‘Of course she is.’ Honey gritted her teeth. Bobo, she decided, was living on borrowed time.
By the time she’d got them all out her hat brim was flopping over her face. It was just at that point that the sun decided to come out. A rainbow arched over the rear of the church. All eyes looked skyward, smiles and satisfaction out in bucketfuls.
‘Sean would have liked that,’ her mother commented. ‘He always did like the sun on his skin.’
Bobo was tiddling all up the church path.
Gloria Cross lingered looking up at the sky. Honey was bringing up the rear – after all, she wasn’t really a mourner. She could stay outside the church if she wanted to.
She paused by her mother.
‘Did that dog leave any puddles in your place?’ she whispered to her mother.
‘Certainly not. I put her in the janitor’s closet out on the landing. I didn’t tell Dora that.’
‘Obviously not,’ murmured Honey.
The church was crowded, mostly with women. The reason for that could have been that women outlive men anyway, though the women attending might also have been members of the Sean O’Brian fan club.
She noted that most of them had been sensible enough to bring umbrellas without holes in. Their clothes were still pristine while her clothes were steaming. I must look like a half jacket potato, she thought.
Despite their age and their joints, the fearsome four she’d brought here marched off down the aisle, letting nothing get in their way.
Old ladies – in fact old folk in general – have angular, bony elbows, lethal weapons they use indiscriminately if you happen to get in their way.
A few unsuspecting souls got elbowed aside. Some others knew better than to get in the way. The girls had arrived and were out to get a good view of what was going on.
Heads down, elbows sticking out at lethal angles, they pushed their way through. A few scuffles cleared the way. Eventually Gloria and her friends managed to get a pew halfway down and with a good view of the coffin. Honey followed, suddenly glad that her hat brim was flopping over her face, hiding her embarrassment.
Her mother gave her a push. ‘You get in first. I want to be on the end so I can see what’s going on.’
The old ladies stood back whilst Honey eased herself along the pew until she was more or less pressed up against the whitewashed wall.
Some of those who’d been dug in the ribs or had their toes mangled beneath a purposeful footstep threw venomous looks their way, not that the old girls noticed or, if they did, they were big enough to ignore it. Their bickering among themselves was loud – too loud for attending church anyway.
Honey rolled her eyes heavenwards. The hammer beams overhead were suddenly of infinite interest. She wished she was up there, perched like a pigeon while the service went on beneath her.
At last they were all settled and getting ready to pay homage at the funeral of a man they’d much admired – perhaps even lusted after. Dora got out a box of paper tissues and blew her nose. The box was quite large. Honey couldn’t make up her mind whether the tissues were to mop up their tears or one of Bobo’s ‘little accidents’.
Never mind. The old girls were in their element. They didn’t need her now. They could enjoy the service in peace – if enjoyment was quite the right word.
For the first time since collecting them the tension left Honey’s shoulders and the knot in her stomach slowly began to unravel. Closing her eyes she bowed her head as though in prayer, though to be quite honest it wouldn’t take much and she would be dozing. She was drained, but at least she was through the worst of it. Now all she had to do was get through the sermon, the burial, and the wake, then get them home again. Simple! Given half a chance she’d doze off between now and then.
Suddenly, a voice that could only be described as disturbingly resonant burst into song.
Honey, whose eyelids had been feeling heavy, sat bolt upright. Had she missed something? She certainly hadn’t heard any introduction. Because you were dozing, she told herself.
No chance of that now, she decided.
The voice stirred to the rafters.
Instead of an organ a young woman in a clingy silk dress with a low-cut neckline had burst into the first verse of ‘Simply the Best’. Tina Turner she was not. Nevertheless, the song came as something of a surprise. Honey had been expecting ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ or, more fittingly, ‘The Day Thou Gavest Lord Has Ended.’
Honey looked around her. With the exception of her immediate companions, the congregation was looking stiffly at the altar. Her mother and the others were tapping their feet and fingers and humming along. At the same time, their necks were craned, heads turned towards the aisle and the Norman arch through which Sean O’Brian would take his final promenade.
Mother and friends were determined not to miss a thing, principally checking what the coffin was made of. Dora had bet ten pounds on walnut. They’d all taken sides so there was no way they were going to miss getting a last shifty at Sean O’Brian, a man of legendary proportions if gossip was anything to go by. They still couldn’t quite take on board that environmentally friendly meant something far less than oak, ash, mahogany, or walnut.
The whisper ran from one end of the pew to the other and from the front pews all the way to the back.
Honey raised her eyes to heaven again – not in prayer; merely in forbearance. From gazing at the rafters – which didn’t seem half so interesting as before – she let her gaze wander to some members of the congregation. Short, fat, skinny, tall, and all the shapes and sizes in between.
Not everyone was dressed in black. There was a surprising amount of green being worn. Some of the younger women were wearing garlands around their heads – summer solstice types who looked as though they would be travelling on to Glastonbury for the festival after the service was over. Some of the men had dreadlocks the colour of straw and tangled like horsehair from an overstuffed sofa.
‘I’m betting on mahogany,’ her mother murmured. ‘I can’t believe he’d go for anything less than that despite this environmental lark.’
Dora stuck to her guns. Her money was still on walnut.
The four of them turned their heads, waiting for the coffin to make its dignified progress down the aisle. Honey wished she could shrink to three inches high and make a dash for the exit. Old ladies could be so embarrassing; she vowed she would never end up that way.
It struck her suddenly that Bobo was incredibly quiet. The little terrier was vocal as well as excitable. A quick glance ascertained that the black bow had been removed from Bobo’s collar and tied around her muzzle.
Poor thing. OK, it wasn’t the best behaved of dogs, but funerals were no place to take them. She’d have been better left musing and messing around her own garden leaving the adults to get on with things.
It was whilst Honey was coming to that conclusion that the coffin passed. Her money was on pine or even matchwood – something stiff but recycled from old orange boxes perhaps.
I’m right, she thought, on hearing a great intake of breath plus gasps of astonishment. She couldn’t see the looks on the faces of her mother and her companions, but she could see their heads mutely following the coffin, their shoulders stiff as though they’d suddenly turned to stone.
It wasn’t until the coffin had reached its allotted place before the altar that she saw the reason for their shock. Sean’s coffin was not made of any endangered hardwood. In fact it wasn’t made of wood at all. It was made of cardboard, but not any old cardboard. The coffin was brightly coloured, printed with an effigy that even from this distance she thought she recognized.
Well, she thought to herself, that explains the dreadlocks, the hippy-style songstress, and the predominance of green clothes as opposed to black. Good old Sean had been very committed to preservation of the environment. He’d picked Memory Meadow in the full knowledge of the nature of its burials. Not for him a shiny hardwood coffin with brass handles.
&nb
sp; However, she just had to get the details verified; was that printed effigy on the coffin really what she thought it was?
Stretching her neck she stood on tiptoe, one hand resting on the pew in front for support.
Whispers of amazement echoed from the ancient stonework. Like her there were others stretching their necks, wanting confirmation and too impatient to wait until they got outside to where old Sean was to be buried.
Like the others, she had to wait, but the wait was worth it. Six pallbearers took Sean towards the exit to the strains of ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining.’
Leaning forward she finally got confirmation of what Sean had requested to be buried in. Her jaw dropped, but she also smiled. Sean O’Brian had chosen one of the new cardboard coffins, not dissimilar to though larger than the sort of box the groceries arrive in.
There the similarity ended big time. Sean’s cardboard coffin was decorated with a picture of Superman. Superman’s side view decorated the sides; Superman full frontal – complete with blue outfit and red underpants – was printed on the lid.
Loud whispers ran between one old lady and another, rippling like an incoming tide from one pew to another. They were shocked to the core. Wealthy men did not get buried in a cardboard box with printed exterior.
‘It’s like a wine carrier from a supermarket,’ breathed Dora.
Heads turned. Most people looked amused. Older people looked shocked. Younger people were completely unfazed.
A line of words printed along the side caught Honey’s eye.
‘Did you see what that said?’
She wasn’t really asking anyone. It was a spontaneous outburst but once it had sunk in she began to giggle.
Her mother heard, bent from the waist, glaring at her from the end of the pew.
‘Honey. Remember where you are,’ she hissed.
Edith nudged her. ‘What’s so funny?’ she whispered.
Honey tried stuffing her fist into her mouth, but still couldn’t stop.
Edith nudged her harder.
‘Honey. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. What’s so funny?’
‘I can’t …’ she giggled, ‘help it,’ she managed to whisper back.
Edith rummaged in her bag, brought out a small bottle, opened the top, and shoved it under Honey’s nose.
Smelling salts! They smelled disgusting!
Honey gasped and the giggles stopped.
‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ was drawing to a close and the vicar was following the coffin, head bowed at the same time as rearranging his vestments like a model on the runway.
Edith looked at her, half smiling as she silently mouthed, ‘What is it you’re laughing at?’
Honey clapped her hand over her mouth. If she told Edith what she’d seen she’d start giggling again.
‘Tell me,’ said Edith.
‘It’s … it’s what I saw printed just below the flying Superman on the side of the coffin.’
Edith raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on.’
The others were also now tuned in, their faces turned expectantly in her direction.
She gulped back her laughter, cleared her throat, and told them what was written on the side in small but sharp lettering.
‘Suitable for recycling. It said suitable for recycling.’
The service, sermon, and reminiscing over, the coffin finished its journey up the aisle and out into the rain. The congregation followed on behind. Old Sean was about to get buried.
Keeping her head down whilst trying to banish her smile, Honey moved with the rest of them. Getting the vision of Sean O’Brian being recycled out of her mind was almost impossible. It was the funniest thing that had happened all day – that and the notorious Bobo watering the vicar’s shoes!
Held aloft on the shoulders of three hefty men and one slightly shorter one, the sides of the cardboard coffin flexed a little. On seeing this, the pallbearers linked arms beneath it.
Noting the disproportionate heights of the four men carrying the coffin, Honey remarked to her mother that she hoped nobody stumbled.
‘Well, that’s Arlene for you. No sense of proportion,’ snapped her mother.
Honey had no real idea of what that meant and trusted, like everyone else, that things would go smoothly. However, the grass was slippery underfoot and the short man stumbled, which sent the corner of the coffin scraping against the wall.
‘That’s a bad omen,’ whispered her mother.
‘I don’t think Sean will worry about that.’ In Honey’s opinion, Sean O’Brian was definitely beyond concerning himself with omens.
The corner of the coffin lid was rumpled and likely to be letting in rain.
‘At least he won’t be needing an umbrella,’ Honey murmured to herself.
‘I said it was like one of them cardboard wine carriers,’ murmured Amber as she adjusted her wig. ‘They’re not strong enough. I lost six bottles of bubbly when I trusted one of them things.’
‘You’re right, Amber,’ said Dora, shaking her head. She frowned on the coffin as it proceeded down the church path to the lychgate over the wet grass to Sean’s final resting place. ‘Fancy not having a nice bit of walnut.’
‘Or mahogany,’ Honey’s mother added a little sadly, and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
As it was, nothing seemed unduly amiss as the throng of umbrellas burst like mushrooms over the heads of the mourners whilst the rain pattered on the coffin lid and trickled down inside the damaged corner.
The route they took was down the church path, out on to the pavement, and then into what had once been a field where grazing cows had eaten grass and nurtured the soil.
Honey’s mother caught hold of her arm. ‘This is slippery.’ Her mother was muttering beneath her breath, angry that her pretty little kitten heels were spearing clods of mud. She looped her arm more tightly through Honey’s. ‘Hold on to me.’
Dora passed Bobo to Edith and used her sticks. Amber grabbed Honey’s other arm. ‘I don’t want to fall. Might go sliding into an open grave by mistake.’
Perhaps the worst-case scenario wouldn’t have happened if the heavens hadn’t opened and the grass hadn’t been saturated. Also, what happened next might not have occurred if that one man hadn’t been six inches shorter than his pall-bearing companions.
Beneath their feet the sodden grass and soft earth of Memory Meadow was getting as mushy as a paddy field.
Suddenly forgetting that the grass was slippery, Amber and her mother let go of her arms and headed for the graveside. ‘I’ve got to get another look at that casket,’ muttered Amber. Even Dora got a spurt on.
Honey sighed, glad to be unburdened and having no wish to take another look at Sean O’Brian’s coffin.
Slowing her footsteps she fell in with the stragglers at the back of the crowd.
‘Hi. Did you know the deceased?’
The young man walking next to her had a hippy look about him; long hair, crumpled green shirt, and jeans.
‘Not intimately,’ Honey replied. ‘The decoration on the coffin came as something of a surprise.’
His face brightened. ‘Cool, don’t you dig? We don’t just do off-the-shelf designs. We do custom.’
‘You make them?’
‘Too right we do. Innovative, yeah?’
‘That’s as good a description as any.’
‘Here. Take my card. Joel Jackson’s the name. And remember I can print anything you like on your casket. Anything at all.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She thought of the reference to recycling. ‘Can I have one saying, “please resuscitate”?’
‘If you want.’
‘I’m not in the market for one just yet,’ she told him. She was speaking of course from a personal point of view.
‘Elderly parents?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Perish the thought. If I buried my mother in anything less than hardwood she’d come back to haunt me.’
‘Well, perhaps something pre-ordered for yourself. You never know. He
re today, gone tomorrow. Gather ye rosebuds and all that …’
‘I’ll bear you in mind.’
The young man was garrulous and although he must take his business very seriously, for him it was all about making figures, not being fearful. Death for him was probably a long way off, barring anything accidental.
Memory Meadow being a new thing, he went off circulating amongst the other mourners gathering feedback and handing out cards, noticeably paying more attention to those on sticks or thin enough to be in danger of the wind whipping them off to the Land of Oz.
Led by the coffin and the vicar, the crowd had come to a halt. Honey brought up the rear with some confidence, deciding that wearing boots with flat heels was a good decision.
The open grave and the piles of earth each side was at the bottom of a slight slope. If the ground had been dry it wouldn’t have made any difference, but it wasn’t dry and the slope was slippery. Most people stayed on top of the slope. A few ventured down, the vicar first followed by the coffin.
The front right-hand pallbearer slipped. The coffin tilted forwards, the front down, the back springing up into the air.
The shortest pallbearer was one of those at the rear. He did his best to hang on as the coffin tilted, the rear end rising beyond his reach.
The man who had slipped on the wet grass slipped again. The coffin tilted almost upright and escaped their grasp, sliding down the slope like a toboggan on ice.
The pallbearers ran after it.
The mourners gasped. The widow shrieked.
‘Must be in a hurry,’ Honey muttered to herself.
The coffin ended up where it was supposed to end up. Unfortunately it went in feet first, standing upright in the hole.
The sound of rain pitter-pattering on umbrellas was loud, but the outraged gasps and shocked exclamations drowned it out.
In an effort to see what had happened, everybody pushed forward, sending those at the front of the crush down the slope. Some slithered down on legs that were fighting to stay upright, but some went down on their backsides and slid down ending up with their legs hanging over the side of the grave.
The pallbearers muscled forward and grabbed the end.
Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 7