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IN ALL OTHER RESPECTS it was a typical funeral. A large Victorian church, a large indifferent congregation. George had conducted ten others just like it in the last two years. What happened was people sat huddled together and looked glum and mouthed hymns. Occasionally, someone wept. But not like this.
It was The Lord’s My Shepherd that set her off, that bit about goodness and mercy following her all her life. She had blonde hair, she looked to be in her mid to late twenties – about eight or nine years younger than him - and she wore a black sleeveless dress. When she blew her nose, which she did loudly every two minutes, she looked attractive, even with a beetroot face. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking that.
Everyone else ignored her, or tried to. Vivienne had been eighty-three, after all, and she’d died in her sleep. Charles, the estranged widower, cast the occasional irritated glance to one side. The two women behind him, presumably his daughter and granddaughter, looked sour and rolled their eyes. There was a five person gap between her and the next mourner.
George filled up with compassion. There was the rest of the Order of Service for Burial to be got through, that couldn’t be helped. Afterwards, he’d make it his first priority to find her. Charles and his family could fend for themselves. He would put his brother and his brother’s best friend on hold too, even though he hadn’t seen them for six months. Where were they?
They were standing behind a pillar, right where they couldn’t see her. But they could definitely hear her. Everyone could. Why were they looking bored? What right had anyone to look bored with that going on? Why weren’t they helping her? Why wasn’t anyone? Why wasn’t he?
His hand shook. He took out his copy of The Prophet and his sermon notes and climbed into the pulpit and went to autopilot.
As he heard himself speak the words he’d rehearsed on the train, it suddenly hit him. She wasn’t family, the family was sitting together. She probably wasn’t a friend either. No one he’d spoken to about Vivienne mentioned a twenty-something. And no one was comforting her. She was utterly alone.
Suddenly she was as mysterious as she was pitiful.
Beyond the doors, the sun held the clouds apart. A breeze brushed the cow-parsley at the edge of the churchyard. After reciting the dismissal, George crossed himself and followed the pallbearers. Charles was already at the graveside. His fingertips were interlaced, his brogues together. In the adjacent field, the sheep bleated.
George recited the committal. One of the funeral directors handed Charles some soil and retired. It hit the coffin lid with a bang.
The crying woman was standing behind the crowd on the opposite side of the grave, her shoulders jerking. George said the Collect and the Grace and everyone Amen-ed. The crowd and the silence dissolved and she shuffled away.
George stepped past the knot around Charles. An elderly woman appeared, as straight as a knitting-needle, wearing a greatcoat with the top button snapped in half. Too late they made eye-contact. She trembled.
“I was Vivienne’s housekeeper. I wouldn’t normally come to this sort of thing but she would have wanted it. I can’t believe she’s dead. She had such a ... presence. It doesn’t seem possible, even though she was eighty-odd. It’s not like me at all.”
George took her hand. “Give it a while. It’ll pass, believe me.”
“I can’t help - ”
Suddenly, the space between them was invaded by the two women who had been standing behind Charles. His daughter and granddaughter.
“That would have been a good service,” the daughter said, “but it was ruined by the crying.”
“Totally ruined by that girl’s crying,” the granddaughter said. “I couldn’t hear you at all.” They looked about fifty and thirty otherwise they were almost identical –the same winter coats, pill-box hats and leather gloves. Behind them, the gravediggers filled in the hole.
“It was supposed to be a funeral service,” George said, looking past them. “People cry.” He was walking away backwards.
“Yes, yes, I know,” the daughter said, “but Vivienne was old, for God’s sake. People do die. Especially at her age.”
“Talk about a drama queen,” the granddaughter said. “Too late to do anything about it now, though. Far too late.”
He didn’t have time for an argument. She’d probably reached the lych-gate by now. He turned to follow her. But Charles stepped out offering a handshake.
“Excellent sermon, vicar.”
“Er, yes, thank you.”
“Not a word of truth in it, though. You made Vivienne sound quite reasonable. Townswomen’s Guild, donations to Christian Aid, kind to children and animals, all that guff. Not the woman I knew.”
“I understand you’d been separated for some time.”
“We had contact though. We were always in touch.”
“I asked her friends about her.”
Charles laughed. “I notice you didn’t put in what I told you, though. Mind you, I don’t fall into that category. Thank God.”
“It’s conventional to concentrate on the positives.”
“Calm down, old fellow. I’m not suggesting I care, quite the contrary. You’re a nice chap, she’s stone dead, what’s it matter? Coming over for a drink and a few sandwiches in a minute? You’re very welcome. Everyone is.”
He looked up. She was gone.
He excused himself and jogged down the path to the road. But she was nowhere to be seen.
It wasn’t his church. He’d only been asked to do the funeral because his younger brother was Charles’s friend. After everyone left for the reception, he spoke to the vicar and helped her clear away.
Black Gables was two miles away. He wasn’t eager to arrive. He’d put in an appearance, say hello to his brother and Thanongsak and go. From what he’d heard, it was to be a thinly disguised celebration of Vivienne’s being finally out of the way: lots of people with no connection to the family drafted in to provide a carnival atmosphere. He didn’t expect to see the crying woman. What he remembered about her now, insanely, was her beauty. And yet he hadn’t even seen her properly.
The walk took him half an hour. Black Gables was a Tudor mansion, rebuilt by the Georgians in ashlar. Its ornamental lawn was dotted with ancient trees and rockeries. Charles had hired a catering firm to provide drinks and sandwiches. There were nearly two hundred mourners, most, by the look of it, having a wonderful time.
Edward and Thanongsak sat at a table on the lawn with three pints of beer in between them, looking sombre. Edward’s dark curly hair, straight jaw-line and brown eyes reminded George of looking in the mirror. People always said they were like twins, though five years separated them. Thanongsak’s perfectly styled grey and black hair surrounding a bald spot, his bespoke suit and brogues suggested he’d closed the restaurant to groom himself. Charles must have commanded them both to be here, judging by the expressions on their faces.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” Edward said when George sat down.
“Would you like another beer?” Thanongsak asked. “That’ll be flat.”
“You both look very dapper,” George said. “No, that’s fine. You don’t know who that woman was, in the service, do you?”
Thanongsak smiled. “The woman?”
“I hope someone cries like that at my funeral,” Edward said.
“We couldn’t see her from where we were sitting. What did she look like?”
“I couldn’t see much,” George replied. “Quite young, about twenty-five I think, blonde hair. On her own.”
Edward shrugged.
“It has to be someone Charles has lined up,” Thanongsak said. “We think he’ll remarry now. Someone much younger to show his virility, scotch the rumours about him being gay. He’s of a generation that still sees that as a stigma.”
“She fulfils the cliché by the sounds of her,” Edward said. “They’re always young blondes.”
“You’ll probably see her on his arm if you hang round long enough, George.”
“Assuming her cunning plan was successful.”
“Why did he have to wait till Vivienne was dead?” George said.
“They hated each other,” Edward said, “but couldn’t do without each other.”
“Is he gay?” George asked.
Thanongsak laughed. “He’s never made a move on either of us two. And since we’re both unmarried and superbly alluring, the answer’s probably no.”
“I think it’s academic in an eighty year-old,” Edward said.
George shook his head. “Is Charles really eighty? He doesn’t look a day over fifty.”
“Dorian Gray syndrome,” Thanongsak replied. “No one knows how he does it. You’re not the first to remark on it.”
“Anyway,” Edward said, “it’s nice to see you in one piece for a change.”
“I heal quickly,” George replied, raising the arm that had been in plaster last time they met.
Edward shook his head despairingly. They looked out to the lawn. There were children playing and couples walking arm in arm. Youths laughed and horsed around. There was nothing to suggest someone had just been buried. George just wanted to get away.
To create a seemly interval he talked to Thanongsak about his restaurant and to Edward about his research. Mostly, they were too taciturn for his liking. Left to them, seemly intervals tended to shade into years and decades. He looked at his watch, downed his ale and stood up.
“Not staying for another?” Edward said.
“I have to get back to London.”
“See you in six months time,” Thanongsak said.
Edward looked around and made a play of lowering his voice. “For another meeting of the Secret Bachelor Society ...”
“Maybe George will be married by then,” Thanongsak said. “We’ll have to find someone else to hang out and look sad with. I don’t get it, George. You’re surrounded by women all day long. Someone must take your fancy occasionally?”
George smiled. “That would be abusing my position.”
“I’d probably play it by ear if I were you,” Thanongsak replied. “It’s not like there are any hard and fast rules. This is the twenty-first century, remember?”
“He may be right, George,” Edward said.
“I’m more or less the only man in the refuge. A lot of women there have lost all faith in men. My role is to help restore it.”
Thanongsak smiled. “Your depriving some poor abused woman of a fantastic husband probably isn’t as noble as you think. Anyway, have a good trip.”
“Salut, George,” Edward said.
Although George hadn’t said anything, he’d allowed himself ten minutes for a stroll round the grounds. The sun shone. The hawthorn flowers were turning from white to brown and the air smelt of cut grass and soil. Above the mourners a wood pigeon asserted life’s continuation.
But Charles’s ornamental garden wasn’t his main concern. He wanted another glimpse of the crying woman. He knew he wasn’t in a position to approach her any more - assuming she’d stayed, she was probably on Charles’s arm by now. He only hoped to discover she wasn’t so beautiful after all, not worth dreaming about in the lonely hours of the days, weeks and years ahead.
“Oh, there you are,” said a male voice from in front of him.
It was Charles, blocking the way, just as he’d done after the service. Still curious, George made an effort to discern the octogenarian in him. Charles’s hair was thick, short and brown, his skin pale but firm with only a few wrinkles round the eyes. Disturbingly, he wasn’t just youthful but quite handsome.
“Can I borrow you for a moment?” Charles said. “I’ll come straight to the point. Am I right in thinking you’re involved with a refuge for battered women? In London?”
George was so used to correcting the term he didn’t pause. “We don’t really call them ‘battered’ any more.”
Charles knitted his eyebrows.
“It puts all the emphasis on the physical,” George said. “It’s old fashioned. ‘Abused’ is better.”
“I see.” They started to walk the path surrounding the house. “Well, I want you to take a look at my granddaughter. She’s in a bit of a bad way. Possibly drugs. I know she ‘does’ drugs.”
There was another pause. George sat it out.
Charles chuckled. “In the past, she’s had ... ‘mental problems’? Is that how you describe them these days? She needs someone to talk to. Someone with experience. As far as I know, you’re the only person here who fits the bill. I can, of course, supply a donation for your refuge.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But presumably it won’t go amiss. Don’t worry, I’ll get the address from Edward.”
“Where is your granddaughter?”
Charles smiled. “I should probably brief you first.”
“Oh?”
“I hardly have any contact with her nowadays. This is the first time we’ve been in close proximity in God knows how many years and that wasn’t by choice. She and her mother have always been Vivienne’s children, so to speak, and they have what can only be described as a ... loathing for me. It’s entirely mutual so I rarely let it bother me. The only reason they’re here today is because it’s Vivienne’s funeral and they’ve probably a ‘right’ to be. I wasn’t going to argue. Not for the sake of one day.”
“I think I met them both earlier.”
“Then you’ll know what you’re up against.”
“I admit they were a little ... overpowering.”
“That’s one word for them, yes.”
“So what exactly’s the matter with your granddaughter?”
Charles exhaled. “That’s what I’d like you to find out. If you would.”
“Of course, yes.”
“Be careful of her. Evil has a way of sucking you in.”
“We have a saying in Christianity. Love the sinner, hate the sin.”
“Of course you do. Which is why it’s such a decided advantage, you being a vicar. Let me tell you about the ‘sin’, though, just so we’re clear. Drugs, alcohol, absolute promiscuity. She’s probably riddled with STDs, I’m afraid. Cosmetic surgery by the bucketful ... It’s small wonder she’s got ‘mental health problems’.”
George took a sharp breath. “I must say, I wouldn’t have guessed any of that from my conversation with her earlier.”
“There’d be no point in my warning you if she wasn’t the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her name’s Susan, by the way.”
“Susan.”
“I always say the end justifies the means. If you can stop her causing a scene, I don’t care how you do it. Only remember that turning the other cheek isn’t always the most effective policy.”
Charles stopped. He put his arm round George and turned him to face the lawn. He nodded towards a woman sitting on a rock, completely adrift from the other guests, her head bowed. She was so distant it was difficult to make out anything about her, except that she was dressed in black.
“Just sweet talk her back to reality,” Charles said. “Speak slowly and let her see your lips moving in case she’s high on whatever chemicals she favours this week. Call the police if you have to. Ideally, get her off the premises.”
George was about to plead for some shred of compassion in all this when he realised that Charles’s granddaughter – ‘Susan’ – wasn’t who he thought she was. She wasn’t either of the women who’d forced their views on him so vociferously after the service.
She was the crying woman.
