‘He’s a bit odd,’ Ellen said, when the minister closed the front door and walked away from the cottage.
A few miles away thunder rumbled and through the net curtains Mary saw an occasional glimmer of lightning behind the distant banks of clouds. ‘Shush. It was kind of Mr Willingham to come to see us,’ she said, yet silently agreeing that the man made an eerie figure in his long black overcoat and Homburg hat. In the gloomy evening light the peculiar old-fashioned cream spats he wore over his shoes gave the impression that he floated along the dark ground. ‘And he gave a lovely eulogy for Tom.’
‘That hymn though,’ Ellen said, querulous. ‘I didn’t understand one word.’
‘That’s because it’s a Welsh hymn, O fryniau Caersalem,’ Mary said, trying hard to be patient. ‘It means From the Hills of Jerusalem, something like that. The minister chose it especially. It was one of Tom’s favourites ever since he first went to that church.’
‘Well, he still gives me the creeps.’
Mary rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. ‘He was a good friend to Tom.’
‘I thought he was nice.’ Jean sipped her tea.
‘You would.’
‘Ellen!’ Mary turned away from the window, frowning. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Well, one good thing,’ Jean said, clearly snubbing Ellen, ‘it only rained a bit for the funeral.’
‘It was enough for us to get drenched. Except for you in your big hat, of course.’
Mary tried to ignore the two women sniping at each other. She picked up the bowl of damask roses that Alun and Alwyn had sent from their garden, and held them to her face. ‘I love these,’ she said. ‘Tom grew them for me. Do you remember when we were kids, Ellen, how we used to pinch these kind of roses out of the gardens of the posh houses on Manchester Road and put the petals into water to make scent?’
‘It never worked,’ Ellen said.
‘Sometimes it did.’
‘I remember doing that.’ Jean bit into one of the biscuits Gwyneth had made.
‘Not with us,’ Ellen muttered, saying louder, ‘and posh houses, our Mary? You mean where Patrick and Jean live now?’
Jean bristled, spluttered crumbs. ‘He worked hard to buy that house for us.’
Mary stared at her, unable to believe she was still sticking up for Patrick. Red-faced, Jean refused to meet her eyes.
‘Oh, yes, we know all about what Patrick does,’ Ellen said.
As soon as the minister left, Ted had slouched in the chair. Now he roused himself, looking anxiously at Ellen. He sat up straight, taking the mug of tea Peter handed to him. ‘Thanks mate.’
Mary saw him give Ellen a warning look. He doesn’t know she’s told me about Patrick’s affair, she thought. She coughed to get her sister’s attention.
Ellen looked towards her, pursing her mouth. Hesitated. ‘Well, we all know he bought that place with all his wheeler-dealing.’ She dragged her eyes away from Mary. ‘And he’s still showing off, buying this and that, while the rest of us have to put up with queuing.’ She sniffed. ‘Last time I went for tea I had to queue up for an hour for a packet of the stuff. Anyway,’ she changed tack, ‘what excuse did he have for not coming to the funeral?’
‘Ellen! Stop it!’
But her sister hadn’t finished. ‘Can’t be petrol rationing can it? Someone should tell him that finished in May.’
‘He couldn’t get away from his business.’
‘His business? Two market stalls? He should be ashamed of himself.’ Ellen stopped and took a breath. ‘And that’s not all he should be ashamed of, is it?’
‘That’s enough,’ Mary interrupted. If Ellen carried on like this she was likely to blurt out about Patrick in front of them all and Jean would be mortified. Whatever she thought of the situation, Mary didn’t want that for her friend. She’d tell Peter at the same time as she broke the news to him that she was going back to Ashford with Jean for a while. ‘Not today, Ellen, please. I don’t care that Patrick isn’t here, in fact I’m glad.’ Jean sat up, rigid. ‘I’m sorry Jean but I am. You know what he was like with Tom. All the things he said about him. He hated Tom. He has no right to be here today.’
Mary hadn’t forgotten Patrick had been the first to accuse Tom of killing Frank. She hated the idea that he’d been right all along.
‘That’s all old history,’ Jean fired back.
‘To you maybe but there are some things that just don’t ever really go away.’ The pulse in her throat was racing. ‘We shouldn’t be talking about all this. I’d have thought that for today at least, you two would stop this constant bitching at one another.’ The combination of sorrow and anger settled like a hard stone in Mary’s stomach. She flung her arms wide. ‘Oh, I give up. I’m going next door to see Gwyneth and the kids.’
Peter had been silently watching, reluctant to be part of what was obviously familiar animosity. Now he stood and made to follow Mary. Before he left he turned and looked at the two women. ‘It is to your shame you speak so to one another today.’