wheeldon’s parading of her son with Mr Entwistle’s elevation of his prize cabbages. The old man beamed with pleasure at winning the prize for the eighth consecutive year, whilst his arch-rival Mr Tyson glowered to receive second prize yet again.

  I began to giggle, and Ada nudged me sharply as Mrs Wheeldon shepherded Leonard in our direction. She put her hand on my shoulder, telling me to go and make the tea. But Leonard immediately stepped in and offered to join me.

  Ada scowled as I moved away with Leonard alongside me, and Mother scowled too as we approached her refreshment stall. But she favoured Leonard with one of her rare smiles before turning to me to say disapprovingly, ‘I hope you haven’t abandoned Ada on the stall, Emily.’

  I knew what she was thinking and I quickly explained that Ada had sent me for tea. Mother sighed sceptically and turned back to Leonard who was shaking hands with William Prescott. I couldn’t help noticing how William’s Army uniform seemed to hang off his slight frame. He looked like a schoolboy playing dress up.

  Ada glared at me when I returned with the last cup of stewed tea from the pot, but brightened when I told her that Mother was making fresh and Leonard would bring her a cup. The truce was short-lived as Mrs Wheeldon turned to me again and asked me to visit one afternoon for tea, saying her husband has a collection of history books she thought I might be interested in.

  I was surprised but pleased she had thought to ask me. Ada stopped in the action of folding a white matinee jacket as Leonard approached the table with a cup of steaming tea.

  I was shocked as Ada leaped in. ‘We would love to come, wouldn’t we, Emily? Thank you so much, Mrs Wheeldon. Tomorrow would be quite convenient.’

  Leonard glanced at his mother, his dark brows furrowed. Mrs Wheeldon raised her own eyebrows in return with a half-smile. It occurred to me the invitation had perhaps been intended only for me. But I remained silent, thinking it would be better for Ada to accompany me. I don’t want her to harbour any further resentment towards me. I realised yesterday that it began at the Christmas dance when Leonard partnered me. Leonard knows Ada better. Perhaps if they spend some time together, their friendship might develop into something more.

  Ada’s unusual vivacity drained away when the Wheeldons departed a few minutes later. I offered to finish up on my own when she complained of the heat. Few people remained besides the stallholders, although I noticed William Prescott and his mother were still drinking tea with the Entwistles. Mr Entwistle, usually so quiet and serious, looked very animated, no doubt still revelling in his success with the spring cabbages.

  My head was bent over the shillings, half crowns and sixpences when a voice said, ‘So even our church bazaars owe their origins to England?’

  I started, knocking over two piles of coins which scattered across the table and rolled along the floor.

  ‘I apologise. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Wing Commander Brooke bent to pick up the half crowns from the floor.

  ‘No – I – it’s the heat – I didn’t expect to see you here.’ I bit my lip, wondering if he would realise my admission meant I had been thinking about him. Which of course I had.

  He stood, placing the money on the table. ‘Did you not?’ He eyed me steadily, and I marvelled again at his bright blue eyes.

  ‘No. A church bazaar. I’m sure you must have more interesting ways of spending your days off.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ He continued to look at me, sweeping up some coins on the table with his right hand.

  I dropped my eyes, unnerved once more by that piercing blue gaze, and made a show of gathering some coins myself. I saw how long his fingers were, the square cut nails, the fine blonde hairs on the backs of his hand. I noticed also a faint residue of paint: blue, red, yellow, all the primary colours.

  ‘As you see, I spend some of my free time painting.’

  His comment disconcerted me. He had seen me looking at his hands. The thought I had yesterday, that he could see to my very soul, returned. My hand froze above the pile of shillings.

  He too stopped stacking coins. Slowly his hand inched towards mine across the table. He covered my small hand with his large one. Very gently he stroked my thumb. I shivered.

  ‘Life is precious, Miss Goulceby. I fly again tonight.’ He paused and his voice was husky when he spoke again. ‘I had to see you. You know that, don’t you?’

  I lifted my gaze to his as he continued to stroke my thumb, with greater pressure. I couldn’t speak. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it must burst out of my chest, that he must hear it.

  I can only hope, thinking that he is in one of those planes screeching above the village now, that he saw my answer in my eyes.

  He withdrew his hand so suddenly that I jumped again. He had spotted Mother bearing down upon us. I quickly resumed stacking the coins, aware that William Prescott was also edging towards the table.

  Mother nodded curtly to the airman, grudgingly thanking him for his help. He went over to speak with Father who was engaged in conversation with Mr Tyson. I saw Father’s shoulders relax beneath his black jacket when Wing Commander Brooke approached, and was unaccountably pleased that Father liked him.

  William Prescott handed me some coins, remarking that I had seemed startled by the airman. His sly smile widened as I felt a tell-tale blush spread upwards from my neck and he made some cryptic comment about keeping an eye out for Leonard’s interests.

  Mother and I collected the coins silently for a few minutes. From the tail of my eye I saw the airman leave the hall. Then Mother spoke. ‘Be careful of that young man, Emily. Too many girls find themselves made fools of by handsome men in uniforms. Remember you know nothing about him at all.’

  I pretended that I didn’t understand, cursing another rush of colour to my cheeks.

  I was relieved that Father came towards us at that moment, delighted by his conversation with Wing Commander Brooke. Mother commented that she hoped he had also spoken with Leonard and told Father about our invitation to tea at the Wheeldons.

  I kept my belief that Mrs Wheeldon had only intended to invite me for tea to myself, realising that Mother shared my sister’s hope that her friendship with Leonard might devel
op into something more. But I am quite certain that however long Leonard and Ada have known one another, their bond is nothing compared to the bond I feel from just two meetings with Wing Commander Brooke.

  15 May 1943

  I have never felt so fearful as I do tonight. The aircraft roared overhead two or three hours ago. The sound has become so familiar over these last three years that it doesn’t fill me with dread in the way it did when the war started. Hearing it, I’ve always prayed for the safe return of the men on board. But tonight the depth of my fear and dread surpasses anything I have known before. What if he does not return?

  How can it be such a beautiful spring night and there are men out there intent on wreaking destruction and death in their flying machines?

  I torture myself that I might never see those clear blue eyes gazing into mine again, never hear that quiet Canadian voice again, never know his touch again. I can’t stop thinking about how his large hand advanced across the table to cover my small one, how I trembled at his touch. I hear him saying, over and over in that altered voice, ‘I had to see you. You know that, don’t you?’

  It does no good for me to remind myself I have only met him twice. Those two meetings have changed my life. I know that even if he doesn’t return tonight.

  I can’t sleep. Writing helps. I need to think about something else, or I shall go mad. I will convince myself he will be killed. He could be dead by now.

  Please, God, bring him back. Bring him back to me.

  I kept away from Ada as much as possible this morning, unable to share her excitement at the prospect of tea with the Wheeldons. I sought refuge with Father in the study, though I was distracted from my task of sorting through the remainder of Mr Smithson’s books. Father was muttering to himself as he completed his sermon on the woman caught in adultery. I was glad his mind was elsewhere so I could day-dream about Wing Commander Brooke.

  It was another warm, sunny day. Through the open window I could hear the bees buzzing through the lavender, the scent of lilac in the air. I could imagine it was Thursday again, that any moment Mother would come in announcing our visitor, and there he would be, his short hair golden in the sunlight, turning his searching gaze towards me…

  I jumped when Father asked if I was all right. He had finished his sermon and noticed I hadn’t turned a page of my book. I said I was tired from lack of sleep because of the heat. I was ashamed to lie to Father, but I could hardly tell him that I had lain awake imagining Captain Brooke’s hand moving beyond my hand, caressing me, his lips on mine!

  Father came round the desk to me and raised my chin so I had to look at him. It was a gesture familiar from childhood whenever he sensed I was anxious. He asked if there was anything troubling me. I said there wasn’t. Then he mentioned our visit to the Wheeldons, cupping his chin as he does when he is considering something carefully.

  ‘Emily,’ he began, ‘you are of an age where matters of the heart will assume a new importance. My hope for you – and indeed Ada – is that one day you will be happily married.’

  He paused. I shifted in the armchair, watching a bluebottle fly against the window without finding the opening.

  ‘I don’t wish to embarrass you,’ he said gently. ‘But I would like to offer you some advice, which you may or may not choose to follow.’ He picked up a newspaper from his desk and walked across to the window, batting the insect through the gap. Keeping his back to me, his voice was strangely choked when he spoke again.

  ‘When you marry,’ he said, ‘make sure you marry for love. Never marry to fulfil anyone’s expectations, or for convenience, or social standing. If you do, if you marry for any reason other than love, you will regret it.’ He turned and crossed the room to where I sat. I was surprised by the urgency in his eyes as he placed one hand on my shoulder and tilted my face towards him again with the other. ‘Do you understand, Emily?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I think I do.’

  But many questions milled around in my head, buzzing around like the bluebottle he had just set free. Had he any inkling of my feelings for Wing Commander Brooke? Was he giving me his blessing, where Mother had warned me against the airman? Was he concerned I might marry someone who I did not love in the future? Was he – and I found my mind skittering away from the possibility, because it was too painful to contemplate, although in truth I knew the answer – was he telling me that he and Mother were unhappy? Had they married for some other reason than love – to fulfil expectations, for convenience, or social standing, which he rejected as grounds for a happy marriage?

  He was watching me closely, as if trying to determine from my expression whether I did understand. With a pang, I noticed suddenly how he has aged in recent months: his slim shoulders have become a little stooped, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes have deepened, his hair, now completely grey, has receded further from his lined forehead. I realised how this war is taking its toll on him. Although funerals of airmen at the village church are usually conducted by the Padre, Father is always present. Whilst he never discusses his experiences in the trenches during the Great War, I have often contemplated in recent years how terrible it must have been for such a gentle and sensitive man.

  I didn’t wish to be a cause of anxiety to him. Under his scrutiny, I repeated that I understood. I was relieved to see the strain disappear from his face and his usual kindly smile return.

  He sent me off to rest before lunch, the only time he has ever dismissed me. We have never discussed human feelings so openly before and I was still much affected by his choked voice when he advised me to marry only for love.

  I hesitated in front of his walnut desk. He had returned to his armchair and was absently twisting the cap on his fountain pen, looking beyond me. I asked him if he were happy.

  He pulled the cap off the fountain pen with such force that I jumped and took a step back. There was an anguish in his eyes that I hope never to see again as he asked how he could be happy when so many good men are dying across the world, just as they did less than thirty years ago. He said how terrible it was to look over his congregations on Sunday mornings and see women like Mrs Morton or Mrs Renshaw or Mrs Wright grown old before their time because they have lost their sons. He spoke of the distress he feels when he speaks with a young man like Leonard who he had christened and confirmed, and sees the shadow pass across his face as he thinks of the men he was unable to rescue at Dunkirk, remembering them rather than the many he did help to save.

  He paused and I looked down, ashamed at the childishness of my question. I have never heard my father speak with such passion and despair. He continued more quietly, ‘Nor am I happy when I meet a fine young man like Wing Commander Brooke, a man who reminds me of myself at that age with his intellect and sensitivity, and wonder, lying awake at night, if he will be in one of the aeroplanes which returns safely to the base, or if he too will be lost.’

  I turned quickly and walked over to the window, suddenly dizzy. I placed my hands on the sill and gulped in the lilac scented air. I heard the laughter and shrieks of children in the school playground, the drone of aircraft, the rising roar of an approaching motor cycle. Just as it passed the vicarage gateway, Father spoke again, very softly. ‘A question which I am quite sure is also tormenting my youngest daughter.’

  My back to my father as the roar of the motorcycle faded to a distant hum, I decided to dissemble. Whether I chose to do so to save myself from embarrassment, or to protect him from anxiety on my account, I could not say. Perhaps it was both. I turned towards him and said, as if I hadn’t heard his final words above the din of the motorcycle, ‘I am sorry, Father. Of course you can’t be happy with this war going on, remembering your own experiences in the Great War. And you were right. I am tired. I should rest before lunch.’

  He looked at me steadily for a moment. Then he sighed and glanced down at the papers on his desk. He shuffled them together without looking up at me, and his voice was unusually cool. ‘As you wish, Emily.’

&nbs
p; I went upstairs to my room and wept. I wept because I was tired. I wept because I was afraid for the Canadian airman, and confused by my tumultuous feelings for him. And I wept for my father, who carries such burdens and such sadness, and who I had disappointed by my evasiveness.

  I splashed water on my face when Mother called me down to lunch. Father had left the house on a bereavement visit. Mother was harassed by extra chores. Florrie had not turned up though it was one of her two days working for us. Ada was unusually cheerful, just as she was at the bazaar yesterday, no doubt looking forward to going to tea at the Wheeldons. I was grateful they were too preoccupied to notice my low mood.

  I thought of pleading a headache to avoid going, but it was better to be occupied. Otherwise I would be unable to stop thinking about Wing Commander Brooke and the conversation with Father. Besides, Mrs Wheeldon had been kind to remember my interest in local history. I was also unsure what reception Ada would receive if she went alone, since I believed Mrs Wheeldon had only intended to invite me to look through her husband’s books.

  Ada chattered away as we walked the half mile to the Wheeldons’ house. As we turned down the driveway past the immaculate lawns, she pinched my arm, telling me to spend a long time with the books so she and Leonard could ‘have a proper conversation.’ She made some silly comment about how jealous Hilda and Mary would be if they knew we were invited for tea. I snapped at her, reminding her of the terrible experiences Leonard has been through, still preoccupied by my conversation with Father.

  Her expression darkened, but I had no time to apologise as Ethel opened the door to us, looking unusually subdued. I must ask Florrie if everything is all right with her when she is next in as they are such great friends. Ethel, like Florrie, is such a cheerful girl, and I would hate to think anything is troubling her.