Bess parked Frank’s old Ford in a side street off the Market Square in Kirby Marlow and wound her way through the market stalls to St Peter’s church. Entering by a gate at the rear of the churchyard, she stopped to look at a newly dug grave surrounded by old graves that were so overgrown with brambles and nettles they couldn’t have been tended for decades. The oblong hole nudged up to a wire fence that separated Kirby Marlow’s departed from the bombed-out buildings of the old railway station, derelict sheds and twisted tracks.
Bess followed the narrow path to the front of the church, arriving at the moment the funeral director began his slow walk into the building, followed by six men bearing a coffin that contained the earthly remains of David Sutherland.
Bess wasn’t surprised to see there were no mourners. Traditionally, if the deceased had family or close friends, they followed the coffin into the church out of respect. It didn’t look as if Sutherland had any family and he certainly didn’t deserve any respect. Bess had no intention of sitting through the church service and praying for Sutherland’s soul. When she heard the door to the vestibule close, she sat down on a stone bench that ran the length of the small porch and waited.
The last funeral she’d attended was her father’s. He had been the foundation of the Dudley family. Neither Bess nor her sisters thought they would be able to cope without him, but they did. They didn’t fare as well as their mother who, devastated at the time, found an inner strength, which she had probably always had but never needed while her husband was alive. She joined the Women’s Institute and busied herself making cakes and jam for various events. She knitted hats, scarves and mittens for war orphans and, although she was a widow herself, was on the Lowarth War Widows Committee and spent three mornings a week visiting young women whose husbands had been killed in the 1939-45 war.
Bess felt a sudden pang of sadness. Thinking about the war always reminded her of James. She smiled at his memory. Her father always said, you never get over losing someone you love, but you do eventually accept it. And that’s what Bess had done. Thanks to her father and her husband Frank, she had accepted James’s death. What would she do without Frank? He was her strength.
Bess took a sharp involuntary breath. What would Frank do if he knew she had come to Kirby Marlow to see Dave Sutherland put in the ground? She shivered, buttoned up her coat, and looked out of the arched entrance. The sky, no longer pale blue, had turned the colour of tarnished lead and the fluffy white clouds, now black and bulbous, looked as if they were ready to burst. After a week of light winds and warm sunshine, with only the occasional shower, spring appeared to have reverted to winter.
Leaning against the stone arch, looking out into the darkening day, Bess watched the rain begin to fall. Light at first, it soon turned into a heavy downpour. The noise it made on the porch roof drowned out all other sounds. Bess turned back to the door of the church. Even before it started to rain she hadn’t heard the muffled voice of the vicar for some time. Crossing to the heavy oak door, she put her ear against it. She couldn’t hear anything. The rain was getting heavier and louder. Then, making her jump, she heard the iron latch clunk off its arm, and slowly the door began to open.
Bess grabbed her handbag from the bench and ran. Outside she walked swiftly down the path towards the back gate. Half way along she looked over her shoulder. The funeral procession was in sight. If Bess could see them, they would soon see her. Leaving the path, she ducked behind a hedge. Unless she wanted to be seen there was only one way she could go. So, crouching down, she made her way to the back of the graveyard.
Luckily there was a clump of trees, which would not only give her shelter from the rain, but, standing behind them, she would be able to see the committal without Sutherland’s pallbearers seeing her. Her heart was beating fast and her legs were trembling as she watched the small procession leave the narrow path and make their way through the long grass. They took up their positions around the open grave, and through breaks in the wind, Bess caught the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes... in sure and certain hope of the resurrection.” She turned away as the coffin was lowered into the ground and began to cry. What on earth had possessed her to come to David Sutherland’s funeral?
Bess retreated through the trees and overgrown bushes to the front of the church. The door was open. An elderly woman stood by the baptismal font holding two vases of flowers.
‘Come in, dear. Don’t mind me. We’ve got a christening tomorrow,’ she said, taking half-a-dozen arum lilies out of two vases and putting the remaining flowers into one. ‘What with the price of flowers today, and these chrysies still fresh, it would be a sin to throw them away,’ she said, placing the arrangement of chrysanthemums against the pedestal of the font.
Bess stepped into the nave and sat in the nearest pew. No more than a few minutes had passed when she heard the door of the church quietly close. The woman had gone.
A few minutes later the heavy wooden door burst open.
