by Beth Corby
We approach the church in paces measured out by the beats of the drum, and the last stragglers hurry inside. With a final drum roll, we halt in front of the church doors and follow Grandma Betty around the hearse to be greeted by the vicar.
‘Good morning,’ he says pleasantly. Grandma Betty glowers at him. I’m not sure if she disapproves of the ‘good’, or if it’s just her shoes, but the vicar’s smile drops a few notches. ‘You may follow the coffin into the church in a procession or take your seats,’ he offers.
‘We shall take our seats,’ declares Grandma Betty, not bothering to consult the rest of us.
‘The front two pews are reserved for family,’ says the vicar, and hurries away to help the pallbearers.
As we walk in, I almost cannon into the back of Mum as everyone suddenly stops. I look over her shoulder to see what’s happened and my breath catches in my throat. The church is full! I had no idea Uncle Donald was so popular.
Grandma Betty recovers first and, hoisting herself to her full height, strides down the nave like she owns the place. Mum and Aunty Pam keep in line behind her. I follow, feeling like I’m on show, but with Lauren gliding gracefully at my side I doubt anyone’s looking at me.
I’ve hardly sat down when the organ starts up and we all stand for the arrival of the coffin. The vicar leads, intoning, and is blissfully unaware of the pallbearers shuffling awkwardly up the aisle behind him. It becomes clear, as they veer to the left, halt, correct their positions and repeat (seriously alarming the congregation on their port side), that the coffin on their unequal shoulders is pulling them off course. Still oblivious, the vicar reaches the front, closes his eyes and lifts his arms in silent prayer. The rest of us hardly dare breathe as, with shaking arms and legs, the unfortunate pallbearers finally make it to the front and lower the coffin safely onto its stand. There’s a communal exhale of relief and one of the pallbearers even mops his brow with his tie. I stifle a smile.
Finishing his prayers, the vicar turns to welcome us and now that potential disaster has been averted, everyone seems suitably gloomy. Lauren sniffs into her hanky through the readings and the prayers, and I try hard not to feel annoyed that they’re actually nothing special – they don’t reflect Donald’s personality at all. As the choir starts to sing, I glare down at the kneeler, so it takes me a few moments to realise the gorgeous and haunting tune is actually a choral adaptation of the naval song ‘Spanish Ladies’. That’s better! I break into a grin, and look down the pew to see Grandma Betty looking haughty and disdainful – which makes it all the more perfect.
The prayers, hymns and readings that follow are pretty traditional, but as Alec takes the dais for the eulogy and surveys us all, I get the feeling something’s about to happen.
‘Donald was a force of nature. He was both magnificent and shocking. Love him or hate him, you knew when he was in the room.’
There’s a general murmur of amused agreement.
‘And in all my time with Donald, I don’t think I ever had an ordinary day. Even the most mundane tasks were an adventure, and not always in a good way. For example, during one trip to the supermarket, he enchanted a disheartened housewife in the fruit section, had an argument with the fish counter attendant, and broke a self-service till by smacking it ‘for cheek’ with his stick. When he refused to hand over his stick, store officials had us removed from the store and after a few of Donald’s carefully chosen expletives, they called the police! Luckily for us, the policewoman saw the funny side and let us off with a caution. She even gave Donald her number before we left, and I believe they stayed good friends—’
‘Yes, we did!’ shouts someone from halfway down the nave, and everyone laughs.
Alec nods. ‘Let’s just say we didn’t get our shopping that day, and I never took Donald to the supermarket again, which I’m sure was his intention all along.’ I can’t help laughing along with everyone else.
‘As if life with Donald wasn’t exciting enough, he loved practical jokes. Even preparing for this funeral, Donald tried to convince the vicar to let the coffin spring open at an inappropriate moment . . .’ Alec stares hard at the coffin, and so do I ‘. . . but the vicar said no.’ There’s a shout of laughter from behind me, and even the vicar chuckles, shaking his head. Grandma Betty glares and tuts. ‘He had you going though,’ says Alec.
‘In the end it all came down to family with Donald. He loved his sister, Betty.’ I glance to where she’s sitting with her head held high. ‘He said she was the most fun you could have without morphine.’
There are a few amused snorts and Grandma Betty’s jaws clamp tight.
‘As children they were close,’ Alec continues relentlessly. ‘With Donald valuing her kindness and trustworthiness, confident she would never reveal a secret. He lived life happy in the knowledge that he could always rely on her placid and accepting nature.’
I glance along the pew. This has to be nonsense, and Grandma Betty’s livid, twelve-bore glare confirms it. What the hell did she do? What secret did she reveal? I’m almost desperate enough to ask, but Alec isn’t finished.
‘And I can’t fault her for her unrelenting and selfless care of Donald in his final days. They had a blast – often talking for hours.’
Wait, what? Alec’s looking straight at me, and his odd annunciation sinks in. He hasn’t really put ‘Blast-off’ into the eulogy! He and Donald have no shame!
‘She was a tower of strength,’ continues Alec, looking away, ‘and stayed up reading him Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Women in Love into the small hours.’ Grandma Betty’s neck is now a bright and fiery red. ‘And after everything,’ says Alec, his voice as hard as nails, ‘Donald would like me to thank her, for letting him have the final word,’ and as Alec descends from the dais, the choir starts to sing ‘Nobody Does It Better’ in four-part harmony. Knowing full well Donald means himself and not Grandma Betty, I stare down at my feet, certain that if I catch anyone’s eye, I will laugh.
Collecting the coffin, the pallbearers lead us out to the graveside in a more secure formation, and we file out after them. Grandma Betty’s still simmering with suppressed rage. Her steps are slow and deliberate and when Grandpa Albert tries to take her arm, she twitches it away so violently she almost elbows a lady still seated in a pew in the head.
Out at the graveside, the birds sing and the sun shines its blessing on the occasion, but Grandma Betty takes up her position and stands rooted, with teeth clenched, glowering as they lower Donald’s coffin into the ground. If he’d ordered a cremation, I feel sure Grandma Betty could oblige him with her eyes alone. Beside her, Lauren is sniffing again, and Dad moves to stand protectively at her side. I bite my lips together. I almost wish I could summon up a few tears, as Uncle Donald deserves them, but for some reason I can’t. I stare shamefully dry eyed into the hole as the vicar recites the committal.
‘Earth to earth,’ says the vicar, sprinkling soil into the grave, ‘ashes to ashes, dust to—’
‘Move aside!’ The interruption makes me jump, and by the time I’ve recovered an elderly lady, who must be in her eighties and is dressed entirely in pink, has pushed her way through the crowd and is standing at the edge of the grave. She leans over the hole. ‘Your time is up, Donald Makepiece. Now it’s my turn. All your dirty little secrets are about to come out, and you can’t do a thing to stop it!’
The vicar turns to us with an air of desperation, asking wordlessly if she’s an eccentric relation. We all shake our heads, equally bewildered.
‘Um, excuse me?’ asks the vicar.
The old lady points into the hole. ‘He thought he’d won, but he hasn’t.’ She glares at us all. ‘I could tell you some things about Donald that would make your hair curl, and now I’m free to do so!’ And with great ceremony, she turns back to the grave and spits in it.
I recoil, and the crowd ripples with shock.
‘Now hang on!’ begins Dad, starting forward, but the old woman holds up her hands.
‘No need.
I’ve done what I came to do. Now, let me through.’ She grabs Dad’s arm to support herself as she yanks her heel out of the soft grass and after giving a last exultant glance, she walks away.
The crowd closes behind her, and the vicar laughs nervously. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, shall we resume? Earth to earth—’
‘You’ve read that bit,’ snaps Grandma Betty.
The vicar collects himself.
‘Looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout . . .’
I can’t help thinking the ‘Lord Himself’ will have to wait his turn at this funeral. And I glance about anxiously as the vicar finishes with an ‘Amen’ and an audible sigh of relief.
I stare into the grave and listen to the inevitable whispers as the congregation start to leave.
‘Can you believe that woman spat in the grave?’
‘. . . actually spat!’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it . . .’
‘Old people are so disgusting!’ rings one woman’s nasal voice, and I turn to see Grandma Betty standing stock still, her eyes closed in mute mortification.
‘Do we really have to attend the wake?’ Uncle Nigel asks Aunty Pam.
‘Yes, the solicitor is going to read the will afterwards,’ she replies and Alec stiffens.
They join the crowd heading back to The Laurels, but I stay staring down at the flower-strewn coffin, trying to ignore the spit and focus on Donald. Alec is looking down, too. He seems deep in thought. I wait silently as everyone wanders away, feeling odd, despite our differences, about leaving him here on his own.
‘Do you want to be alone?’ I ask tentatively.
Alec shrugs, not looking at me. I glance at the people caught in the bottleneck at the church gate.
‘Well, that was certainly different,’ I hazard.
‘Never a dull moment with Donald,’ he says, his voice flat.
‘You don’t seem surprised. Were you expecting that?’
Alec seems to pull himself together. He gives me a blank look before dropping his gaze to the coffin again. ‘No.’
‘And the service . . .’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve never heard of retribution by eulogy before. Clever, if a little mean, but I expect Grandma Betty deserved it.’ Alec doesn’t reply. I sigh heavily, wondering what to say next. A light breeze disturbs the tall, uncut grasses around us. I stare down at the finality of the pine box holding the lovely man I met at the party. ‘I wish I’d known him better.’ And without warning the tears come. No sobbing or sniffing, just big, fat tears dripping off my chin. I wipe my face on my jacket sleeve, and take a few deep breaths. Here I was wishing for tears, and now I feel a bit silly.
‘Sorry,’ I say, but Alec just gives an infinitesimal shake of his head.
‘Emotional day,’ he says, excusing me with a businesslike austerity that cures me of any sentiment. I’m tempted to walk off, but I stay, caught by my own fascination over what happened.
‘Who was that woman?’ I ask.
Alec shakes his head. ‘I honestly have no idea,’ he says quietly.
‘She certainly picked her moment.’ Understatement of the century, but Alec surprises me by smiling sadly, though his forehead keeps its frown.
‘Donald would have liked that.’
‘Really? You don’t think he’d have been angry?’
Alec sighs and hesitates, as if he’s frustrated that he has to explain it to me. ‘Donald would have loved the drama. He’d like that no one will ever forget his funeral . . . or confuse it with someone else’s.’
I stare at the coffin, and realise that he’s right. ‘He didn’t arrange it, did he?’
Alec dismisses this idea with a scathing look. ‘Of course not. He wouldn’t have wanted to upset Mrs C.’
‘Mrs C?’ I ask.
Alec looks at me, as if he’s trying to puzzle out why he’s even bothering to talk to me. ‘Our housekeeper. God, you don’t even know that!’ he says incredulously, and I almost see the mental shutters come down. His eyebrows draw together. ‘You should get to the wake,’ he says harshly.
‘There’s no rush,’ I say gently, unsure what I’ve said to upset him.
‘No, I suppose not, given that the will reading isn’t until afterwards,’ he says nastily.
A spasm of anger flashes through me. ‘Aunty Pam said that, not me, and why would I care? I’m not expecting anything.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ he sneers.
‘Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,’ I retort.
He glares at me and, turning his back, stalks off across the graveyard with his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
What is his problem? If he’s unhappy with how Donald left his affairs he should have taken it up with Donald, not mope about resenting everyone.
Giving Donald’s grave one last look, I follow Alec at a discreet distance, and I’m only marginally surprised to hear swing band music and raucous laughter coming from The Laurels. Inside, there’s barely room to move.
I push my way in, and thankfully I don’t see Alec anywhere.
I assess the mass of people and see Grandma Betty fending off a well-wisher who’s obviously taken the eulogy too literally. I can’t see Grandma Betty’s face, but the well-wisher hastily backs away with a stunned expression.
Relieving a passing waiter of a glass of wine, I head out into the garden and find the bench I sat on at the party empty. I sit down and close my eyes against the sun.
‘Hello. It’s Hannah, isn’t it?’
My eyes snap open to find an elegant woman who looks to be in her mid-to-late sixties standing beside me. I feel caught out and flustered, but I shift up so she can sit down.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘No, Donald asked me to introduce myself. I’m Lady Jane Forester. Call me Jane,’ she says warmly, holding out her hand.
I shake it awkwardly.
‘Donald suggested you might need a friend,’ says Jane.
‘A friend?’ I bridle a little that he thought I didn’t have any.
Jane smiles. ‘Yes, I know it sounds a bit odd and I’m sure you have your own friends, but if you need one of Donald’s then call me. Any time,’ she adds, taking a pen from her purse and scribbling her number down on the back of her order of service. ‘I’m aware this sounds cryptic, but it’s all I can tell you right now. I do mean it, though.’
She hands it to me and I get a funny feeling that something important is happening. ‘So you’re saying I might need you at some point?’ I ask.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Well then, I guess . . . thank you?’ I say, failing to keep the confusion out of my voice.
‘You’re welcome,’ says Jane, getting up. ‘Day or night,’ she adds, and then walks back to the house.
Day or night? I stare down at Donald’s picture on the front of the order of service. He’s obviously up to something – but what? I fold it carefully, making sure I don’t put a crease across his photo, and slip it in my pocket. I take a sip of my wine.
What on earth is going on?
Chapter 6
Now that the wake is over, the catering company are clearing up. Alec, my family and I are all idly watching the clearing up happen around us, sipping the last of our wine, while waiting for Mr Sanderson, the solicitor, to be ready for us.
‘Please come in,’ he finally calls, and we troop into Donald’s small study, crowding around the desk with Grandma Betty and Grandpa Albert sat in front, Nicholas and Uncle Nigel grabbing the two fireside armchairs and the rest of us standing. I’m pressed up against a bookcase, and Alec is leaning against the doorframe, his strong arms folded tightly across his chest, his expression dark. Behind the desk, faced with us all, Mr Sanderson seems a bit overwhelmed, and I don’t blame him.
He clears his throat and looks up nervously. It’s amazing how quickly everyone falls silent, but I suppose we’re talking money here. I glance around wondering who out
of all of us is expecting anything. My money’s on Grandma Betty, Nicholas and Lauren.
‘This is the last will and testament of Mr Donald Makepiece of The Laurels, dated three months ago. Let all previous wills be retracted and considered null.’ Mr Sanderson squints up at us, clears his throat and launches into a long list of small bequests, and one large bequest of three hundred thousand pounds already settled on a Mrs Crumpton, who’s not in the room with us, but who I assume is Alec’s mysterious Mrs C. There’s a ruffle of discontent, but this abruptly ceases as Mr Sanderson says, ‘And now we come to the family.’ Mr Sanderson glances nervously at Grandma Betty, and to be fair she is looking pretty formidable just now. ‘ “To my dear sister, Betty, I leave the sum of two thousand pounds . . .” ’ He pauses, and nervously clears his throat again, ‘ “. . . to let her know that she is forgiven for the great wrong that she did me”.’
Grandma Betty inflates with outrage. ‘The wrong I did him?’ she demands.
What ‘wrong’? Who did what? And it seems everyone is thinking along the same lines because we’re all staring at her.
But Mr Sanderson ploughs on. ‘ “To Betty I also leave one genuine police truncheon – an appropriate addition to any expression she chooses to adopt”.’
Betty’s mouth falls open, and I share a quick scandalised yet gleeful glance with Lauren.
‘ “For her husband, Albert, I have procured an allotment within easy walking distance of their home”—’
‘An allotment?’ cries Betty. ‘What’s Donald trying to insinuate – that Albert needs some sort of . . . refuge? How dare he! Albert needs no such thing! Tell him, Albert. Tell him that you don’t want it!’
Grandpa Albert glances nervously at us all, his eyebrows raised, but there’s unmistakable delight on his face. ‘Actually, my dear, I’ve had my name down for one of those allotments for three years. They are very difficult to come by. I wonder how he managed it.’
Mr Sanderson takes advantage of Grandma Betty’s flabbergasted silence to continue. ‘ “I have set aside a sum of money to be used to build a shed upon this land, complete with tea-making facilities for his use the year round. And to my sister’s blood relatives, I leave five hundred pounds apiece”,’ adds Mr Sanderson quickly.