The first heavy drops of rain fell onto the coffin with soft thuds. Mary watched as the beads of water shivered and spread, magnifying the grain of the waxed mahogany. Tom would have liked the sound. He didn’t mind rain, he always said it was God’s gift to the gardener – saved all the back-breaking carrying of watering cans. The corners of her mouth puckered into a half smile before she took in a shuddering breath. It felt wrong to be thinking of her brother in the past tense; it was too soon.
There was a shift of movement amongst the mourners as four burly men shuffled into position and, holding the braided gold cords, steadied themselves to lower the coffin into the ground.
‘For as much as it has pleased almighty God of his great mercy to receive unto himself the soul of our brother here departed we therefore commit his body…’
Mary stiffened. His soul. If God existed, as Tom believed, then he had lived for years with the knowledge, that guilt, that he had committed the greatest sin. He had killed another human being and now he’d died with that sin on his soul. To protect her. She stared at the minister. Had Tom confided in him? Had this man of God managed to comfort her brother or had Tom kept his torment to himself?
Peter pulled Mary closer and she rested her head against him, trying to gain some comfort from the familiar smell of pipe tobacco and the soft wool of his jacket.
‘Soon it will be over, meine Geliebte,’ he breathed.
But Mary didn’t want it to be over. It meant leaving Tom here in the cold earth and she couldn’t bear the thought of that. Through the black veil on her hat she peered out of the corner of her eye at Ellen. She stood impassive, Ted’s arm around her waist.
On the other side of him Jean shifted the weight from one foot to the other, her face hidden under the wide brim of her black sateen hat.
‘… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
Unwilling to see the coffin slowly disappear, Mary closed her eyes. But then all she saw was Tom lying so still with his blood slowly flowing towards her. She forced her lids open. Concentrating on the brass name plate, her lips moved silently as she read his name over and over again. Thomas Howarth 1912–1950, saying it faster and faster, as though by its repetition, she could hold on to her brother.
She heard Ellen take in a gulping breath. Glancing up she watched Ted tighten his hold on her sister’s waist, supporting her. Heard her whisper, ‘I’m okay.’
What would Ellen say if she told her what Tom had done? However relieved Mary was when Frank died, it was their lovely gentle brother who’d killed him; driven to protect her in a way that went totally against what he believed. Mary whimpered, moved her head from side to side on Peter’s shoulder.
‘Hush, Liebling.’
The rain increased. People huddled together, started to raise umbrellas and the drops bounced off the taut material in a pattern of sounds. The wet air carried the scent of the spray of yellow roses, the only flowers she’d allowed to be placed on the coffin.
She turned her face upwards, the rain washing away her tears.
‘… in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ who shall change our body that it may be like his glorious body according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.’
It was what Tom had believed. She hoped for his sake that, if He actually existed, his God was merciful. She hadn’t held onto the religion she’d been taught as a child. Growing up in a household such as hers had driven that away. Perhaps if she had a faith it would help her now but she doubted it. Tom was a good man and the God he loved hadn’t saved him.
She hated Frank Shuttleworth. But the sounds of him drowning in the canal hadn’t diminished in her mind. Her conscience vied with the satisfaction that he’d got what he deserved and kept her awake at night.
She took an uneven breath. Peter tightened his hold on her. She wondered what he would say when, if, she told him. However much she loved Peter, did she trust him not to condemn Tom? Even as she thought it, she dismissed the doubt. Peter wouldn’t judge Tom.
The undertaker dropped a few grains of earth onto the coffin.
‘Mary?’
She flinched. The undertaker was holding out his hand, inviting her to take some earth. ‘I can’t.’ She backed away, stumbling awkwardly against Peter. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go now.’
As Peter led her away she looked over her shoulder at the long line of people filing past the edge of the grave. She didn’t recognise many of them. She hadn’t appreciated how many friends Tom had made over the last five years. She wished she’d known. And then she saw Tom’s two best friends, Alwyn and Alun. The twin brothers stood for a moment, black bowlers in their hands, before moving on. They had also refused to fight in the war; their beliefs were the same as Tom’s. She wondered how they would react if they knew what he had done. Even though it was to save her, would they would say there should have been another way? Surely they would believe their friendship was built on a falsehood.
That was something else to feel guilty about.