There were few friends. The McKays had never needed friends; they had each other.
Pink and white petals fluttered onto their shoulders as they stood beneath the trees and gathered in drifts against the ancient mossy kerb stones; inappropriate confetti. A church warden was hastily paying out cabling to connect up to a portable speaker so that they would be able to hear the service. The vicar stood in the porch ready to shake hands with the chief mourners when the cortege arrived. His cassock flapped around his ankles in the May breeze with the unfitting exuberance of a boisterous puppy. This was a big funeral. The McKays were a prominent family. He had high hopes for the collection plate. The family plot was sequestered in a quiet corner of the churchyard, close to a particularly prolific damson tree – the vicar’s wife had famously made many a jar of jam from its fruit, much sought after at the annual bazaar and, less well known, many a bottle of damson gin also. The grave was freshly dug and draped with green felt. It would be a peaceful enough place to rest. His sermon would contain the usual assurances of the Lord’s love and comfort, His goodness and grace towards the faithful and the joys of heaven without stating with any absolute specificity that the deceased was an assured recipient of these good things. In these cases it was best, he found, to be kindly vague. His business, to quote the Saviour, was more with the living than with the dead, who must, at this late stage in proceedings, be prepared to take their chances.
With an unpleasant squeal the PA screeched into life and the sonorous tones of the organ boomed into the air, making the mourners wince. A wave from another warden stationed at the gate, indicated that the cortege was in sight. There was a collective in-breath and the crowd readied itself.
The coffin was borne on a McKays Haulage low-loader, its paint and chrome polished to a high shine, its flat-bed draped in voluminous yards of black silk. A mass of floral tributes surrounded the casket, weighted down somehow against the brisk breeze. In their midst, and on the huge truck, the box looked small and pathetic. The on-lookers gasped at the splendour, or perhaps at the tawdriness, of it. The funeral director, in the first car following, was rather in the latter camp. He had spent the short journey giving the whole arrangement anxious glances; it seemed impossible that the coffin would not be dislodged and slide off the back of the lorry. It might cannon into the back of the cab at any moment. One of the wreaths could fly off and get caught on the windscreen of a passing car, causing an accident. It would reflect very poorly on him professionally if anything were to go awry. He had tried hard to argue against the plan, offering various alternatives including a horse-drawn gun-carriage. He believed that some members of the family would themselves have infinitely preferred a traditional hearse but it seemed that the staff at the yard had been forceful and he had given way to them with the proviso that, in the event of inclement weather, the scheme be abandoned. It was important, with such high-profile clients, that everything went smoothly. Even now, as they approached the entrance, one or two disrespectful members of the press were aiming their cameras. He would instruct his staff to keep them well back while being sure to mention the name of the firm.
The first limousine drew up to the kerb and the funeral director skipped round to open the door for the mourners. The crowd outside the church stepped back in deference to them, keeping their eyes down but casting frequent furtive glances at the grieving family, curious to know how they were bearing up. The McKays were well known. Belinda was especially popular - active on various committees and charitable boards even after the dreadful accident, she managed to fit in a plethora of causes around the demands of full-time caring. Ruth they knew less well, although she was beginning to make her mark. Heather of course, was quite famous. Simon was more of a mystery. He had eschewed the family firm and their town for the brighter lights of the capital. It was hard for them to forgive him, really. But he was handsome, suitably dressed and, as they watched, took particular care to support his mother, which softened them towards him. He had been touched, they whispered to one another, by tragedy. Hadn’t his poor wife died? Wasn’t she buried in the family plot over in the corner? Yes, they sighed, but apparently he was a marvellous single dad. Hadn’t he a new partner? No, it hadn’t lasted. He was on his own again, poor man. Yes, he had been touched by tragedy. But hadn’t they all? Indeed this local family who, at one time, had seemed to float rather above the normal disappointments and grievances of life had, in recent times, been all but deluged by them.
There was Mary looking calm but rather pale, commented the chairwoman of the townswomen’s guild. She’d been a stranger, recently, since Robert had gone into the Oaks. She’d been spending a lot of time at Simon’s looking after the poor motherless kiddies, remarked a neighbour, with a smug smile which she hoped would imply that she was privy to pretty much all of the McKays’ private affairs.
The crowd of on-lookers wondered how the McKays would bear themselves in the face of this most recent loss. Almost in answer the family collected itself on the pavement beyond the old stone wall. It seemed as though they were unwilling to join the waiting crowds, almost as though holding themselves aloof.
‘Always were a proud lot,’ someone mumbled.
Mary hung on Simon’s arm, Belinda and Heather stood close together. Heather clutched a handkerchief which was already damp. The crowd had to admit that the chief mourners were impeccably dressed; even Heather, the weird and wayward one, wore sober black. Ruth stepped away from them all with an apologetic look to take a call on her mobile. The crowd shook their heads disapprovingly at one another, while furtively groping for their own phones to make sure they were switched off.
The children of the family stepped from the second car, uncomfortable in smart, formal clothes. They had all grown since November, especially the oldest, Belinda’s boy. He had suddenly, about that time, left the school sixth form and gone to America to a military academy with a reputation for tough discipline. It had mystified the staff at St Hilary’s, apparently. One woman, who knew the neighbour of a parent governor, hinted enigmatically about drugs. He looked very American, now; tanned, with closely cropped hair like a GI or a convict. He had broadened out, his shoulders filling his well-cut charcoal suit. But he kept his eyes firmly on the floor. It was a shame, barked the scout commissioner. A boy like that should have been taught to look people square in the eye, not hang his head as though he was ashamed of something.
His sister, a burgeoning beauty, held his hand. It was rumoured that she had developed an unsuitable attachment. Oh yes! A man whose wife’s sister was a regular prison visitor under a scheme organised by their church sketched out the details. A ne’er-do-well taken in as a charity case by the family. He was back in prison (of course, these people were lost causes) and the girl visited him every week. His companion nodded conspiratorially; he had even more shocking news to impart. It seemed that the young man in question was none other than the feckless vandal who had caused the dreadful accident the previous autumn! There was a ripple amongst the mourners within earshot. Shocking! Wasn’t there a death? Oh yes; not a genuine McKay. But still. The lone voice of a woman who served as a JP warned that in fact the cause of the accident had never been categorically established. The eye witnesses had been young and unreliable and their accounts had tended to be contradictory, she reminded them. There had been high levels of alcohol involved and the emergency vehicles had obscured tyre tracks and skid marks which might have established the exact sequence of events. But the crowd was not to be tempered. When they thought about the havoc wreaked on that poor family; it beggared belief. The hooligan would be out in a few years and free to go marauding round the countryside killing innocent men women and children again. No one was safe!
The girl’s father was livid about it but what could he do, poor man?
The younger children hovered behind the older two, hesitant in their well-polished shoes. Poor mites. Too many funerals. This would be their third in as many years. A woman in a hat proving unmanageable in the gusty breeze lif
ted a handkerchief to her eye.
The last to emerge was the littlest one, the little African one they had all read about in the papers; it looked like the court case might drag on for months. She took the hand of one of her boy-cousins as soon as she got out of the car. Ruth’s boy – looked like her, didn’t he? A wispy-looking child, every bit a McKay. Oh yes. A real McKay. But fancy letting the little one come to a funeral! The crowd sucked its teeth disapprovingly again. They were all in favour of the couple being allowed to adopt the little thing but surely she was too young for this kind of occasion? Mightn’t it prejudice their case? Not to mention the possible disruption to the service! They rolled their eyes at one another in their unspoken but shared vision of the irreverent interruption of the sombre service by a lively two year old dropping hymn books and running amok in the chancel. They began to be relieved, rather than annoyed, that they had arrived too late for a place on a pew.
The third car drew up at the kerb, a specially adapted black people-carrier. Two of the sons-in-law climbed out. One went round to the back of the vehicle and extricated a wheel chair. He was tall, dark haired; the father of the poor dead girl. At one time he had been very bulky but the weight had dropped off him recently. Someone on the NHS Hospital Trust Board imparted the confidential information that after weeks of sick leave he had given up his job in the psychiatric unit. He stayed home full time now apparently, and divided his time between looking after the son and helping Belinda with Elliot. He did a lot of things for the church. His companion made a sympathetic moue; an experienced nurse like that would be impossible to replace.
The crowd gave an involuntary thrill as the other son-in-law, with the distinctive grey ponytail, began to help Elliot into the waiting wheelchair. Such a lovely man, with the human touch; look how nice he had been with all those poor starving Africans, and raised ever such a lot of money.
They all knew Elliot of course. He had run McKays until his accident had rendered him so badly disabled. Not, frankly, a popular man - efficient no doubt, but not a real McKay. Now he was a shadow of his former self. Blind in one eye, his face disfigured by scar tissue. Massive jaw reconstruction and dental work had failed to make his speech clearly intelligible and in any case the damage to his brain meant that he would probably never regain full mental capacity. He thrashed around angrily while the two others tried to secure him into his chair, making inarticulate attempts to speak which produced nothing more tangible than a dribble of saliva on his chin. The dark haired brother-in-law wiped it efficiently with a large white handkerchief. It was good of him wasn’t it, they murmured to one another, considering Elliot’s blood-alcohol levels on the night of the accident? Hadn’t the Coroner made specific mention of it as a significant contributing factor? Oh yes, the woman in the hat nodded, knowingly. And that was why the hooligan had got off so lightly. But still, wouldn’t you have thought - she shook her head, sadly - every time that poor man looked at Elliot he must think of his little girl...
Seeing Elliot, the little black child skipped over the pavement with a cry of joy and clambered onto his knee. Elliot went suddenly rigid while his niece snuggled companionably on to his lap. His good eye widened and roved furiously over the crowd of McKays, but no one met it.
Last to descend from the people-carrier was the younger McKay sister and her daughter. June was classily dressed in appropriate black and wore dark glasses. No sooner was she out of the car than she had hurried along the pavement to where the chief mourners gathered, keen to establish herself amongst them. Her daughter trailed awkwardly behind. There was no sign yet of the older sister or the man who had been husband to one and was now husband to the other. What a scandal that had caused, the previous autumn! An ex-lady golf captain raised her eyebrows significantly at the treasurer’s wife. The new wife was nothing like the old, had never so much as held a club, apparently. There they are, the treasurer nodded as Les and Muriel arrived on foot and joined the young people who greeted them with hugs and smiles.
Then everyone’s attention had been drawn to the arrival of the final cortege vehicle. The mini-bus from the Oaks disgorged a number of staff come to pay their respects to the recent patient and an extremely elderly woman, bright eyed, walking unaided, smartly dressed and closely supervised by two uniformed nurses whom she regaled with a detailed account of Sir Winston Churchill’s funeral, which she claimed to have attended as a guest of honour.
Complete at last the family came through the gate and walked slowly up the gravelled pathway. Behind them the pall-bearers struggled manfully to remove the coffin from the low-loader with a modicum of dignity. Along the path Ruth stopped to shake hands here and there with a supplier, a customer, an employee. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said again and again, ‘it means so much to us, and daddy would have been so proud.’ Since she had replaced Elliot as MD of McKays or, perhaps, since the loss of her step-daughter, she had bloomed. Her hard edges had softened, her angst melted away. The employees all liked her; she didn’t pretend to know everything but asked for their advice and opinion. But she was no push-over: suppliers who tried it on were swiftly dealt with and years of surprising wayward delinquents up to no good meant that any malingering staff members had to be on their guard. Customers were charmed by her. And of course, she was the real deal, a true McKay. She was her father’s daughter alright.
The vicar stepped from the shelter of the porch and shook hands with the widow and the children of the deceased. He murmured words of comfort to the children, squeezed Elliot’s shoulder and stroked the cheek of the little girl on his knee. Presently the pall-bearers began the journey up the pathway. The crowd fell silent. Men removed their hats. The family divided briefly as Robert passed between them for the last time then united seamlessly behind him as the vicar led them slowly through the doors and down the aisle.
‘I am the way and the truth and the life,’ he said, and the mourners in the pews rose to their feet.
Characters
Granny McKay – mother to Muriel, Robert and June
Robert McKay – son of Granny McKay, brother of June and Muriel, husband to Mary, father of Belinda, Ruth, Simon and Heather
Mary McKay – wife to Robert, mother of Belinda, Ruth, Simon and Heather
Belinda McKay-Donne – daughter of Robert and Mary, sister of Ruth, Simon and Heather, wife to Elliot, mother of Rob and Ellie
Elliot McKay-Donne – husband to Belinda, father of Rob and Ellie
Rob – son of Belinda and Elliot, brother of Ellie
Ellie – daughter of Belinda and Elliot, sister of Rob
Ruth – daughter of Robert and Mary, sister of Belinda, Simon and Heather, wife to James, mother of Ben, step-mother of Rachel
James – husband to Ruth, father of Rachel and Ben
Rachel – daughter of James, step-daughter of Ruth, step-sister of Ben
Ben – son of Ruth and James, step-brother of Rachel
Simon – son of Robert and Mary, brother of Belinda, Ruth and Heather, widower of April, partner of Miriam, father of Tansy, Toby and Todd
Miriam – partner of Simon
April – deceased wife of Simon, mother of Tansy, Toby and Todd
Tansy – daughter of Simon and April, sister of Toby and Todd
Toby – son of Simon and April, brother of Tansy and Todd
Todd – son of Simon and April, brother of Tansy and Toby
Heather – daughter of Robert and Mary, sister of Belinda, Ruth and Simon, wife to Jude, adoptive mother of Starlight
Jude – husband to Heather, adoptive father of Starlight
Starlight – adoptive daughter of Heather and Jude
June – daughter of Granny McKay, sister of Robert and Muriel, wife to Les, mother of Sandra
Les – husband to June, father of Sandra
Sandra – daughter of June and Les
Kevin – boyfriend of Sandra
Muriel – daughter of Granny McKay, sister of Robert and June
Mitch – general ass
istant to Jude and Heather
Mr Burgess – Granny McKay’s friend
Acknowledgements
I began writing this book in 2006 and finished it in 2008. Those years carried me through a turbulent time in my life during which I learnt a great deal about the importance of family and friends. I take this opportunity to pay tribute to my family for their unconditional love and loyalty; my children over and above all, also my Mum and Dad, sister Sharon and nieces Marianne and Alice. I found out who my friends are – they’re the ones who stuck with me. You know who you are. We might not be kin – but I think we are kindred.
For the latter part of the book’s creation I was something of a wanderer, working on it in a variety of locales including hotels both dreary and delightful, lounges of the impersonal airport kind and also of the homely, comfortable variety. Thank you for those who gave me shelter and encouragement; my parents and Tim’s; friends who put me up; Faye, the breakfast hostess at the Hampton, Stevensville MI whose genuine kindness each morning gave me courage to face the day when I was at my lowest ebb and Lois in Doylestown PA, who allowed me the use of her cosy sitting room and the company of Chico the cat for the re-write in 2011.
Thank you to Tim, who believed in me and my writing right from the start and without whose unfailing love, support and encouragement Relative Strangers would never have arrived on the page, let alone in print.
Dreams really do come true.
Thankyou
Thank you for reading this book. I really hope you enjoyed it. As a self-published author I don’t have the support of an agent or a huge marketing department behind me. I rely on my readers to spread the word about my books. Please would you consider returning to Amazon and leaving a short review? Just a few words to accompany your star rating would mean so much to me.
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