The Perfect Marriage

by Debbie Viggiano

  A short distance in front of them net curtains twitched violently.

  ‘Uh-oh. My mother has just seen you touching me. There will be no stopping her now.’

  Matt released Rosie’s hand and gazed up at a large bay window. On the other side of the window pane, Hester was glaring balefully back. Matt gave a cheery wave prompting Hester’s mouth to purse like a dog’s bum. The net curtain dropped back in place and Hester disappeared from sight. As Matt and Rosie walked up to the semi, the front door opened.

  ‘Good morning, Rosie,’ Hester greeted her daughter coolly. ‘Of all the days to parade your lover, I don’t think it’s appropriate to do so today.’

  ‘Stop it, Mum,’ said Rosie wearily.

  ‘Good morning, Hester,’ Matt said pleasantly.

  ‘Don’t you good morning me,’ Hester hissed, ‘because it’s not a good morning. As far as I’m concerned you’re the person that drove poor Dave into an early grave. If you hadn’t sacked him he’d be sitting behind his desk at work right now, instead of lying in my front room waiting for a hearse to take him to the cemetery.’

  ‘Mum, please,’ Rosie implored.

  ‘Perhaps when this is all over,’ Matt lowered his voice discreetly, ‘the two of us can have a heart to heart and start again, afresh.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Palmer. Oooh,’ she broke off to trumpet into a handkerchief, ‘this is all too much for me. Just too distressing.’

  ‘Can we get off the doorstep, Mum?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hester dabbed her eyes and moved out of the way, ‘come in, come in,’ she ushered her daughter into the hallway, ‘and if you must, then you too, Mr Palmer.’ She gave her eyes a last theatrical pat before crumpling the tissue and shoving it up one sleeve of her black jumper. ‘Go into the front room. We’re all in here,’ she pushed down a door handle and Rosie and Matt were instantly engulfed in what seemed to be an octogenarians’ tea party. Except instead of drinking tea, about eight women with blue rinses were making free with a decanter of sherry and talking at the top of their voices. In the centre of the room and lying on what looked like a beauty therapist’s couch, was Dave. Apart from the bruising on his face, he looked as if he’d simply decided to take five minutes out of the party for a snooze. Rosie’s hand flew to her mouth. Things were starting to feel very weird.

  Hester clapped her hands. ‘Gels!’ her voice rang out. ‘Please welcome dear Dave’s distraught widow – my daughter, Rosie.’

  For an awful moment Rosie thought they were all going to give her a round of applause. Instead one old dear raised her glass.

  ‘Cheers, Rosie. Here’s to you, you poor little duck.’

  ‘To Rosie,’ the rest of them chorused, raising their glasses.

  Rosie found a tumbler of sherry being pressed into her hands. Hester, ever wanting to be the centre of attention, raised her own glass to Rosie in a second toast.

  ‘Rosie is a very courageous daughter. A toast to bravery!’

  ‘To bravery,’ they trilled again.

  Seconds later the sherry was being knocked back. The decanter was once again passed around.

  ‘Harriet,’ Hester admonished one of the octogenarians moving over to Rosie and Matt, ‘go easy, dear. You know how alcohol upsets your gout.’

  ‘The gout can chuff off,’ said Harriet defiantly. ‘Today I’m going to enjoy myself. At my time of life, funerals are the only events I get invited to. But never mind that, Hester, tell me who this charming young man is?’ Harriet’s eyes glinted behind her spectacles as she peered at Matt.

  Rosie opened her mouth to speak, but Hester was quicker. ‘This is Matthew Palmer, Rosie’s Financial Advisor,’ she nodded her head vigorously and gave both Rosie and Matt a look that dared to question otherwise. ‘After all, dear Dave was a man of means, and Rosie is now a very wealthy young lady. She has a large London property and a vast lump sum, thanks to dear Dave paying a hefty amount of money every month on life insurance. Mr Palmer is going to advise her how to invest in shares and blue chip companies.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Harriet gave Matt a shrewd look. ‘Well my Albert, God rest his soul, invested in a couple of funeral homes. Oh, don’t look like that, Mr Palmer,’ Harriet prodded Matt playfully in the chest, ‘you won’t make a deadly mistake putting your money there. After all, it’s not a dying trade,’ she gave a screech of laughter. ‘And if you invest long enough, you’ll get your own funeral costs discounted and a free bouquet of flowers on the day. I’m really looking forward to my funeral,’ Harriet nodded, ‘and having a lovely send off.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Rosie smiled and wondered what on earth she could possibly add to the conversation. ‘That sounds…super.’

  ‘Quite,’ Matt smiled. ‘I will certainly give it some thought, Harriet.’

  A toothless lady with a small stoop tugged at Rosie’s sleeve. ‘Hello, dear. Thorry for your loth,’ she lisped.

  ‘Gertrude!’ Rosie bent down and kissed the old lady’s floury cheek. ‘How lovely to see you. I’m sorry it’s not a happier occasion.’

  ‘Oh, I’m very happy, dear,’ Gertrude rested a hand on Rosie’s forearm to steady herself. ‘We’re all having a marvellouth time reminithing about the funerals of our own huthbands. I say, you are the only man here, Mr Palmer, apart from the thstar of the show,’ Gertrude waved a hand expansively at Dave.

  ‘I’m lucky to have the company of so many lovely ladies,’ Matt replied gallantly.

  ‘Hester!’ bawled a woman who was the double of Dot Cotton. ‘We’ve run out of sherry. Is it okay if I open the gin?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I think we all need some Dutch courage on this occasion. Pour me a glass too, Ruby – and make it a big one.’

  ‘Ooh, I do love a big one,’ said Catherine butting in, ‘I have a big one every night. When my husband was alive, I didn’t need it so much, but now I can’t do without it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Matt with very wide eyes.

  ‘What happened to your car?’ Rosie asked Catherine. ‘It has a large prang in it.’

  Catherine pondered the matter and rubbed her chin. ‘A ruddy great wall came out of nowhere and hit my back end.’

  ‘Are you driving later?’ Rosie asked nervously as Ruby handed Catherine a vast gin with only a dash of tonic.

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be fine,’ Catherine nodded. ‘If not, I’ll borrow your husband’s couch when he’s finished with it, and sleep the booze off for a bit.’

  ‘Er, right.’

  By the time the octogenarians had downed their triple gins, the room was starting to smell like a pub. Noise levels were at a crescendo, and the gels were swaying like trees in a stiff breeze. Ruby, very much the worse for wear, tripped over one leg of the beauty therapist couch and nose-dived into Dave’s crotch.

  ‘That’s the most intimate you’ve been with a man for twenty years,’ cackled a little apple dumpling of a lady by the name of Mabel.

  Rosie stared around the room in disbelief. Without a shadow of doubt, the gels were plastered. All of them were sporting flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. Even her mother had sunk into an armchair and was having trouble talking coherently. And then, in the midst of the babble, the doorbell shrieked into life.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Matt.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ muttered Rosie.

  Standing on the doorstep was an undertaker dressed like something out of the Middle Ages. He took off a top hat and bowed his head respectfully.

  ‘Mrs Prefect?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Rosie corrected.

  ‘That’s the ticket, stiff upper lip and all that.’ The undertaker put his hat back on. ‘We’ve come for David.’

  ‘Yes, he’s, er, well he’s in there,’ Rosie stepped back and indicated the door to the front room. ‘Please, come in.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  The undertaker paused before stepping into the hallway. Looking back over his shoulder, he gave a signal to two colleagues indicating he would be a couple of minutes. As he walke
d past Rosie and Matt into the front room, the octogenarians let out collective squeals of delight.

  ‘Ain’t ’e ’andsome,’ squawked Mabel.

  ‘My Ernest looked a bit like you,’ Ruby could be heard simpering. ‘We’ll have to have a dance later.’

  ‘It’s a funeral, you daft ninny,’ Hester’s voice rose to the fore, ‘not a wedding.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Rosie glanced up at Matt. ‘They’re all drunk. This is a shambles.’

  ‘No, it’s not. The cavalry are here and will take charge now. All will be well.’

  But in fact, things were only just starting to go wrong.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  ‘Ladies, please!’ the undertaker, clearly flustered, raised his voice. ‘Can we have a bit of decorum? This is a solemn occasion after all.’

  ‘Gels!’ Hester hauled herself up from the depths of her chair. Staggering, she clapped her hands for attention. ‘It’s time to give dear Dave his send off. Let’s make it memorable, please.’

  The undertaker gave Hester a grateful look before moving over to the couch. Giving Dave an appraising look, he removed an empty sherry tumbler off his chest.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Gertrude snatched the glass from the undertaker’s hand. ‘I was wondering what I’d done with that.’

  The undertaker turned to face his small audience. ‘Could you all file past David and say your final good-byes. My colleagues are in the process of bringing the coffin into the house.’

  The party atmosphere immediately changed to one of respectful silence. The octogenarians formed an orderly line behind Hester. Rosie melted into the back of the queue with Matt behind her. He leant forward and whispered into her ear.

  ‘Everything will go like clockwork now, you’ll see.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Rosie murmured.

  In front of her some sobbing had broken out. Rosie could see Hester delicately dabbing her eyes. It was, she thought guiltily, quite something when your mother was more upset about your husband’s demise than yourself. She shuffled forward until it was finally her turn to stand next to the couch. Hands folded in front of her, she down looked at the body of her husband. Luke’s daddy. Her only sadness was that their little boy wouldn’t grow up knowing his father. A single tear welled into the corner of one eye and rolled down her cheek. Good-bye, Dave. No hard feelings. And I’ll be sure to tell Luke you were the best father in the world, even if you and I know differently. She moved to the side allowing space for the two funeral directors who were coming into the room with the coffin. They placed it carefully on the floor, while the first undertaker pumped a foot pedal and lowered the couch. There was a pause while Dave was transferred into the coffin, and then the coffin was lifted back onto the couch ready to be sealed.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Hester quavered.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Gertrude echoed.

  ‘Bleedin’ Nora,’ said Mabel.

  ‘Ladies, please,’ said the lead undertaker, ‘I’m sure this is just a technical hitch.’

  Rosie stared in disbelief. She wasn’t quite sure whether her husband’s protruding ankles could be described as a technical hitch.

  ‘The coffin is too small,’ said Catherine, stating the obvious.

  ‘It can’t be!’ said Matt.

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ said one of the undertakers.

  ‘You’ve got the measurements wrong!’ Hester fumed. ‘What sort of funeral parlour makes such an appalling error?’

  The lead undertaker held up a silencing hand. ‘Nobody has made any measurement errors,’ he assured. ‘However, I suspect there has been – ahem – an administration error, and this coffin belongs to Mrs Chadwick. Which means Mrs Chadwick has Mr Prefect’s coffin.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Hester snapped.

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm,’ the undertaker puffed out his cheeks. ‘Now if I could just ask you all to be patient for two minutes while I make a call to another colleague. Please be assured this situation will be remedied.’ The undertaker whipped off his hat and, with much bowing and scraping, hastened out of the lounge to make his urgent phone call.

  ‘I told you to use the Co-Op,’ said Ruby to Hester. ‘They do a smashing funeral. My Ernest had a lovely send off.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruby, but there’s no way I could permit dear Dave to be driven off on his last journey in a car with a number plate like theirs. It’s bad form.’

  ‘What did the number plate read?’ asked Mabel.

  ‘TO 45T.’

  ‘Toast!’ Catherine crowed.

  ‘Well I thought it was very fitting,’ Ruby tossed her grey curls defiantly, ‘especially as Ernest was going to the crematorium.’

  At that moment the undertaker returned. His pallor was as grey as Dave’s.

  ‘I’m very sorry, but at this precise moment Mrs Chadwick is being lowered into a six foot plot at Saint Michael’s and it just isn’t possible to swap the coffins.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Hester.

  ‘Unfortunately we are going to have to make the deceased fit into this coffin.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’ Catherine put her hands on her ample hips. ‘It will be like fitting a round peg into a square.’

  ‘Er, it’s a little unorthodox, but there are guidelines for emergency situations such as this.’

  ‘Which are?’ Hester demanded.

  ‘We are going to sit very hard on the deceased’s legs,’ said the undertaker.

  The octogenarians immediately broke into indignant chuntering. Rosie gasped and Hester looked as if she was going to faint.

  ‘Ladies, please listen to my colleague,’ said the second funeral director, ‘they are words of sound advice, especially as we are now running half an hour behind schedule.’

  ‘This is outrageous,’ said Mabel.

  ‘Preposterous,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Nobody sat on Ernest at the Co-Op,’ said Ruby smugly.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Ruby,’ Hester waved a hand irritably. She turned to all three funeral directors. ‘Could you just hurry up and do whatever is required so my son-in-law can have some dignity.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the first undertaker. ‘Lads?’ he signalled to his two colleagues. The men gave a nod of understanding and moved down to Dave’s protruding legs. The three men stood together, side by side. ‘Ready?’ asked the first undertaker. ‘Go!’

  And with that, the three men sat down very hard on Dave’s body. There was a horrible cracking noise, but when the undertakers moved away, Dave’s legs were inside the coffin.

  ‘Thank God,’ Rosie murmured to Matt.

  ‘Okay, ladies,’ said the first undertaker, ‘if I can ask you to let me and my colleagues through. Mrs Prefect,’ the undertaker turned to Rosie, ‘you’ll be travelling in the limo behind the hearse.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Rosie.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ said the undertaker.

  ‘No, she won’t,’ Hester squared her shoulders. ‘I’m the mother-in-law of dear Dave, so that is my privilege.’

  ‘And you’ll have to budge up to let us all sit with you,’ said Catherine. ‘After all, we’ve been drinking, and I’m in no fit state to drive.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ Matt said to Hester, ‘It would be my pleasure to drive Rosie,’ he looked at the octogenarians, ‘and anybody else who would like a ride.’

  ‘Steady,’ sniggered Mabel.

  Ten minutes later Rosie and Matt were following the funeral cortège.

  ‘We seem to going along at quite a pace,’ Rosie observed. ‘I thought an undertaker was meant to walk in front of the hearse for a minute or two as a mark of respect for the deceased.’

  ‘I think all funeral etiquette has gone out the window,’ said Matt. ‘After all, we’re now forty-five minutes late. The gels look like they’re having a bumpy ride.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Rosie, gripping the door handle. ‘The driver is slinging the hearse around corners almost on two wheels.’


  ‘We’ll be on the dual carriageway in a minute. Hopefully both the journey and the funeral will now run a little more smoothly.’

  ‘Please, God.’

  But unfortunately God wasn’t listening.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  So many funerals seem to take place in appalling weather, as if the angels in Heaven want to share the sorrow and shed their tears as rain. As the hearse slowed to a more decorous pace and purred through the church gates, an army of grey clouds gathered. Within seconds, a cold spring shower was in full pelt.

  In the car park, Rosie got out of the BMW and buttoned up her coat. Pulling an umbrella from her handbag, she popped it open. Spotting Lucy and Gregory Tibor getting out of a parked car, she waved a hand in greeting.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Lucy teetered over in black high heels. Stooping under Rosie’s brolley, she hugged her best friend. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought Gregory along. Funerals give me the collywobbles, and I need a strong hand to hold.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Rosie kissed Lucy on the cheek, before stepping back and greeting her new boss. ‘Mr Tibor, it’s very good of you to support Lucy.’

  ‘Not at all, Rosie, and I’m here for you too. My shoulders are broad to weep all over! And please, let’s drop the formalities. I know I’m your employer, but I absolutely insist you call me Gregory.’

  Rosie gave a small smile. ‘Okay, Gregory it is. And I just want you to know that I’m very much looking forward to starting my new job on Monday. I will be there bright and early.’

  Gregory looked startled. ‘See how you feel, lass. There’s no rush. The dog food ain’t going nowhere. You’re the first taster I’ve employed who can’t wait to start.’

  ‘I just want today over so I can get back to normality. Eating dog food will be a doddle after the events of the last fortnight.’

  ‘Good on you, love. Ah, Matthew,’ Gregory greeted Matt. ‘I’m glad you’re looking after my employee today.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Matt tucked his car keys into a pocket and shook Gregory’s hand. ‘And please tell your factory chefs to make the food extra appetising for Rosie next week.’