‘He wasn’t a great player,’ said Jack. ‘But you couldn’t hold that against him. He was good company.’
Henry shook his head angrily ‘I was ... I am a good player,’ he corrected. He must get out of the habit of referring to himself in the third person.
‘Never thought we’d be seeing old Henry off though, who’d have thought it,’ said Larry.
‘It just shows you never know people,’ nodded Jack.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Henry.
There was the clip-clopping of heels on the hard stone floor. Henry turned to see it was Alice from the greengrocer’s. She walked straight towards Imogen, a fake fur coat over her shoulders. She shrugged it off dramatically in the manner of Lisa Minelli and Henry rolled his eyes. Always the drama queen, he thought.
‘Darling, I’m here, how are you coping?’ she asked, as though the whole funeral party had been waiting just for her.
‘Alright,’ said Imogen, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
‘Are the flowers alright?’
The arrogance in her voice clearly indicated that she expected an affirmative.
‘They’re beautiful, thank you Alice.’
‘It was so very kind of you,’ said Imogen’s mother.
‘I hope you didn’t pay for them,’ said Henry glancing at the flowers. ‘They look half dead to me.’
Imogen knew full well, that Henry thought cut flowers were a waste of money. What’s more, they cost an arm and a leg at Alice’s shop. The vicar walked in and Alice quickly took a seat behind Imogen. Henry looked around and wondered where his other friends were. Frank, for instance. He’d known Frank since school. They’d have a pint together sometimes. Perhaps he was on holiday, thought Henry. People went away in September to get some sunshine. He would have expected his bosses to attend. Maybe Frank had sent flowers. He’d have a look on the way out. Henry had felt certain he’d known more people. He tried to think who they were, when the organ began to play a mournful tune, and the pallbearers standing at the entrance raised the coffin. Six well-built men and yet they seemed to buckle under the weight. I’m not that heavy, thought Henry, affronted. They don’t have to make a song and dance about it. He listened to the organ, its sounds assaulting his eardrums. What a dreadful piece of music. What on earth was it? It certainly wasn’t by one of his favourite composers. He would have chosen something a bit more upbeat, not this sorrowful racket. Oh dear, this was not at all how he’d pictured his funeral. If this was the end, it was a sorry sight, was all he could say.
Chapter Fourteen
Rita pulled off her coat and sat stiffly on the pew, its coldness reaching through her skirt. She wondered how long you could sit on a cold damp pew before you got piles. It was a lovely church, but not worth getting piles. She looked at the order of service. There were two pictures of Henry on the cover. One was of Henry as a young man and Rita looked at it admiringly. He’d had thick curly hair and smooth skin then. What a thief time was, thought Rita. It stole so much and never gave anything in return. Several grey hairs had sneaked past her when she hadn’t been looking. Age sneaks up on you, thought Rita, and like a mugger steals everything you value. She must not forget to put the order of service into her handbag. Perhaps she could take two. That way if she cut out the photos she would still have another copy, and no one would notice if she took two. No doubt, Imogen had ordered over the amount she needed. It was better to have too many than not enough. There was a whisper of fabric as people shifted in their seats. She glanced fleetingly at the cushioned kneeling pad and then looked away as memories of sore knees assailed her and instead gazed up at Jesus on his cross. She shivered and then shifted her gaze to the back of Imogen’s head. She wasn’t pretty, at least not in Rita’s opinion. She wasn’t exactly ugly either. Just ordinary really, thought Rita. She didn’t match up to her name which Rita thought quite decadent and unusual. Her hair had a reddish glow to it and was quite flyaway. She needed a good product, thought Rita. If Rita didn’t use products her hair would fly all over the place. There was nothing worse than static in one’s hair. She watched now as Imogen removed her raincoat, revealing a black jersey dress and cream scarf. Rita thought the scarf was much too bright for a funeral. Henry was peering at the mourners and Rita hoped he wasn’t disappointed at how few people there were. Rita had waited expectantly for Imogen to scream in horror at the sight of her husband, but she hadn’t, and Rita had let out a sigh of relief. How awful though for Henry, she thought sadly, that his own wife couldn’t see him. Rita wondered how Henry had died. She would ask him once they were away from here. She shivered again and it wasn’t from the cold but the sound of the organ. At her father’s funeral the opening dirge had gone on and on, the coffin passing slowly, occasionally stopping so people could put their lips to it or touch it with their hands. Rita had wanted to cover her ears to silence the sound of wailing. Eleanor had kept her head down as it passed, and Rita had bitten down hard on her lip making it bleed. She shook her head to shake away the memories and stood up. She saw Henry’s wife, Imogen, struggle to her feet. A man who sat a few pews behind, hurried to her aid, resting a comforting arm on her shoulder. Imogen gave him a weak smile and Rita thought, she is quite pretty after all, and felt a pang of jealousy. She couldn’t see her own husband though, but I can, thought Rita gleefully. Henry squeezed past the coffin and took his place beside Rita on the pew.
‘They are going much too fast,’ he grumbled, and Rita had to agree with him.
Funeral processions were supposed to go much slower. It was as if, they somehow had to drag out the deceased final moments. He’d had his lot, everyone agreed, but no need to rush him on his way. It was so final, death. No one really wanted to hurry it. There was nothing to hurry for, after all.
‘Yes,’ she agreed and wondered why Imogen didn’t do something.
Rita felt Henry’s anguish as if it were her own. She struggled not to wring her hands. It was so unfair. The sun should be shining through the stained-glass windows. The church ought to be overflowing with people, a river of tears flooding it. There certainly should have been more flowers. Rita had thought the church would be heady with the fragrance of Henry’s tributes. Rita blamed his wife. She couldn’t have let people know. Henry surely knew more people than this. He was a popular person. At least Rita thought he must be. A woman was crying uncontrollably, and Rita wished she could comfort her.
The vicar watched solemnly as the coffin approached and then bowed before it.
‘Please be seated,’ he said.
There was rustling and a few sniffs as the congregation took their seats; their bums hitting the hard pews. Rita began to wish she had worn those thermal panties she’d bought from an online catalogue. They weren’t terribly attractive when on, but they would have been ideal for a cold church and would certainly have prevented piles.
‘Welcome everyone and thank you for supporting Henry’s family. It’s very nice to see Henry’s friends here today,’ said the vicar in a soft voice which Rita thought was ideal for a funeral and had she been sitting with the other mourners at the front it would have been easier to hear. As it was, seated right at the back, she was now anxious that she might miss something important.
‘How does he know they’re my friends?’ grumbled Henry.
‘I imagine Imogen told him,’ said Rita.
‘Well Trevor isn’t my friend. Not in the least.’
‘We’re going to start the service withAbide With Me.Please stand.’
‘Abide With Me?’ repeated Henry who would never have chosen hymns for his funeral.
‘It’s one of my favourites,’ said Rita, opening the order of service.
