by Pam Rhodes
With a flurry of goodbyes and waves, Neil almost made it up the steps before a cry stopped him in his tracks.
“Hold it there!”
Bustling towards him with the whole group of Catholic mothers not far behind, Sister Maureen arrived, panting and red-faced, throwing her arms around him until he was almost as breathless as she was.
“You need this,” she announced, thrusting a small printed card into his hand. “You can’t face grief and bereavement without remembering the strength and reassurance you’ll find in the words of Julian of Norwich: ‘All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’ And all shall be well, my dear Neil, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now. I pray that you and Claire will be blessed by these words.”
“These words and your company,” agreed Neil, hugging Sister Maureen tightly to him.
“I mean it, Vicar!” shouted Steve. “You’re late and I’m leaving. I’m driving away now. Look! Put that nun down, say goodbye to the fan club and get on board!”
And with kisses blown into the air from Sister Maureen and the Catholic mothers, and more subdued loving waves and nods from their Dunbridge friends, Neil and Claire kept their noses to the window until The Pilgrim was out of sight.
It was gone seven when the phone rang in Iris’s front room.
“Dunbridge 813293.”
“We’re home, Mum,” said Neil. “We had to fight our way through a pile of post behind the front door, and it’s taken me more than quarter of an hour to listen to all the messages on the answerphone – but we’re home.”
“I’m glad,” replied Iris. “You two must be exhausted, and you always did need your sleep, Neil, even when you were a little boy. Leave all the letters and phone calls until tomorrow. Have a nice warm bath, make yourselves a hot cocoa and go to bed.”
“We will, Mum,” grinned Neil. “You too. You’ve been through a lot. Have you got any food in to make yourself some supper?”
“Cyn’s been over and put a few bits in my fridge. She takes her churchwarden duties to an extreme, I must say.”
“She cares a lot about you. Harry was a great friend of hers too. They’d known each other for years.”
“Right, well, I must go,” snapped Iris. “I want to catch up with EastEnders. Good night, Neil.”
“Night, Mum. I’ll ring in the morning. We love you.”
But the line had already clicked dead.
Staring at the phone, Iris sat down heavily on the settee, hugging her knees tightly as she began to rock slowly backwards and forwards. The wail that came from her throat was the cry of an animal exhausted by pain and inconsolable grief. At last, spent and empty, she leaned back against the cushions, bleak desolation etched across her face.
CHAPTER 11
DUNBRIDGE
Be joyful, brothers and sisters. Keep your faith and do the little things.
St David
Harry would have loved the weather that day. He would have been out in his wellies tying up his beans, hoeing around his potatoes and spraying any brave greenfly ill-advised enough to land on his prize roses. Year after year, those roses never failed to win top prize in the Dunbridge Horticultural Flower and Garden Produce Show which was held in August. Standing by the French doors, gazing out across Harry’s beloved garden, Claire’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Someone else would win the First in Show rosette for their roses this year.
“Ready?” Coming up to stand behind her, Neil slid his arms around her waist as Claire sighed, allowing herself to lean back against him.
“Perhaps I’ll feel better once today is over.”
Neil nodded, burying his face in her neck, breathing in the familiar smell of her, loving the feel of her soft skin, loving her.
“The cars are here.” David, Claire’s stepfather, was standing at the front window as he spoke.
“OK,” said Claire turning to her mum, Felicity, who was sitting alongside Iris on the comfy old settee. Harry had loved to stretch out there when he watched television in the evenings.
Iris was first on her feet, picking up her handbag at once and walking towards the front door. Neil and Claire exchanged a concerned glance. Iris’s behaviour had been a worry to them all since they’d lost Harry. To the casual observer, it might seem that she was calm to the point of being unaffected by her companion’s death, but those who knew her well recognized that deep emotion and grief lay beneath her apparent indifference.
Along the length of Vicarage Gardens, people stood at their front gates or in small groups on the pavement, waiting to pay their last respects to a much-loved neighbour who had been there for more years than anyone could really remember. They’d grown used to his friendly wave and the chats they’d enjoyed with him over his garden gate – which often ended with the offer of a bag of fresh vegetables or a bunch of flowers. They stood in silence now as Iris appeared at the front door, her step faltering as she saw for the first time the long, black hearse carrying Harry’s coffin, surrounded by a mass of wreaths and flowers. Neil tightened his grip on her arm, holding her close as he led the way to the car in which the family would travel behind the hearse. Once the others had settled in beside them, the smartly suited attendant closed the door, and within minutes the procession set off at a slow, dignified pace, led on foot by a sombre gentleman in full morning dress, down the street which had been Harry’s home for so much of his life.
As one, the family had agreed on the route of Harry’s last journey. He had loved Dunbridge, so it felt right not only that he should have the chance to say goodbye to his home town, but that Dunbridge should have a chance to bid farewell to him. So instead of turning immediately right at the end of Vicarage Gardens to travel the few yards to St Stephen’s Church, the hearse turned left, then left again, to make its stately way around the market square in which Harry had always been a familiar face.
Neil wound down the window of the car so they could hear the doleful sound of a single bell tolling from the church tower as it resounded around the square. It was market day, Harry’s favourite time of the week. He’d known all the traders, often sharing sweet hot tea with them from his thermos flask when the weather was icy, or chatting about the latest pot plants or vegetables on offer on the stalls. Amid the bustle of a normal shopping morning, a stillness descended as many of the traders and customers turned to watch the hearse pass by. Old men stood to attention at the edge of the pavement. Mums brought their buggies to a halt as their small children pointed out the two gleaming cars.
Outside the Wheatsheaf, right in the centre of the square, where Harry had spent many a happy hour playing bridge well and darts badly, the landlord stood with several of his customers, raising glasses and coffee cups as the hearse went past. The chemist with whom Harry had always chatted when he’d collected his heart pills stood quietly at the kerbside. As they passed the flower shop opened by church members Pauline and Audrey the previous year, they spotted a huge floral display in the window saying WE LOVE YOU HARRY. At the sight of that, Iris took a sharp intake of breath, but her face had resumed its impassive mask by the time Neil turned to look at her.
Once the procession had completed a circuit of the marketplace, the tower of St Stephen’s loomed into view. At this point, the smartly suited man got out from the car and donned his top hat to walk in front of the hearse until it reached the porch gate. Through the window, Neil looked up at this church which had become so dear to him during his three years as a curate. Faces, friends and incidents flashed into his mind for just a second or two before the door was opened by a pallbearer, who offered a gloved hand to help Iris from the car.
Bishop Paul greeted Neil in the porch. When it had become clear that Neil would find it too emotional to take the service himself, Paul had offered immediately, for which Neil was immensely grateful.
The family formed a line to follow the hearse up the aisle, and Bishop Paul took his place at the front, ready to move off as soon as the congregation had stood to mark the arrival of th
e funeral party. As he walked, the bishop recited words of comfort and reassurance.
“‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ says the Lord. ‘Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’
“I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
A wave of emotion washed over Neil as he began to walk down that familiar aisle, taking him by surprise. He looked around to see so many faces he knew: stalwart congregation members, youngsters only just recognizable as the babies and toddlers he’d baptized, family groups, choir members, musicians, old friends and neighbours who had not only loved Harry, but who had also shown Neil a huge depth of love and understanding during his eventful time at St Stephen’s. Their eyes were turned towards him now, full of compassion and sympathy.
It was then that he noticed one face beaming a smile at him from the choir stalls. It was Betty, standing alongside other members of the choir from St Jude’s in Burntacre who had got to know Harry on the cruise. Neil knew they were there not just for their new friend. They’d come to support their vicar and his wife at a time of sadness, and Neil caught Claire’s suddenly tearful eye as she spotted them too.
The pallbearers gently laid the coffin on its stand in front of the altar rail, leaving just one floral decoration on the top: a magnificent display of fragrant yellow roses.
Once all the family members had taken their seats, Bishop Paul stood to face the congregation.
“It is no surprise that the church is packed this morning for this final farewell to our dear friend Harry Holloway. He has worshipped at St Stephen’s for decades. His wife Rose is buried here – and in a short while, we will be laying Harry beside her in the grave he has tended so lovingly throughout the five years since he lost her.
“Harry would have been touched beyond words to see how many of you are here for him today, and most of you know how much he always loved the old hymns he’d sung since he was a boy. So please stand now to sing one of his favourites, ‘Abide with Me’.”
As Brian played two lines of introduction, the congregation got to their feet to sing words most of them knew by heart, without need of hymn books. In spite of the sadness of the occasion, the sound resounded sweetly around the church, bolstered by the extra choir members from Burntacre, who provided harmonies alongside the regular choir of St Stephen’s.
When the hymn ended, churchwarden Peter Fellowes stood to read the psalm that Harry had always said he found most comforting of all: Psalm 23, using the wording from the King James Bible:
“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.”
Once Peter had sat down, Bishop Paul went into the pulpit to read out the eulogy that Neil and the family had put together. It covered Harry’s early life, growing up on the family farm. Being older by two years, his brother had taken over the farm, so Harry had looked for work elsewhere. He was taken on to help with a local milk herd, and after delivering milk to a nearby dairy every day for several years, the dairy finally offered him the job that filled his working life for the next four decades. Come rain or shine, he would be up and out at four every morning to do his milk round, making him a very well-known face in Dunbridge and the surrounding villages.
Towards the end of the fifties, he’d met the love of his life, Rose. Their wedding in St Stephen’s in 1960 was the beginning of a very happy marriage which lasted just a few weeks off half a century, when his dearly loved wife died after a long illness. One great sadness for the couple had been the fact that their son Archie was stillborn, and they were never able to have any other children. Rose’s death was, therefore, a sad blow for Harry, who channelled his energy instead into his church life and his garden, which some said he loved in equal measure.
Bishop Paul then introduced Claire to continue the story. Clutching a page of notes, she stepped nervously onto the podium. It didn’t take long, though, for her voice to gather volume and her notes to be forgotten as she spoke from the heart about the man who had practically been a father to her.
“Officially, Harry was my great-uncle. My grandfather was Harry’s only brother, but he had died long before I came along. His daughter Felicity is my mother, and because my own father didn’t stay around long enough to know me, Uncle Harry stepped into the role of grandad and dad all rolled into one. I have so many wonderful memories of Harry spending time with me throughout my childhood, telling me stories, playing chase and hide and seek, catching tiddlers from the local stream, patching me up with plasters on my knee and kisses to make everything better. He taught me to look at the world with wonder and gratitude. He found beauty in the ugliest of garden bugs, and ugliness in people who didn’t appreciate the glory of the world around us. From Harry, I learned my love of nature and growing things. I became a professional gardener thanks to Harry and his encouragement. He taught me so much – from homespun gardener’s tips to the proper Latin names for each and every plant we saw – and what a wonderful gift that was.
“And then Sam came along, my own son, who’s now nearly seven years old. Harry became as devoted a grandad to him as he’d always been to me.
“There are few people in the world who are simply good. Harry was one of those unique and remarkable souls, with kindness and care for others coming as naturally to him as breathing.
“And now he’s gone. I spent the day before he died visiting Tresco Gardens on the Isles of Scilly with him. It was a heart-warming occasion, because he’d visited those gardens with Rose some years before. Around every corner, he saw something to remind him of her – a bench they’d sat on, a tree they’d admired, a glorious yellow rose bush we saw in bloom that day, just as Harry and Rose had when they were there. It was a day of happy memories and love – his for Rose, and ours for each other. The word he used to describe how he felt was joy.
“And I believe that happiness, that joy, was with him until the moment he died peacefully in his sleep the next afternoon. He felt very close to Rose, and I know in my heart that they are together now, as devoted in death as they were in life.”
She turned then to look towards the coffin. “So goodbye, Harry. We love you. We’ll always remember you and miss you being with us, but you’re in God’s care now, you and Rose.”
Putting her hand to her lips, she blew a slow, soft kiss towards the coffin, then made her way back to the pew where Neil waited to put his arms around her.
Prayers followed, led by individual members of the St Stephen’s congregation who had worshipped alongside Harry. Then the announcement was made that the coffin would be taken out for burial. The pallbearers led the way, followed by probably a hundred or more people who had been in the church, filling the churchyard.
As the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave, Bishop Paul read the Committal Prayer, and one by one, members of the family and close friends came up to throw a handful of soil onto the top of the coffin.
“We have entrusted our brother Harry to God’s mercy,
and we now commit his body to the ground:
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust:
in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ,
; who will transform our frail bodies
that they may be conformed to his glorious body,
who died, was buried, and rose again for us.
To him be glory for ever.
Amen.”
Raising his hand in blessing, the bishop continued:
“Eternal God,
whose Son Jesus Christ said,
‘Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid,’
take away our fear of death;
bring us to the place he has gone to prepare for us;
and give us his peace for ever.
Glory to the Father and to the Son
and to the Holy Spirit;
as it was in the beginning, is now
and shall be for ever.
Amen.”
And then it was over. The sombre mood of the burial was replaced by discussions about the tea that Beryl and her team had prepared for everyone back in the church hall, and in small groups people drifted away towards the church. Claire waved Neil on as he took Iris’s arm to leave the churchyard, then waited in the shadows by the grave until all was quiet again. Moving forward, she knelt down, gazing at the coffin for several minutes as if she were unable to let him go. In her hands she clasped a copy of the Order of Service with her favourite picture of Harry on the front cover. He looked tanned and happy, leaning on a spade in his vegetable garden.
“I love you,” she whispered at last, turning the booklet over to see the picture on the back cover of Harry and Rose smiling at the camera during their Silver Wedding Anniversary party.
She had to go. The others would be wondering where she was.
It was just as she started to get up that she felt something touch her cheek. Claire smiled, looking around for what she knew it was, but there was no yellow petal to be seen.
It didn’t matter, though, because that touch, as soft as a kiss, told Claire all she needed to know. Harry was fine – and she would be too.