The standardexterior of the church belied the vastness that Morton and Juliette foundinside, as they snuck in a few rows from the back. The size of thebuilding amplified the indisputable fact that only eight people had turned upfor Peter Coldrick’s funeral (and that included the vicar and Peter himself),his plain wooden coffin carefully balanced on a trestle in the centre of theaisle. Soraya was at the front with another woman who had exactly thesame hair style, whom Morton presumed to be her sister. Two rows behindthem was an elderly couple. Morton suddenly felt a pang of guilt forattempting to squirm out of attending. Then there would only have beenfive living people here. He had a sudden, unwelcome flash of his ownmother’s funeral, much of which was a blur to him. The lasting image thathe had was of the open casket, her waxy face plastered in foundation andeye-liner by someone who had evidently never known her in life and herabhorrence of make-up. At least her funeral had been well-attended. Standing room only.
Whilst the diminutivevicar, sporting an obvious hairpiece, waffled through a generic funeral prayer,Morton speculated at how many people his funeral would attract. More thaneight, he hoped. Was fifty a good number to aim for? It woulddepend on when he finally died, since it was natural for your circle of friendsto dwindle down to your own armchair if you hung on for long enough. Still, the way things were going with the Coldrick Case, he might notneed to worry about longevity.
As thecongregation pathetically, and almost inaudibly, stood to sing The Lord’sMy Shepherd Morton made a guest list for his funeral. He started withimmediate family - his father (assuming that he could cling to life himself),Jeremy, Aunty Margaret, Uncle Jim, cousins Jess and Danielle - then moved on tohis friends and former work colleagues. By the end of the lamentable songhe reckoned he could scrape forty attendees. Maybe a few extra withpartners, husbands and wives. Juliette, on the other hand, would fillthis church twice over. Her funeral would be like the ones you read aboutin the papers where it’s necessary to erect a screen outside for the wailingmourners to observe the service. The papers never reported tragicfunerals like this one which comprised only those who felt obliged to turn up.
With the songover, the vicar returned to the pulpit and read monotonously verbatim, andwithout once looking up from his script, a chronology of Peter Coldrick’slife. There was nothing new or noteworthy in the eulogy, just a concentrationon his skills and dedication as a father. Then he called on Soraya.
Morton noticedJuliette suddenly sit up and take an interest and he wondered if she’d justnodded off or if it was due to a twinge of jealousy. He was convincedthat the only reason Juliette had agreed to come to the funeral was to see ifSoraya posed any threat to their relationship. She didn’t, ofcourse. There was something about Soraya which meant he would never havegone for her even if he were single. She was attractive enough, maybeeven slightly out of his league in that regard, but there was something abouther that made him not be attracted to her at all. Something he couldn’tactually put his finger on or name.
Juliette seemedsatisfied that Soraya posed them no danger and resumed looking around thechurch, as if she were on a nice day out and happened upon an unlocked, ancientchurch and was glad of a moment’s respite from the midday sun.
Soraya’stribute to Peter was remarkably composed, reiterating his devotion andcommitment to Finlay. She ended her speech by asking the congregation tosing Peter’s favourite hymn, All things Bright and Beautiful. Morton wondered how Soraya knew what Peter’s favourite hymn was, since, by allaccounts, he had no history of religion in his life. It seemed a curiousthing to have been discussed in a relationship that had barely developed beyondthe conception of a child. What would Juliette say his favourite hymn hadbeen if he were suddenly to be shot in the head? He didn’t knowwhat his favourite hymn was. After three verses of All Things Brightand Beautiful all Morton could come up with was Morning Has Broken –was that what it was called? And it was hardly a favourite; he’d lastsung it when he was ten years old. He really was going to have to tellJuliette what he wanted at his funeral. Definitely no hymns. Orreligion.
‘What’s myfavourite hymn?’ Morton whispered.
‘What?’
‘What’s myfavourite hymn?’
‘How the hellshould I know?’
Fair enough,Morton thought. It was hardly something that he could hold againsther. What was her favourite hymn? His mother’s was AbideWith Me and Morton could still hear the haunting organ music in his head asher body disappeared behind the red velvet curtains for cremation. He’dwished then, as he wished now, that they’d buried her. The idea of hismother on fire appalled him. At least if she’d been buried he’d have agrave to visit. Two days after her funeral he and Jeremy were parcelledoff to Aunty Margaret’s for a week so that their father could scatter the ashesin the New Forest, apparently as per her request, something he still questionedto this day.
The vicarapproached the pulpit. ‘And now I’d like to ask Peter’s best friend,Norton Farrier, to say a few words.’ Norton? His heart beganto race as he made his way to the front of the church, though he couldn’tfathom what actually there was to be nervous about since he would be speakingto a near-as-damn-it empty building. Had Soraya told the vicar thatMorton was Peter’s best friend, or had the vicar embellished the pitiable truthto create a more sociable, affable and incorrect Peter Coldrick?
Morton tuggedat the flexi-arm of the microphone so that it was level with his mouth. He took a deep breath and surveyed the congregation, who looked as emotionlessas if they were at a dreary matinee performance of an am-dram play. Giventhe congregation in front of him, he wondered if the reading he had chosen
