Viridian Tears

by Rachel Green

  “Decomposed?”

  Eden smiled. “I was going to say ‘embraced the cycle of life’ but ‘decomposed’ is accurate. Of course, it’s been standard practice for years to bury partners in the same grave, so we could build the provision in from the start, if you wish. It’s an economical way of doing it.” She pointed to a section of the plan. “This area hasn’t yet been patronized.”

  “Patronized?” The young man glanced at his wife and smiled. “You mean nobody has been buried there yet?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s this bit here?” He pointed to a circle shaded in gray.

  “That’s a piece of sculpture. The Triumph of Azrael.” Eden pulled out a folder and opened it to a page with a photograph of an angel in welded steel. “It’s by a local artist.”

  “Well, it’s…”

  “Perfect.” The old lady squeezed his arm. “We’ll take one plot with the clause you mentioned earlier.”

  “An excellent choice.” Eden marked down the plot numbers and turned to the computer. “Will you be wanting the standard burial plan? Twin burial or the cryomation procedure?”

  “The er…the what?”

  “Cryomation? It’s a fairly new process that will soon replace cremation. The body is frozen with liquid nitrogen and vibrated into dust. Metals are removed and either returned or disposed of, and then the remains are freeze dried and compacted into a block which will decompose entirely in six to twelve months. It’s very good for the environment. Informally we call it ‘composting.’ Very popular with the environmentally conscious as well as the frugal. We rent the cryomation plots for one to ten years, though of course, the relatives can take the remains home with them instead, just like a standard cremation.”

  “Six to twelve months?” The old lady raised her eyebrows. “We’ll have that.” She put her handbag on the desk and fished about in it. “Francis dear, I think my glasses are still in the car. Would you be a dear and fetch them for me?”

  “Of course, Elizabeth.” He flashed a smile at Eden. “I’ll be right back.”

  The lady watched him go before pulling out her glasses case. “He’s such a love but so gullible. We’ll just have the plot for five years, I think. Francis has a degenerative disease but he’s no idea he’s dying. I doubt I’ll be long after him. He’s such a love. He’s convinced making the arrangements in advance will take the pressure off him when I die but of course, it’s entirely the other way round.”

  “That’s so sad.” Eden pressed her hand again, looking into her eyes with a measure of sympathy. She turned away as Francis returned and tapped some figures into the computer. “Will that be cash or credit?”

  Once she’d shown the couple out she hurried back to her office where Mr. Claremont was in floods of tears and clutching a large checkered handkerchief as if it was a lifeline. Two cups of tea sat untouched on the edge of her desk and Mrs. Johns seemed relieved by her return.

  “I’m so sorry to have left you for so long,” Eden sat at her desk. “I had to see to a couple needing to make arrangements in advance. The poor lad won’t see thirty. All very sad.” She reached over to squeeze the old man’s arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how upsetting it can be.”

  “We’ve decided to take your composting package.” Mrs. Johns spoke in a hushed tone, as if to keep the decision from her father. “He likes the idea of her always in the garden with him.”

  Eden nodded. “A very wise choice, if I may say so. Would you like the service done here or at a church of your choice?”

  “Here I think.” She shook the old man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go and wait in the car, Dad? I’ll sort things out here and come out when I’ve finished.”

  “We do have a lovely garden of remembrance. You’re welcome to use it.”

  Mr. Claremont said nothing, but walked out of the room with his head bowed. Eden could believe he was Atlas, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “Will he be all right on his own?”

  “He’ll be fine.” Mrs. Johns reached for her tea. “It’s not like he hasn’t had time to get used to the idea. Mum’s been in and out of a coma for weeks. It’s a relief she’s dead to be honest with you. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my mum dearly but I was sick to death of traipsing up to that care home to hold her hand. That wasn’t my mum at all, the last few weeks. Just a shell.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s a difficult time, no matter what the circumstances.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure.” She put the cup down and pulled an Eden Gardens catalogue from her handbag. “Truth be told, I’ve had this planned for a fortnight. We’ll have the cryomation with basic humanist service, followed by a finger buffet and the remains delivered.”

  “Oh.” Eden opened her laptop and tapped in the order. “How very efficient of you, Mrs. Johns.”

  “You can thank my husband for that.” She put the catalogue back in her handbag. “He’s an accountant, you know.”

  Chapter 6

  Meinwen Jones sheltered from the rain under the sculpture of an angel made of copper sheets. The drops hitting the parts of the piece of art combined to sound more like music than an autumnal storm. The hissing of tires as mourners drove up to the re-purposed community center provided a counterpoint, and if she’d been trained as a musician instead of a secretary-cum-short-order cook in her native Aberdovey, Meinwen might well have discovered a symphony in the sounds around her.

  After what seemed like an hour of waiting, but according to her mobile phone was less than half that, the hearse appeared followed by two black Daimlers. She waited until the coffin was transferred to the building and the family ushered inside, then joined the rank and file of mourners attending the funeral of Helen Matthews, ignoring the askance looks some of the other attendees gave her for her rainbow-colored umbrella.

  She slipped into a seat at the back of the chapel, hoping the service would not be layered in religion. Helen had been a good friend and supporter of Meinwen’s books and pamphlets on the history of Laverstone, but other than the Tuesday-night reader’s group, Meinwen knew little about the woman. Piped music played Abide with Me at a muted volume.

  Her heart sank as she picked up the order of service. At least it was an Anglican one, rather than the full-blown spectacle of a Catholic requiem mass. Reverend Dodgson appeared from the staff door and strode to the lectern. It could be worse.

  “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here to pay tribute to our sister, Helen Matthews…”

  Meinwen stifled a yawn and wondered if it was too late to slip out again. Probably. The doors had been closed and were guarded by a gentleman in a morning suit as if they were prisoners who might take the opportunity of the first hymn to bolt screaming from the room. A glance at her mobile earned her a pursed-lip expression from the elderly lady to her left. Meinwen pretended not to notice.

  After a brief but heartfelt prayer, since the priest seemed to know the deceased personally, a young man stood and walked to the front. He faced the assembled mourners with a set of index cards in his hand. His mouth opened and closed several times before he glanced at the cards and cleared his throat.

  He gripped the lectern with his free hand. “My mother was a woman of many passions…”

  Meinwen perked up. This sounded more interesting. As far as she’d been aware, Helen was the sort of woman who’d prefer a nice cup of tea to unexpected passionate sex over the kitchen table but she wasn’t one to judge unfairly.

  “Her passion for reading was almost matched for her passion for collecting antiques and she had a habit of penning a poem every day of her life. It pleases me to say I’ve paid for the hosting of her website for the next five years as a lasting tribute to her.”

  Meinwen snorted. Five years? It wouldn’t last five weeks without fresh input, just one of those sites that stayed around to skew the results of internet searches. Type in the name of a fluid discharged by a septic ulcer and you’d get Helen’s poem about he
r cat, Molly. She wondered if Donall Matthews would look after Helen’s pets.

  Meinwen was jerked back to the present by the man moving back to his seat. She wondered if she should clap or would that be disrespectful. It gave her the idea for another book, and she fumbled in her handbag for a pen to jot it down. Funerary customs from ancient Laverstone to modern times.

  The brief flurry of scribbling earned her another glare.

  Reverend Dodgson introduced the next hymn and the audience stood. As a self-styled witch, Meinwen knew the value of a communal sing-along but the hymns were generally unable to inspire passion in anybody. She stared at the order of service. The Lord’s My Shepherd was much better as a psalm. As a song it suffered from syntax hammered into place to make the verses rhyme. Still, again, it could be worse. She scanned the rest of the sheet. No, All Things Bright And Beautiful was thankfully absent. She’d had enough of that at the First Aberdovey Methodist School. Not that there’d been a second. It was a victim of grammar. It should have read The Aberdovey Methodist First School.

  The music died down into a painfully extended end note and they all sat, Meinwen a moment behind the others. Honestly, she just wanted to pay her respects to a friend, not convert to Christianity. Not for the first time she wished Helen had been an agnostic. Humanist funerals were so much more cheering. There were tears, certainly, but none of this doom and gloom. None of this I-am-not-worthy stuff. She glanced at the other people on her row. Two to her right, a girl was busy tapping out a text, her two thumbs a blur of movement. At least she’d put the phone on silent.

  Reverend Dodgson began reading Psalm twenty-three. Meinwen groaned, but not as much as when he opened his Bible and began reading from John. “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me will live, even though they die and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

  There was justification for a zombie apocalypse right there. Modern cinema had it all wrong. The undead were just missionaries. If Helen Matthews rose from her coffin there’d be mass heart attacks. Hers too, probably. She was almost surprised he hadn’t read the bit about New Jerusalem from Revelations. It would be quite appropriate, considering this was Eden Gardens, locally known as “New Eden” or “the new cemetery” depending upon whether the speaker approved or not.

  The service segued into another hymn. Jerusalem. She could have written this.

  By the time they reached the committal, where the priest asked for divine intervention on behalf of the deceased, Meinwen breathed a sigh of relief that the tedium was almost over. The coffin slid slowly out of sight, downward rather than the traditional through a curtain. As a child Meinwen had always imagined the crematorium flames behind the curtain and generally wondered why the material didn’t catch fire.

  She was first out when they opened the doors.

  It had, mercifully, stopped raining. Although there was a covered area, the roof half-glassed like a Victorian conservatory, much of it was open to the elements. The sky was pendulous with cumulonimbus, a chill wind beating them across the sky like a milkmaid with her cows. Were milkmaids still a career option, or were they Agricultural Livestock Technicians these days? Meinwen wandered across to look at the flowers left by mourners. It hadn’t even occurred to her to bring any. She’d make a donation to charity in their stead.

  Some attendees were lighting cigarettes. It explained why much of the mourner’s area was open to the sky. A full conservatory would have been impossible, and illegal, to smoke in. A man she recognized as Helen’s husband made his way to the lychgate leading to the car park, followed by his son and, presumably, his daughter-in-law. Several of the mourners lined up to murmur consolations as they left, some to go to the wake at the Green Hill, others to return to jobs or home.

  Meinwen spotted a dark-haired woman in a business suit talking on the phone. She recognized Eden Maguire from the newspaper. They’d done quite an expose on her when the cryotorium first opened amid a flood of protests from people who either thought the process dangerous or who simply didn’t want a new cemetery on the site of the old community college. The woman was trying to keep her voice low while conducting her half of an argument. Several people glanced her way and she gave a half-smile, then slipped back into the building. One of the staff moved in front of the door to prevent any of the mourners returning inside.

  Meinwen bit her lip. Although attending the funeral had been her excuse to come here, she had another matter on her mind, the reason she’d been skulking in the garden of rest for almost an hour before the service. She headed to the door but the attendant barred her way. “Can I help you, madam?”

  “I just need to go back inside for a moment.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Please make your way to the car park via the exit provided.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Maguire.”

  He withdrew a small tin from his breast pocket, opened it and handed her a business card. “Appointments can be made during office hours.”

  “I want to see her now, though.”

  “I’m afraid she’s very busy.”

  “This’ll only take a minute or two.” She leaned forward until her lips were all but brushing the dark skin of his ear. “It’s about purchasing a plot.”

  “All the same, Madam.” He took her arm and steered her gently toward the exit. “You can either see Emily at reception about it or else make an appointment.”

  “Oh, very well.” She straightened her coat and joined the queue at the exit, shaking the hands of Helen’s three favorite people. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sure she’s exactly where she wanted to be.” It was a white lie but it was what one said at a funeral. She leaned forward to brush the cheek of Helen’s widower. He smelled of Old Spice and pipe tobacco and brought a memory of her uncle Gareth before he ran off with the butcher’s wife. “My condolences.”

  “Wait.” He clutched at her hand. “You’re Meinwen, aren’t you? From Helen’s book club?”

  “That’s right. She’ll be sorely missed. “ Meinwen pressed his hand between hers. “We’ll read an excerpt from Great Expectations in her honor tonight.”

  “Yes. That was her favorite. I could never get on with it myself. All those lives ruined.”

  “There’s redemption at the end.”

  “So the vicar tells me.” He gave her a weak smile. “Look, Helen left you a bequest at the house. Nothing special, mind. A few books and a little award the council gave her when she retired last year. ‘Make sure they go to Meinwen,’ she said. It was very nearly her last words.”

  “What were her last words, may I ask?”

  “‘What are you doing with that hammer, Donall?’“ He gave a soft chuckle. “I’m only joking. Actually she sat up in bed and said ‘I’ll have a cup of tea and a biscuit’ and then she was gone. Just like that. She didn’t suffer at all.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing.” Meinwen freed his hands from her own. “I’ll drop by in a day or two to collect them.”

  “You do that, love. You’re not coming to the wake then?”

  “I think I’ve intruded enough, Mr. Matthews. I’ll leave you in the good care of your family. Besides, I don’t have any transport.”

  “Come on. There always room for one more in the hire cars.”

  “Next time, perhaps.” Meinwen squeezed his arm, mentally kicking herself for the phrase.

  The next time would probably be his own.

  She followed the wall of the building back around to the front passing, curiously, a small children’s playground. While the idea of a playground in a cemetery seemed a little odd, it made sense to keep the boredom of toddlers at bay when visiting deceased relatives. Children were generally more congenial to the idea of ‘talking to grandma’ when it involved a huge slide and roundabout. Meinwen had to exert considerable self-control not to go in herself.

  She pushed open the front door and stood for a moment in the reception area. It was tasteful, she had to admit. An area
of comfortable seating around a coffee table, original paintings on the walls and a desk of Victorian origin, a huge piece of furniture almost as large as a modern child’s bedroom. It was covered by a piece of plate glass, beneath which was a hand-drawn plan of the entire cemetery.

  A small hand bell stood on one side to the desk. She rang it.

  A few moments passed before the inner door opened and a young woman came out. “May I help you?”

  “Emily, isn’t it?” Meinwen gave her a warm smile. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Maguire, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but it will only take a moment.” Meinwen peered at the map. “It’s about this spot, here.”

  The woman frowned. “We haven’t marked that area for dispersal yet. There are no plots available.”

  “It’s not about a plot, as such. It’s a proposal for that section of the cemetery.”

  “You’ll have to make an appointment, madam. Mrs. Maguire really is very busy.”

  “I appreciate that, but this will only take a few minutes of her time.”

  The woman pursed her lips. It gave her the unfortunate appearance of a duck although Meinwen had no intention of telling her that.

  “I’ll ask her for you, but I’ll warn you she rarely sees people without an appointment.”

  “Thank you.” Meinwen beamed. “I couldn’t ask for more.” She waited for several minutes in the reception area. With nothing else to do, since the only magazines available were funerary catalogues, she studied the paintings on the walls. Although abstract, the oils were reminiscent of watercolors dripped on wet paper, the edges of color almost fractal in their intensity.

  She stepped back to see all three along one wall at once. They seemed to be a progression; the pattern in the first tight and constricted but expanding across the triptych until the third was loose and airy. She frowned. Were they originally based on something figurative? There was movement across the pieces, almost the suggestion of a figure in the center. What, then, did the multitude of white flecks represent?