“Yeah, I might if that’s all right.” Muriel had replied, it would make a change to bath in warm water and she had noticed the coconut milk on the side on her way in. It would be a luxury to take her mind away from the memories trying to force their way to the surface.
“Yes of course. I’ll start the fire now.” Harold paused. The next question was one he’d wanted to ask since he had found out how quickly it was going to happen, but as with everything Harold often tried saying, he couldn’t find the words. “Say Muriel, my father is going to be buried tomorrow, will you come with me?” He asked not wanting to face it alone.
“Harold. I’m so sorry but I don’t think it would be proper.” Muriel replied and Harold knew it was just because the only dress she had would not be proper for mourning.
“Could you at least sleep on it and give me an answer in the dawn?” He added. “Enjoy your bath.” Harold said, but the truth was he needed the support of her being there. The funeral should not be this quick but with his father’s sickness they wanted to get him in the ground quickly to stop the chance of any infections. The stories of the plagues from Stratholme in the south still fresh in everyone’s collective minds.
Harold waited until he heard the last bucket of water poured and then made his way upstairs. Harold had taken the dress he had made for her from under his mother’s chair and cradled it under his arms. Muriel’s soiled dress lay crumpled on the bed. Harold moved it into the wicker basket that sat on the floor and in its place laid her gift in pride of place, waiting for her return. Smiling to himself, he made his way downstairs to finish cooking the turnip soup, the excitement of Muriel’s surprise pushing the sadness from his mind. With perfect timing, Harold heard Muriel come out of the bathroom just as he was dishing the soup up into little bowls on the table. The last of the candles lay between in brass holders giving a dim light to the room. The fire flickered slowly on the damp logs to keep them warm. Hearing steps on the stairs, Harold held his breath and turned, expecting to see Muriel in her new dress, but Harold was mistaken. Instead, she stopped on the stairs, wrapped in a towel with her still wet hair hanging in red clumpy locks around her shoulders. There was no makeup or powder on her young face, yet she was beautiful to him. She held the dress Harold had made in her arms loosely as if she may break it.
“Harold, this dress-” Was all that she said as she stood there holding it in the dim light from the flickering candles. Muriel had never held such a wonderfully made dress and no one in her life had ever given her something so beautiful without expecting something in return. Harold really was different to anyone else, she decided that then.
“It’s for you. I made it for you. Don‘t you like it?” Harold asked worried he had made a mistake in her taste of got the sizes wrong. Harold had after all only gone from his memory of her figure to make it.
“It’s beautiful, but I couldn’t take it. It’s too fine for me.” She replied. Harold could see in the reflection of the dim light that her eyes had glazed. Her hard exterior breached, she was so close to tears. Now was his chance and, as scared as Harold was he had to take it.
“Nothing is too beautiful or fine for you.” Harold said standing up from the table.
“Please stop.” Muriel said, but the look in her eyes told him she did not mean it.
“Muriel. I have to tell you. I might not get another chance. Ever since I first saw you, my feelings for you have been growing. I have never felt this way about anyone.” Harold said through dry lips. His throat was so parched but he could not stop. He could not waste this chance. For once he would find the words he needed, for he could not let the only women he had ever loved get away. So Harold pressed on. “You are the most perfect woman I’ve ever met.” Harold said feeling his hands shaking.
“Harold I don’t know what to say.” She said with small silver tears staining her cheeks. The smile she gave him then would stay with him to the end of his days.
“Then don’t say anything. Go and get dressed. Our soup will soon go cold.” Harold said smiling back and sitting back down.
“Harold-” Muriel said. “Well, thank you.” Discreetly as she could she trotted back up the stairs. She never actually said anything but from that moment on Harold knew he was not alone in the world. It was true what Harold had told her of all the women he had known in his life Harold had loved none as much as he had grown to love her. It could have been because everything else had been stripped away and she shone out like a beacon in the night of something good, he did not know or care for the reasons. All Harold knew was how much he loved her. Muriel did come back down in the dress Harold had made and an angel could not have looked more beautiful. As they sat down to eat a rather plain soup, the meal seemed to taste better than any before in his life, his taste empowered with a new zest for life even with the loss of his father never far from his thoughts. Seeing her in the candle light Harold felt his father would approve.
.
Chapter 25: Goodbye Father Harold found it so hard to rest that night, knowing his love was asleep in the next room and knowing that he had finally told her of how he felt. But the exhaustion finally won and he awoke with a warm feeling in his belly and his heart feeling fuller than ever before. This should have been a perfect day to start the rest of his life but as fate would have it, it was not. Today was the day Harold had to bury his father, but at least he would have Muriel by his side. That would give him the strength he needed to make it through the day. She had told him as they washed the pots the previous night that she would come with him, and had held his hand later that evening while they sat in the lounge watching the fire. They had not spoken much. They did not seem to need to. They just sat watching the flames dance until Muriel grew tired and started to nod off in the chair next to him. Harold woke her by gently shaking her shoulder and she awoke with a smile staring back up at him with tired eyes. Harold helped her up to her room before saying goodnight. Muriel lent in and kissed him on the cheek before closing the door to her chambers, Harold retired to his all the while holding his cheek.
Those moments seemed like an almost distant dream as the morning of Duwek started. Harold couldn’t believe how quickly the month of Wastelar had come around. The early snow hinting that it would be yet another hard winter. Harold took out his suit from the wardrobe and put it on. Black silk and a white shirt both pressed to perfection, a nice change to the life living out of a bag that he had recently become used to. Harold pulled his top hat on so it pressed down tightly, completing the sombre look and Harold made his way across the corridor to see if Muriel had awoken.
The funeral was not for a while yet but Harold did not wish to be late – his father could not abide lateness. Harold dared not give himself the time to mourn. With the lack of time to prepare since his father’s passing, neither Muriel nor Harold had the funeral clothing they should. This would have saddened him if Harold did not know his father would not have wanted that anyway. Harold knocked on Muriel’s bedroom door and waited for her to answer. She opened the door dressed in the frock Harold had made for her and she looked wonderful. Although Harold had guessed her size, the dress fitted her well and confirmed to him how much his eyes must have traced her form in their time together.
“What time will the carriage be here?” Muriel inquired in her soft and caring tone.
“Around an hour, maybe just before.” Harold said reaching for a packet of cigars his father had left on the side of the chair. He never seemed to smoke them as they were ‘to be saved for a special occasion’. Harold could not think of a more appropriate time, so he opened the dusty packet to find just one cigar and a match. It was as if he had known. Perhaps he had known the sickness would take him. If he had, then it would not have surprised Harold that his father kept it to himself; it was his way of staying strong. Lighting the cigar Harold took a deep breath in fighting the urge to cough. His lungs hadn’t hurt as much since the fire. Harold could barely believe it was almost eleven days since the fire at the Queens.
> “Are you okay, Harold?” Muriel asked from the other side of the lounge. Perhaps he looked tired or worn down, or it could have just been the green colour filling his face. Harold had not smoked in a long time but for some reason felt obliged to today. Looking back, Harold guessed it was his way of grieving. The foul smell reminded him of his father and all he wanted to do was feel him in his arms once more. To say goodbye to the man that had raised him. “You should have your family around you now.” Muriel continued and Harold nodded. It was true. If this had been a normal funeral then the family would have been there all morning. They would have gathered and sent off his father in style, but Harold had not been prepared for this.
“Yes, I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re here with me. I don’t think I could do this alone.” Harold said. Muriel crossed the lounge and wrapped her arms around him tightly. It happened so fast Harold almost caught her with the hot tip of the cigar and only a swift flick of his wrist saved the dress that he had worked so hard on. Harold did cry again, but this time he did not care. He trusted Muriel enough to show her the pain inside and she was right, he should have had his family there. It was usual to have a feast held at the home of the deceased before the funeral. The body of his father should have been present but he was not there, instead he waited in the morgue of the hospital.
Harold’s heart sank, and as much as he didn’t want to, Harold seemed to be forced to think of what they would have had, if only they had been given the time to prepare the goodbye as they should have. There would have been ham, cider, ale, pies and cakes freshly baked by neighbours or aunts. Not only would the immediate family have been present, but all the distant relatives too. Harold wondered how his family would take to Muriel, but he did not really care. She was his and that’s how it would stay. Harold managed to get control again but did not pull away. Although his father did not have the send off he should have done, Harold guessed he would have known Harold did the best he could. The morning was a little blurry for him but Harold stayed clasped between Muriel’s arms until the knock at the door marked that the hearse had arrived. It was time for one last goodbye.
Chapter 26: The Funeral A funeral procession is always a sight to behold, and this one was no exception. It was led by various foot attendants as they made their way through Neeskmouth. A pall bearer carrying batons at the forefront was followed closely behind by the feather man, and scattered behind them walked the pages and mutes dressed in gowns and carrying wands wrapped in blackened bows. Harold did not know the reasons for why things were done this way but whatever the reason it was a beautiful sight and well worth the six pounds his mother had paid. The weather was as cold as ever but at least the snow had melted and it was not raining. The cold weather made him think of the one sure thing Harold knew about the mutes and that was because these men often had to stand out in the cold, they were given lots of gin to drink. Harold whispered a silent prayer that they would behave themselves today and not ruin the last walk of his father.
The first coach in the procession was the hearse pulled by six black horses with ostrich feather plumes on their heads. The hearse was also black, with glass sides and lots of silver and gold decoration. Inside laid the coffin, an inscribed plate running along its side in his father’s name. A purple cloth showing the crest of their family covered it and Harold recognised it as the same cloth used at his Uncle Alfred’s funeral, which explained how things had been put together in just a couple of days. Flowers were in abundance, his mother having picked the water-lilies that shone in a brilliant white comparison to the darkness. Harold carried on looking out through the slim slit behind the curtain of his carriage. His mother, Muriel and he were in the first of the coaches to follow the hearse. His mother was still in shock and had withdrawn into herself, seemingly unaware of Muriel’s presence. The two coaches behind their own contained more mourners, no doubt distant family members.
The procession made its way at walking pace from his father’s house along the main roads to the cemetery of Saint Anne’s. Their family had been buried in a tomb bought in its depths since it was built. Not only did his father share the same hearse and plate as his uncle, he would rest alongside him too. Harold found it almost nice to see the busy streets stop and give respect to his father. Most of them would not have even known of him, yet still, as the coach passed, men dropped their top hats and women looked down at the ground. A kind of silence followed them through the city. After a while everyone on foot climbed on to the coaches, and the procession was led at a brisk trot. It would not be long until they got there.
Harold could feel the sadness growing in him, making it real – there was no way his father was coming back. Muriel must have sensed his sudden sorrow and slipped her hand into his. Harold looked up into her beautiful hazel eyes and could see they were moist. This was saddening for her yet she still found the power from somewhere to support him. On arrival at the cemetery gates, the foot attendants climbed down from the coaches, and the procession once again continued at walking pace. This was the first time Harold had been to Saint Anne’s in a long time, but it was not to be the last. The procession stopped at the chapel. The mourners, many faces Harold did not know, remained dignified and calm as they entered the chapel. The coffin was carried in and laid on a bier and Harold was thankful to put it down. There were four of them carrying it but it still felt heavy. All those sad faces turned, looking at him as they carried it onto the bier. The sad little whispers and covered sobs from the ladies were hard to bear. Once his father rested at the front of the church Harold returned to Muriel’s side and sat down next to her and his mother. While waiting for the priest to start, Harold glanced around at his family. The men wore full mourning suits with crape bands around their top hats. The women wore black gowns also made of crape, with black veils and black gloves. They held black-edged handkerchiefs to their eyes. Mourning fans made of dark ostrich feathers were carried by their tortoiseshell handles and there was him and Muriel the only two without them. Harold did not care. He knew if his father was watching he would not have minded. Harold could even imagine him chuckling to himself at the odd sight they made at his funeral. His attention was snapped back to the front as the priest started the reading.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of James Spinks and mourn his loss as he passed to Sacellum.” Harold could not help but notice the priest’s eyes shifting across the crowd so swiftly, from one side to the other, never seeming to stop. There was a strange hollow and laboured sound to his voice which seemed out of place, but Harold didn’t know why. It sounded like he was out of breath, as if his chest was hollow. At the time, Harold thought maybe he had been crying himself. Surely a man of the cloth would feel sorrow before every funeral he had to conduct. All the while the priest rattled on, Harold drifted aimlessly for what felt like forever. His mind once again flashed back to past times spent with his father. While the priest spoke Harold remembered back to the first day his father took him to work with him. He could have only been eleven or twelve. He had rattled on for hours about different types of cloth and ways to cut or dye them. The smell from the bleaches had made Harold’s head spin even more than listening to what he had to say. Then he had given him a needle and taught him how to stitch. It was that first pricked-thumb-filled day that had led him to the life Harold had known. It was his father’s patience with his unskilled hands that had allowed him to make Muriel the dress she now wore so proudly. The world would be a sadder place without him. A while later a press against his arm awoke Harold to what was happening around him. Muriel got his attention and passed him an open hymn book. The song had been picked by his aunt. Although she was from the lower classes she liked to think she was better than the rest of the family, so she had always kept a step ahead of the rest of them in the arts. It was a sign of her determination to avoid her true place in life. Harold focused and sung with all his heart hoping that his father could hear him from his golden seat in Sacellum. As a chorus of one th
e church was full of voices.
‘Oh Father, thou that dwellest in the high and glorious place, When shall I regain thy presence and again behold thy face. You reply thus came, not until thy holy habitation, thy spirit once reside but now will I be nurtured near thy side?’
‘For a wise and glorious-purpose thou hast placed him there and withheld the re-collection of his former friends and birth. Yet oft times a secret something whispered, a breeze of thought, a memory shared, but alas for a time you’re a stranger there, and now he wanders a more exalted sphere. Sacellum’
‘Alone my father walks in heaven, this falsehood, called out for what it is, for we ask the skies are parents single, no, the thought makes reason stare. Truth is reason and truth eternal tells me. I’ve a mother there. When I leave this frail existence, when I lay this mortal by, Father, Mother, may I meet you in your royal courts on high. Then, at length, when I’ve completed all you sent me forth to do, with your mutual approbation let me come and dwell with you in the golden kingdom. I will see you again one day in Sacellum.’
The song ended, and as one they all put the prayer book down. Hushed sniffling filled the room and the whispered voices of condolences. Harold returned to his memories. He knew he was crying but all strength to hide it was gone. Harold could see his father’s face, he could smell his tobacco pipe and all he wanted to do was reach out and hold him. Harold felt Muriel’s arm around his shoulder in a comforting embrace but barely had the energy to lean into it. Reverend Paul rattled on again but Harold’s ears were numb to the words he said by the pounding inside his own skull. The organ burst into life, startling him from his daydream and Harold saw the coffin being lowered into the catacombs by the mutes, each holding one of the heavy ropes. The trap door pulled shut and people prepared to leave the church. Harold hadn’t been to many funerals but he was sure this was something normally done at the pace of those mourning but the priest seemed so eager for them all to leave and something about his stance seemed odd. It may have been because of his heightened paranoia from the last few days but Harold couldn’t ignore his strange behaviour. He linked his arm through Muriel’s and dragged her towards Paul as he tried to retire behind the dark red silken curtains hanging at the rear of the church.
A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Page 17