Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dan straightened his black tie and winked at his reflection in the rear window of the hearse.
Not too shabby, Danny boy. Not too shabby at all.
It was just a shame that Emily from the chapel didn’t seem to agree with him. He’d only caught one fleeting glimpse of her since her birthday and she’d looked scared witless. What did she think he was going to do? Fall on his knees in front of her in the street and declare his undying love? She needn’t fear that of him.
He knew the score. She was a married woman. He wasn’t going to broadcast her infidelity to anyone else, but something about her melancholy beauty had got under his skin in a way that didn’t sit easily with his usual ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ attitude. He’d actually liked her, as well as wanting to get in her knickers. He knew he couldn’t expect anything to come of it, but all the same, he couldn’t quite shake her.
‘Dan, you almost ready?’
Gabe appeared at the back door dressed in equally sombre attire, his dark hair marginally more tamed than usual out of respect for Charlie Gibbons, a local veteran of both world wars. Come one o’clock, Beckleberry High Street would be filled with mourners ready to walk the five-minute journey behind the hearse to the local church, a fitting tribute to a man who deserved only the very best of send-offs.
‘What’s up, bud?’ Dan asked, tipping his head to one side.
Gabe sighed. He looked to Dan like a man who could do with a cigarette, but as a non-smoker Gabe would have to shoulder his stress without that convenient crutch to lean on.
‘I just need today to go without a hitch, you know? It’s our biggest funeral so far. I didn’t know Charlie for long, but long enough to know that he was one of the good guys.’
Dan nodded. Charlie had been a part of his childhood; the local hero who’d always laid the village poppy wreath on Remembrance Sunday. He’d spent much of the last decade propping up the bar in the pub, reminiscing about the past with his personalised Jameson glass in his hand.
‘He was that,’ Dan said. ‘His will be one heck of a bar stool to fill.’
Gabe ran through the order of events in his head for the hundredth time. ‘You’ve fuelled the hearse up?’
Dan nodded. ‘Fuelled and immaculate. We’re good to go.’ He put a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. ‘Relax, bud. I’ve got your back.’
Gabe appreciated his best friend’s support. Dan wasn’t the most likely of hearse drivers with his ever-present big smile and a joke always hovering on his lips, but he’d bent himself into shape for the job to help Gabe out. He swallowed hard. Half an hour until Charlie’s family were due to arrive.
‘Come on then, Dan. We’d better get Charlie into the hearse.’
Over at the chapel, Marla searched around by the CD player in confusion.
‘Emily, where’s the CD gone with today’s music?’
She’d almost completed her third and final set of checks, her ritual safety net half an hour before any wedding was due to start. The CD had been there on the two previous passes, but it was now nowhere to be seen.
Emily came through from the kitchen with the disc balanced between her fingers.
‘Don’t panic, it’s here. I was just giving it a last polish.’
She glanced outside as she slid it back into the machine.
‘It’s gorgeous out there today. Perfect wedding weather.’
Marla nodded. Everything was in place, even the sunshine, so why did she feel an uneasy sense of foreboding? She checked her watch and chewed her bottom lip. Half past midday. The guests would be arriving soon.
‘Dora definitely, definitely let them know next door that we have a wedding on today?’
Due to Marla’s reluctance to go within spitting distance of Gabe, they had ungraciously settled on a system of using Dora as a neutral go-between to ward off potential problems. It was far from ideal yet so far it had worked, just about; but this wedding had been a last-minute booking from a couple who’d decided at the eleventh hour that they wanted to start married life in a more exciting way than the registry office they’d had planned.
Emily nodded.
‘All covered. I asked her twice. Stop worrying, Marla, we’re ready to go.’
Dora wasn’t on duty at either the chapel or the funeral parlour that morning.
At precisely half past eleven, Ivan held the door open to the little Italian restaurant further down the High Street for his wife to walk in ahead of him. It was their wedding anniversary, and come hell or high water, he always made a point of taking Dora out to celebrate. It used to be dinner, but had slowly crept forward to a lunchtime date because it was easier on their ageing digestive systems. Their bodies might have aged, but their love and affection for each other burned as bright as the day they’d married.
Alfonso, the effervescent Italian chef and owner appeared, and ushered them across the restaurant to a candlelit alcove he’d prepared especially for them.
‘Dora, my darling, bellissima as always,’ he said, and kissed her cheek as he pulled a chair out for her to take a seat. His heavily accented English added to his charm as he greeted the couple like old friends, shaking hands with Ivan and wishing them both a happy anniversary as he handed them their menus.
Dora settled into her chair and smiled around at the smattering of other diners, knowing most of them by name, or face at least. Beckleberry was small enough for few people to be strangers, and Dora and Ivan were well respected as quite possibly the eldest and most established residents of them all.
Ivan opened his menu, dazzled by the delights of a lunch cooked by someone other than Dora. Much as he loved his wife, he hadn’t married her for her culinary skills.
Dora flicked a cursory eye over the menu and then closed it.
‘Lasagne, my love?’ Ivan said, knowing she was a creature of habit.
Dora nodded. The lasagne was not only delicious, it provided no challenge to her false teeth.
‘I think I might have the T-bone,’ Ivan mused, adjusting his tweed dickie-bow.
‘Don’t be an old goat, Ivan,’ Dora chided, knowing that however much his rheumy eyes might still have their same blue twinkle, his gut didn’t have the same cast-iron constitution it had enjoyed thirty years back.
Alfonso reappeared in short order and threw a knowing look towards Dora.
‘Lasagne for you, bella?’
Dora preened, hoping that the other customers had overheard and realised that she was a regular customer. Or once yearly, in any case.
Alfonso scribbled on his pad and then looked up and tipped a wink at Ivan. ‘For you, I have something special, my friend.’ He pocketed his pen without further comment and left them alone again, feeling thoroughly special and spoiled.
Ivan reached across and patted Dora’s hand. ‘Sixty-nine years. Thank you, a-Dora-ble.’
She smiled at the use of the nickname he’d given to her, looking down at their old hands, his wedding ring and hers. Neither had been taken off so much as once since the day they were slid in place. It had been a day full of joy, and loaded with the anticipation of many happy years ahead and children on their knees. The years had indeed been happy ones, but the much-longed-for children had never come to pass.
‘No regrets?’ she asked.
‘Not one.’ Ivan squeezed her hand, knowing that she was thinking of the babies she’d never been able to carry to term. ‘I’ve even grown to love your cooking.’
Dora laughed softly, aware that he was joking to lighten her heart and she loved him all the more for it. These days there was all sorts of medical help available for women, but back in her day, her miscarriages had been put down to Mother Nature decreeing that she just wasn’t destined to be a mother. She’d settled instead for mothering everyone around her.
She glanced up as Alfonso approached the table with two plates.
‘Lasagne for the lady,’ he said, presenting it with a flourish.
‘And for you, Ivan, my special roast beef.’ He placed Ivan’s lunch down; meltingly soft beef, baby rosemary and garlic roast potatoes and seasonal vegetables. Leaning in to imply confidentially, he said ‘better than any T-bone,’ and kissed his fingertips expressively. ‘Delizioso. Enjoy!’
And they did. They enjoyed each other’s company, and the perfectly sized portions that Alfonso had carefully prepared. It was a rare treat, and an injection of old-fashioned romance into their old-fashioned love affair. At their time of life romance wasn’t high on either of their priority lists. They were just happy to have a warm hand to hold in bed, daily episodes of Countdown , and a nightly nip of whisky in their tea.
‘Dessert, a-Dora-ble?’ Ivan said, eyeing up the tiramisu that had just arrived at a nearby table.
Dora frowned and patted her stomach. ‘I really shouldn’t.’
Ivan played the game. He was well used to it after almost seventy years together. ‘You’re as lovely now as you were on our wedding day. Have some pudding.’
‘Oh go on then,’ Dora grumbled. ‘Just to keep you company.’ She opened her sweet menu gleefully, blissfully unaware that further on down the High Street, Gabriel’s receptionist Melanie had deliberately chosen not to pass on the message she’d asked her to give him about the wedding that was due to take place at the chapel at one p.m.
‘Come on Charlie old boy, your public awaits you.’
Dan opened the funeral parlour gates and drove sedately around into the street, his precious cargo behind him. Charlie’s many friends and family fell silent as the hearse eased its way amongst them, and several veteran soldiers, their medals glinting in the warm sunshine, removed their hats and saluted their brother-in-arms. Gabe emerged out onto the street with Eleanor, Charlie’s widow, on his arm. She’d chosen to say a private farewell to her husband, and had just accepted a nip of Jameson as Dutch courage to help her through the ordeal of burying him.
Gabe took a respectful step away and the crowd bowed their heads as Eleanor placed her wedding hand flat against the glass, a final moment to draw strength from the man who’d shared her life for the last sixty years.
Just up the road in the pub, a posse of bright and raucous wedding guests drank up and streamed outside, in fine voice as they belted out the chorus of ‘Chapel of Love’.
Seconds earlier, Marla had caught sight of the funeral procession in the street and flung herself out of the chapel doors, just in time to see the wedding party tottering towards her in a flurry of rainbow-coloured feather fascinators and mini-skirts.
Inside, Emily and Jonny escorted the groom away from the windows in the nick of time with the promise of a fortifying brandy. A Mexican wave of silence rippled through the wedding guests as they came to a halt outside the chapel and caught sight of the sombre gathering amassed further along the pavement. Each party looked dazed by the presence of the other – a gaggle of effervescent peacocks faced down by an austere flock of ravens. They turned in unison at the sound of a car’s engine, and watched in fascinated horror as the bride’s Rolls-Royce arrived to complete the tableau. Its white ribbons fluttered in the breeze as it came to rest nose-to-nose with the hearse.
Marla was going to literally kill Gabriel Ryan for this.
She met his eyes across the crowd, and even from this distance she could see her own fury reflected at her.
The man had some nerve.
The bride’s chauffeur opened her door and helped her out onto the pavement, a celebratory confection in white. Marla could hardly bear to watch as her expression slipped from joy, to confusion, to shock, before finally settling on horror as she stared at the floral ‘husband’ tribute that lay in the hearse next to Charlie’s coffin.
For a few seconds, everyone stood motionless, as if someone had turned off the music in a game of musical statues.
The sunbeams that bounced off the crystals on the bodice of the bride’s dress were reflected by the tears that shimmered on her cheeks as she met Eleanor’s eyes.
Charlie’s widow was the first to recover herself enough to make a move. She braced her bird-slender shoulders in her neat black suit and walked slowly to stand in front of the bride. She unsnapped her handbag and pulled out a starched white handkerchief.
‘Dry your eyes, pet. You don’t want to greet your new husband like that.’
The bride took the handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks.
‘Thank you. I’m so sorry about … about your husband.’
Eleanor nodded, and reached out to touch the bride’s bouquet of blood-red roses.
‘Roses were Charlie’s favourite. He was never much of a gardener mind, but he loved roses.’
The bride eased a stem from the bouquet and held it out to Eleanor, who accepted it with faraway eyes.
‘It rained on our wedding day, you know. Absolutely poured down. Charlie’s mother said it was a bad omen, but then she always was a sour old crow.’
The bride laughed gently through her tears.
‘She was wrong, though,’ Eleanor said. ‘The day I married Charlie he held an umbrella over my head to keep me safe, and he carried on doing that for sixty-two years.’
She reached out and placed her hands over the bride’s clasped ones.
‘Go on now pet, you’ve kept that young man of yours waiting long enough.’
Inside the chapel a little while later, the bride’s eyes shone with happy tears as she surprised her new husband with a new line in their chosen wedding vows.
‘I’ll always be your umbrella.’