The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  ‘I imagine Imogen told him,’ said Rita.

  ‘Well Trevor isn’t my friend. Not in the least.’

  ‘We’re going to start the service with Abide With Me. Please stand.’

  ‘Abide With Me?’ repeated Henry who would never have chosen hymns for his funeral.

  ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ said Rita, opening the order of service.

  Henry shook his head in disbelief.

  Rita sang loudly and clearly. There had been few hymns she’d found comfort in, but this had been one of them. The hymn finished and Henry and Rita watched enthralled as Imogen’s father rose and walked to the lectern.

  ‘My father-in-law,’ whispered Henry.

  Rita had hoped the man who looked somewhat like Henry might do a reading so she could get a closer look at the man who had fathered Henry. That’s just how Henry will look when older, she thought, distinguished and handsome. She was then jolted back to the realisation that this was Henry’s funeral and that Henry would never become old and distinguished and Rita felt unbearably sad.

  ‘I’d like to read a piece Henry liked,’ said Henry’s father-in-law.

  Henry leant forward in his seat and Rita did likewise.

  ‘If I should die before the rest of you,’ began John Wiseman.

  ‘Ah, Joyce Grenfell,’ cried Henry, clapping his hands in delight.

  Rita had no idea who Joyce Grenfell was. She made a mental note to ask Henry later.

  ‘Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone,’ continued John,

  ‘nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice, but be the usual elves that I have known. Weep if you must: parting is hell.

  But life goes on. So sing as well.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Henry. Now, that was the ticket, he thought.

  The vicar thanked John, and Henry nodded enthusiastically. Rita wondered if she should remind Henry that he wasn’t dead, and they should really be doing something about that. Rita’s stomach was gripped with fear. What would happen to Henry when they put the coffin in the ground? Would he disappear altogether?

  ‘Oh,’ she uttered before she could stop herself.

  ‘What is it?’ Henry asked, alarmed at the tone in her voice.

  ‘Nothing,’ she whispered.

  Imogen was rising from her seat and Rita heard Henry take a sharp breath but then Imogen sat down again. Her mother whispered something in her ear and Rita so wished she was sitting nearer and could hear what they were saying. It was only right that Henry knew what was going on. Imogen’s mother then stood and walked to the lectern.

  ‘My mother-in-law,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t think she ever liked me.’

  ‘I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t like you,’ said Rita innocently.

  Cynthia Wiseman looked out at the congregation. Her eyes met Rita’s and Rita shifted in her seat.

  ‘I think she can see me,’ said Henry excitedly.

  He stood up and waved and Rita thought her heart would stop with the fright of it all, but his mother-in-law simply looked down at the piece of paper in front of her and began to read.

  ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself …’

  ‘What the …?’ said Henry.

  ‘John 14, 1:4,’ said Rita knowingly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Henry, exhaling.

  Cynthia Wiseman finished the reading and walked back to her seat. Rita heard sobbing from the front of the church and wondered if it was Imogen.

  ‘Imogen will most likely say something next,’ said Henry, feeling, in an odd way, grateful to be at his own funeral.

  The vicar smiled warmly at the front row.

  ‘And now Henry’s father, Raymond, will say a few words.’

  The man, who looked like an older version of Henry, made his way slowly to the lectern. His slumped shoulders made him look shorter than Henry, but the resemblance was uncanny. He’s quite tanned, thought Rita. They must have just come back from some exotic holiday. Rita was pleased that Henry didn’t have the huge belly that Henry’s father sported. He leaned heavily onto the lectern and when he spoke there was a screech from the microphone and he swiftly stepped back, mumbled an apology and started again. When he opened his mouth again Rita thought his words were as beautiful as a bird song.

  ‘Standing before you today to bid farewell to our son Henry is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Words cannot describe the sorrow and loss that I am feeling. There’s so much to say but words just won’t come.’

  He broke off and the congregation blew their noses in sympathy.

  ‘To have lost Henry is heartbreaking and to have lost him as we did, so suddenly, well it has come as such a shock to us all. His life was far too brief. Henry was a kind person and a loving husband.

  ‘My family wishes to express our heartfelt thanks to all those who have given their support, compassion, and love throughout this very difficult time.

  ‘I know in my heart that he would not want us to grieve for too long. Rather, Henry would want us all to remember the good times we all shared with him and not to dwell on the tragedy surrounding his passing. All his friends are here today.’

  I hope these aren’t all my friends, thought Henry. Surely, he’s going to read out cards from the people who couldn’t make it, but even Henry couldn’t think who they would be.

  ‘We are grateful that you are here to show your love for Henry and to share in the loss that we will take a long time to recover from.’

  Rita lowered her head. A single tear slid down her cheek and she tasted its saltiness. It was all too awful. When she looked up, Henry’s father was finishing his eulogy.

  ‘Goodbye, my son. You will live in our hearts forever.’

  He then began to cry. It was more than crying, though. It was the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope. The vicar helped him down the steps and Henry felt that his heart would break. If only Rita would rush to the front and shout, ‘Henry isn’t dead. He’s right here with you.’

  But, of course, Henry knew they would drag her out, heels scraping on the hard floor, her cries getting more muffled and his dad crying even harder.

  The congregation blew their noses and wiped away tears in sympathy with Henry’s father.

  ‘Let us take a few moments to reflect on our own memories of Henry and what he meant to us,’ said the vicar.

  Rita wished she had more memories of Henry that she could reflect on, except just those she had of the past few hours. Nevertheless, even though there were so few of them, she knew she would treasure them forever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Henry wished he had the ability to climb inside people’s heads and hear what their memories of him were. He couldn’t imagine the milkman had that many memories, if any at all. Good Lord, thought Henry, I don’t even know the man’s name and yet here he is, bold as brass, at my funeral. Henry imagined the only memory he would have was of the day Henry asked for skimmed milk instead of full fat. Then there was Helen. She’d barely said good morning to him the past five years. She’s going to struggle to find a memory, thought Henry. Imogen sniffed several times and Henry turned his attention to her. Cynthia passed her a pack of tissues. I imagine she’s thinking ahead, thought Henry bitterly as he looked at his mother-in-law. No doubt planning her daughter’s future with a man she’d consider far superior to Henry. Just wait until she learnt he wasn’t really dead. That was the problem. How did Henry stop all this and get things back to normal? He couldn’t possibly be in that coffin, not if he was standing right here. It was all too ridiculous. He turned to Rita.

  ‘Won’t be a sec,’ he said.

  His legs led him past the congregation and towards the coffin. To his horror, he saw that Helen was glancing surreptitiously at her mobile
phone again. She’d managed to disguise it cleverly inside the order of service she was holding.

  ‘Shameful,’ said Henry loudly. His voice echoed around the church but not a soul looked up. They were all busy with their so-called memories of him. He stopped and looked curiously at Imogen. She’d aged, he noted. Poor Imogen, if only he could let her know that he was okay and not dead at all, but just stuck somewhere, but exactly where he didn’t know.

  ‘Imogen,’ he said. ‘Can you see me love. It’s alright. I’m not really dead. This is all a bit of a farce.’

  Imogen dabbed at her cheeks and turned to meet the eyes of the lone man who sat a few rows behind her. Henry followed her eyes and struggled to remember where he had seen the man before. Clearly he knew him, else why would he be at his funeral. He did look familiar, but for the life of him, Henry couldn’t place the man at all. Imogen now gave the man a weak smile and he smiled back. Something quivered in Henry’s stomach. ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he told himself. ‘Stop overreacting’ but something about their shared look made Henry’s heart beat a little faster and caused a pain to stab at his chest. His jaw twitched and it took all his effort to pull his eyes away. With a heavy heart, he continued past the vicar and towards the wicker coffin. He could open it easily enough, he figured, but the outrage and the shock would no doubt make the papers the next day.

  ‘Lid of coffin opens during funeral to horror of mourners.’

  It would draw attention to his predicament though. Henry decided that perhaps it was best not to. It would be rather inconsiderate of him to put the fear of God into everyone, and the truth was Henry wasn’t too sure that he wanted to see his own body either.

  The service was continuing. He looked back to where Rita was sitting and saw her anxiously watching him. He gave her a reassuring wave and began to walk back to his seat.

  The congregation had risen to sing a final hymn. The pallbearers marched past to collect his coffin. Rita’s anguished face mirrored Henry’s. He must try to stop them, but how?

  Imogen touched the coffin with her fingertips as it passed and then burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

  ‘Oh, Imogen,’ said Henry, rising from his seat.

  Cynthia took her daughter by the arm and gently led her through a side door into what, Henry presumed, to be the vestry. The vicar nodded sympathetically as they passed. Henry quickly followed. Cynthia opened the door and Henry hurried in behind them. Except, he could now see that he wasn’t in the vestry at all, but in his own living room, albeit a very different living room.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, looking around. ‘This can’t be right.’

  You just didn’t walk from a church into your living room, except the living room was different somehow. This room was bare. There was no sign of their lovely Ikea sofas and fluffy white cushions. The oak coffee table wasn’t there either and in place of their cosy colourful rug, purchased at Camden market, was a threadbare carpet with urine stains on it. Henry knew it was urine by the acrid smell. He wrinkled his nose and then looked up to see the estate agent.

  ‘I remember you,’ said Henry.

  He’d had sandy hair that flopped over his eyes and on his wrist he wore bracelets in woven leather. Standing at the side of the estate agent was Henry and Imogen eighteen years earlier. Henry looked around for his wife and Cynthia, but they were now nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Previous couple,’ the agent was saying, nodding at the stains. ‘She had dementia. Sad what some people go through isn’t it? Old age, they say it’s a curse. Of course, it needs a bit of work. Clearly, that’s reflected in the price. You’d be getting a bargain.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen, her cheeks rosy. ‘It’s ideal isn’t it Henry?’

  Henry looked into her eyes, trying to find something there that would explain what was happening.

  ‘It’s certainly nice,’ agreed the young Henry. ‘But all this work will set us back a fair bit. It’s more than we budgeted.’

  Henry looked on baffled. What had happened to the vestry? He turned wearily, saw the old battered armchair behind him and sat in it. He remembered the armchair very well. They’d broken it up for firewood. He watched the scene in front of him, fascinated and thought, ‘I’ve lost more hair than I’d realised.’

  Imogen turned wide hazel eyes onto her husband of six months. She’d been so terribly pretty, Henry noted. He’d never remembered her being so striking. When did he stop noticing her beauty? When did things change, he wondered and supposed most married couples wondered that at some point.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in agreement. ‘You’re quite right.’

  The estate agent shrugged.

  ‘We’ve others interested. We’ve got two more viewings this afternoon. It won’t stay on the market long.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Imogen her eyes on Henry, but he was looking out at the garden.

  ‘We’d hoped for something a bit smaller,’ he said. ‘A flat would be better for us. Don’t you agree Imogen?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Imogen meekly.

  ‘Not many flats with gardens,’ said the estate agent bluntly, clearly feeling that this couple were wasting his time.

  ‘A garden isn’t really important,’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh, I felt sure your wife had said it was,’ said the estate agent shuffling through the paperwork in his hand, as though Imogen’s words would be there, indelible, proof that there wasn’t any discrepancy.

  ‘No, not really,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind,’ said the agent, pushing the papers back into his briefcase. ‘Give us a bell. Like I said, many people are interested, and you don’t want to be renting forever. Cost you a small fortune that will.’

  Yes, he’d been an arrogant so and so, remembered Henry. It hadn’t been any of his business if they rented.

  ‘We could look at the garden,’ said Imogen.

  Henry saw the hopefulness in her face. Odd, he thought now. She never does much in the garden. The agent opened the back door with an impatient sigh and Henry sat forward in the old chair and let out a gasp. He’d done wonders with the garden, he really had. Gosh, he’d forgotten how overgrown it had been when they had moved in. An old shed stood where their greenhouse now was. He’d forgotten about that. He hoped Imogen was watering the plants. If he’d known about this dying business he could have set the automatic watering system.

  Imogen let out a little sigh.

  ‘We could build a swing and …’

  ‘A swing?’ Henry echoed, running a hand through his thick mane of hair. ‘What for, it’s not like we’re going to have kids.’

  ‘No,’ said Imogen looking confused.

  ‘He should have listened to our requirements,’ Henry said quietly.

  They followed the estate agent to the front door and walked through it. Henry suddenly found himself back inside the church. It was now empty apart from Rita who stood at the entrance with a worried frown. The polished wooden pews were now devoid of people. All that was left were the orders of service. They could at least have taken them, Henry thought crossly. Imogen would have spent a fair bit on those. He walked past the high stained-glass windows towards Rita.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she cried. ‘I thought … I thought.’

  She began to cry in earnest.

  ‘I thought that you were really dead,’ she finished.

  ‘Oh, Rita,’ smiled Henry. ‘There’s no need to cry. Everything will get sorted out.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re outside by your grave. Oh, Henry, this is too awful.’

  Henry wasn’t listening to her. He was remembering his house and the garden that had been his pride and joy for so long. He’d forgotten all about the swing. Why had she wanted that? Moreover, how had the vestry managed to turn into his living room of eighteen years ago? Thank goodness, they hadn’t bought a flat and that his parents had offered to loan them the deposit on the house.

  ‘Best to buy a house,’ his father
had said. ‘It’s a better investment.’

  ‘The garden will be lovely for the children,’ his mother had said.

  ‘We’re not having children,’ Imogen had informed them.

  ‘Oh,’ his mother had responded.

  ‘We’re both agreed on that,’ Henry had said. ‘We’ll have a more ordered life without children and less stress.’

  All the same the garden had been useful, and Henry had grown some prize marrows there.

  ‘What are we doing now?’ asked Rita.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Henry. ‘But we can’t stay here.’

  ‘Will we go to the wake?’ she asked.

  Henry hadn’t thought about a wake.

  ‘I don’t know if there is going to be one.’

  ‘Oh yes, there is,’ said Rita, taking his arm. ‘They said all are welcome. You were in the vestry.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Henry.

  ‘What were you doing in there?’ asked Rita curiously.

  ‘I was visiting my old living room.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rita, hooking her hand into his arm. ‘The wake is at The Black Prince; do you know it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry.

  He couldn’t imagine why Imogen wasn’t having the wake back at the house. Just as well though, he decided. There would be a terrible mess afterwards.

  ‘I am a bit peckish,’ said Rita.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Henry. ‘Let’s go there.’

  ‘Henry?’ said Rita tentatively.

  He looked at her. She had beautiful blue eyes, he thought. One could easily drown in those eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you die?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Henry had, of course, thought about this often and then pushed it from his mind, because Henry didn’t really believe all this nonsense about him being dead. Something wasn’t right, he knew that, of course. He felt certain, though, that it would all be explained. He just had no idea when or how.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied honestly. ‘But I don’t actually think I am dead, you see.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Rita.

  She didn’t like to remind him that they’d just been to his funeral and watched his grieving father give a moving eulogy. If Henry wasn’t in that wicker coffin, then who was?