The church is full. The service has ended and the organist plays quietly as friends and family file out of their pews to follow the coffin into the churchyard. The nave is flooded with bright slanting sunshine sliced by sharp black shadows, and long-stemmed flowers, purple and blue, cast splashes of colour across cold grey stone.
Half hidden behind a pillar at the back of the church, struggling to control her tears, not wishing to be seen, Julia watches them. One or two she recognizes from photographs; most are strangers to her. As she stands up, preparatory to slipping away, she sees the tall young man that she noticed outside before the service. Her sudden movement catches his attention as he makes his slow progression down the aisle, and their eyes meet, hold for a moment, before he is drawn into a group of friends just inside the porch.
Julia quickly makes her way out of the church, skirting the groups of people in the churchyard, hurrying away into the little lane that leads into Duke Street, heading back to the car park. Climbing into the car, casting her bag on to the passenger seat, she takes a huge breath, slumping for a moment, giving herself time to regroup. Martin is dead. Martin, who was so full of life, is dead because he stabbed his finger on some blackthorn and died of sepsis within forty-eight hours. Julia still doesn’t know how to process this: the shock, disbelief, and the devastating loss.
Sitting quite still, staring unseeingly ahead, she recalls moments of their love. She remembers their first meeting at The Garden House, his first text to her:
Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Woodstock.
Suddenly she knows where she must go, as if he is showing her the way. The words sing in her head: ‘We are stardust, we are golden … And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.’
She switches on the engine, pulls out of the car park, and drives away into the warm, late summer sunshine.