‘I wouldn’t normally marry a couple where one of them is divorced.’ The minister lent forwards, his eyes closed, moving his head slowly up and down as though going over his decision again. ‘But, I’ve prayed long and hard about this and I’ve decided I will. Pressing his hands together as though in prayer, he clasped them between his knees and smiled. ‘The good Lord is merciful and I feel it would be His wish to sanctify this marriage.’
His eyes snapped open and Mary gave a small start. The little man really was quite odd. But Tom had liked him and that was good enough for her. And she was grateful; it was important to both her and Peter that they were married here, where Tom had worshipped. It would feel as if he was with them on the day. For a moment the sadness overwhelmed her and she fixed her eyes on Mr Willingham’s spats. There was a small black scuff on the left one.
‘So, the service?’
‘Will be simple.’ Mary squeezed Peter’s hand. ‘There’ll only be a few people.’
‘Being so near to Christmas we must make preparations now. And make sure that I can fit it in with my other commitments.’
‘It would have been Tom’s birthday. I just wanted it to be a special memory for him.’
‘I understand perfectly, Mary. Your brother was a staunch member of this church, and, speaking personally, a good friend. I am more than happy to marry the two of you on that date. It is a fitting tribute to a man of exceptional qualities, a man whose tolerance and understanding spread in so many different ways.’
His words brought hot tears; she struggled to hold them back. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll contact the Registrar, make sure the date is in his diary. We’ll need him to be there to legalise the proceeding,’ he explained, answering her look of enquiry. ‘We’re a Nonconformist church, we’re not yet solemnised for marriages.’ He leaned back in the pew. ‘Nice chap – new to the area. Now, if we could go over a few details?’
An hour later Mary knelt in between the two graves, sharing chrysanthemums between each of the metal vases inserted in front of the identical headstones. The curled petals of the bronzed flowers tightly overlapped, trapping, here and there, drops of water that held tiny light reflections.
‘There,’ she said again, tracing the words chiselled on both graves with her fingers. ‘Hedd perffaith hedd.’ Mary read it out as Gwyneth had taught her. She looked up at Peter. ‘It means “peace perfect peace”,’ she said. ‘Gwyneth wanted it on Iori’s headstone and she asked if I minded having it on Tom’s grave.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘I didn’t, don’t. It makes me feel they’re together in their faith.’
Peter held out his hand and helped her to her feet. ‘Walk?’
‘Yes, please.’ Mary patted the headstones, feeling for the first time a form of peace, of acceptance of Tom’s death. ‘You don’t mind waiting until December to be married?’
‘No, I think it is right for us. I believe Tom would like for us to be married on that day. He would have been my best man. And to have the Brautlied sung by Ellen will be wonderful.’
‘It’s a lovely suggestion, Peter.’
At the lychgate they turned to look back at the church. The diamonds of stained glass in the two large windows on either side of the arched door gleamed in a kaleidoscope of colours in the evening light. The yew trees at the corners of the small churchyard cast their long branched shadows across the paths and the irregular rows of headstones, some upright, some tilting.
‘It is good, peaceful here,’ Peter said.
‘Yes.’ Mary clasped his hand. It felt symbolic to be standing under the engraved wooden porch, as though they were being blessed. ‘Let’s walk back along the beach.’
They waited to let a couple pass by outside the entrance to the churchyard.
‘Good afternoon.’ Mary smiled at them.
‘Guten Tag,’ Peter said automatically. He dipped his head in greeting.
The woman glanced at them, looked away and then back at Mary. ‘Dirty bitch!’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Aren’t our boys good enough for you?’ The man tugged at her, urging her forward. She reluctantly yielded, still glaring at them. ‘Bloody Nazi.’
Taken by surprise and angered, Mary stared after them. With a shock she saw the empty sleeve pinned to the side of the man’s jacket. Oh God. In a way she understood the woman’s viciousness, but she couldn’t allow it to affect her and Peter.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get home.’
His eyes were blank when he looked at her.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about us, Peter. As long as we’re together, I don’t care.’
That night they sat on the low wall that separated the road from the beach. The sun was dropping behind the horizon, leaving behind streaks of pink and red. They watched in silence until there was only a domed sliver of gold resting on the dark skyline.
Peter lifted her hand to his mouth, a gesture he often did just to show he was thinking of her. ‘It will be good,’ he said.
‘It will be wonderful,’ Mary said.
Everything will work out. I’ll be fine Mam, she thought.