“They’ve set a date for Stanley’s funeral. Alex told me it’s taking place on Friday the twenty-fourth at two o’clock, at Winton crematorium.”
“But that’s when the council meeting is happening.”
“I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I asked Alex if the funeral could be moved but he didn’t think it could. Stanley’s sister is only coming up for one day, apparently.”
“I can’t miss his funeral.”
“Stanley’s dead in a box; he doesn’t care.”
June winced.
“But you’ve got to do whatever is right for you,” Mrs.B said, and she turned and marched back across the road, drivers gesticulating at hermadly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
June stood in front of the tall, imposing stone building and looked at the sky. Gray clouds were rolling in, threatening rain, and she’d forgotten her umbrella. She looked around to see if anyone else was coming, but there was no one in sight. So, this was it—she’d have to do this alone. June checked the time; it was one fifty. She tried to ignore the churning in her stomach and walked inside.
June had been in this room once before, eight years ago, and it was exactly as she remembered it. The wooden paneling along the walls, the smell of beeswax polish, the heavy, flat silence. But whereas last time it had been full to bursting, every seat taken and people standing along the walls, today it was deserted. Stanley’s coffin stood on the same dais at the front, but while June’s mum’s had been covered in colorful flowers, Stanley’s was completely plain. No flowers or photos, no sign of the person inside.
June walked up the central aisle, trying to control her breathing. As she did, she saw a small figure in the front row, so still that shehadn’t noticed her at first. The woman had gray hair and was sitting bolt upright, her back to June. This must be Stanley’s sister.
“Excuse me?” June’s voice echoed round the drafty room.
The woman turned to look at her. She was elderly, well into her eighties, and was wearing an old-fashioned navy woolen suit with a blouse buttoned up to the neck. Her hands, pale and wrinkled, were clasped in her lap.
“I’m June Jones, a friend of Stanley’s. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The woman stared at June with watery gray eyes, then turned back to the front without saying a word. June was unsure what to do, so she took a seat in a row on the other side of the aisle. The two of them sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of a clock at the back of the room, counting out the painful seconds like a metronome. June tried to keep her breathing in time with the clock, in order to fight her overwhelming desire to turn and run out of the room.
“Hi.”
She jumped. Alex was standing in the aisle next to her, dressed in his suit and a black tie.
“You’re here.”
“Of course,” he said, sitting down next to her.
Over the next few minutes, several more people drifted into the room; June recognized a woman from the Knit and Natter group, a couple of parents from the Children’s Room, and one or two others from the library occupation. Eventually, a man entered through a side door and walked over to Stanley’s sister. He was carrying a single sheet of paper.
“Is this everyone?” he said to her. The old lady nodded, and he went to stand at the lectern next to the coffin. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Guy Wilson. I’m the officiant at today’s funeralservice for Stanley Phelps. Before I begin, a few pieces of housekeeping. First off, please switch all mobile phones to silent. Secondly—”
There was a loud crash at the back of the room.
“Sorry we’re late. Bloody traffic.”
June swung round to see Mrs.Bransworth marching up the aisle, followed by Chantal, Vera, and Jackson.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” June whispered to Mrs.B as she took a seat.
“Decided that even though the old bugger won’t know I’m here, I wanted to say good-bye.”
“Granny Linda gave us a lift,” Jackson said, sitting down on June’s other side. “She said you’d look after me, June.”
“I wonder if there’ll be a buffet afterward,” Vera said.
