Another Funeral

34

Another Funeral

    Colin died quietly in his sleep that March, when his baby son was three weeks old. Very, very fortunately, or so the village agreed, it wasn’t Penn who found him, it was Euan. After two weeks’ paternity leave Colin had been working very hard up in London, commuting every day and getting back very late: this morning it was Saturday and he’d said sleepily, as Penn and Baby John-Mark prepared to nip down to the smithy, that he thought he’d have a bit of a kip. When Euan found the front door unlocked and came in he was lying on his back, one hand flung out of bed, smiling.

    There were, of course, recriminations, Caroline and Georgia in particular waxing very bitter about the clown of a neurosurgeon who’d got it all wrong and Hermione Granville Thinnes declaring furiously the man ought to be sued for malpractice and she’d see her solicitor. But once the first shock was over most people conceded that, as John said, after a blow on the head like Colin had sustained, one could never predict anything with certainty. Terence got his brother alone and interrogated him grimly but as far he could tell, John’s earlier declaration that Francis had claimed the blood clot had disappeared had been perfectly genuine. Added to which, talking paid no toll, did it?

    Penn was too shocked to care much about the funeral but other people plunged themselves into preparations for it with furious energy—notably Robert Jennings, Jack Powell and John and Rowena Mason. The quiet-mannered Doug McIntyre did his best to point out that Penn wouldn’t want a huge fuss but was ignored. He did speak to John but Colin’s cousin only shook his head and said: “Let them, Doug. They loved him: it may help them to feel better. Attaining closure, isn’t that the pop psychology expression? And I honestly don’t think Penn cares.”

    Colin’s father’s suggestion of an ecumenical service to be held in his village was vetoed by Dick Martin and John Haworth on Penn’s behalf, as was Matthew Haworth’s rival suggestion of a giant C. of E. service in London. Which left the two main rivals as a huge proper funeral in Portsmouth and a huge memorial service in Bellingford followed by cremation in Portsmouth. Colin’s will did say he would like his ashes to be scattered in Miller’s Bay from Penn’s tub but as the word “tub” had actually been used there was a lot of fuel for Matthew Haworth’s angry rubbishing of this as a piece of his usual bloody frivolity. It was, however, the one point on which Penn was adamant. So the cremation faction was vindicated—well, after John and Terence had both weighed in on their side, with the unexpected support of Admiral Sir Bernard Haworth, who suddenly turned up unannounced and parked himself, since John and Rosie already had a tearful Rupy and a supportive Benedict in the children’s room and the children in their room, on Terence and Molly at the pub.

    The funeral parlour in Portsmouth would, however, as the Admiral, Mrs Granville Thinnes, Mrs Mason, and Caroline were all agreed, provide a much nicer venue than the Club— This one raged for some time but Euan finally settled it by shouting with tears in his eyes that Colin had loved the Club and would have hated a shtyippid fancy do in Portsmouth, had they all forgotten him already? And so it was decided. And Georgia Carter off her own bat went up there and got the bunting out for it. Pointing out to Isabel Potter’s and Belinda Stout’s dubious faces that Colin had loved the bunting and they’d had it for the wedding. So they had it.

    The memorial service itself was very seemly. If you ignored the facts that Colin’s Aunt Louise Duff-Ross spent most of it glaring incredulously at the bunting, that Colin’s father spent most of it glaring at the celebrant, that Colin’s Uncle Hector Duff-Ross said quite audibly as Jack Powell read out a short piece: “Who the Hell is that fellow?” and that Colin’s mother said not far enough under her breath: “Well, really!” as the red-eyed Georgia Carter and Kristel Melly, ably supported by Jasmine’s contralto, sang the Beatles’ Love Me Do. Karaoke, since they had all the equipment. It hadn't been in his will but he had definitely said one karaoke night at the Club that it was his favourite song. And Terri had confirmed that he had it on an old LP in a box that had come over from Germany, and, after Jim Parker had fixed his old stereo set, often listened to it.

    There were several other encomiums, and two more songs. The first was Bach’s Schlummert Ein—that had been in his will. Actually the will had suggested the recording by the contralto Antigone Walsingham Corrant be played but as she was, of course, Penn’s cousin, she had come in person. During it Colin’s Aunt Louise Duff-Ross looked pointedly at Colin’s Uncle Matthew Haworth, Colin’s father mouthed: “Established ostentation” at his elder son and Michael ignored him, and Colin’s Uncle Hector Duff-Ross muttered not far enough under his breath: “Thought he’d done with bloody German dames,” but Colin’s mother broke down and wept. Near the back of the big room so did a thin, elegant blonde lady in a very smart black hat whom none of Colin’s friends and relations from the village had recognised. Isabel Potter didn’t have a clue who she was but she gave her a hanky anyway and whispered shakily: “It is very pretty, isn’t it?” To which the lady replied soggily: “Danke. Thank you. Yes: he vas always very fond off it.” So it was pretty clear what she was, if not precisely who.

    The last song was Send In The Clowns. The will had said that he would like it but wasn’t demanding it, so of course they were having it. Georgia Carter had proposed herself, Kristel and Jasmine again but Kristel had refused any part of it, saying tearfully that she didn’t think it was respectful. Mrs Granville Thinnes was very firmly in favour, since it was in his will, but admitted she couldn’t really sing. Georgia Leach weighed in fiercely in support of it, but she wasn’t much of a singer. And Molly agreed with Kristel. What about Rosie? Rosie didn’t know if she’d be able to get through it but had agreed. During rehearsals she broke down and bawled her eyes out twice and the two Georgias, who were now jointly managing the songs, were about to give up on her when Jasmine, who had of course known her for ages from their days at Henny Penny, had stated very firmly that she’d be all right on the night. Which she was. During it John’s mother gave a disapproving sniff and looked away, Colin’s Aunt Louise Duff-Ross raised her eyebrows and looked away, Colin’s father frowned and looked away, and Colin’s Uncle Hector Duff-Ross muttered not far enough under his breath: “Telly actress, thought she’d be in it,” but Colin’s mother cried into her hanky and Penn, who had been sitting up very white and grim up till now, burst into tears and had to have John’s arm round her and use his second spare hanky.

    Near the back of the big room a thin, grim Army lady who had come in quietly and sat down at the end of a row next to Mrs Fitzroy, Mandy, and the Richpal Singhs without speaking to anybody also burst into tears and had to have Mrs Fitzroy’s spare hanky, blowing her nose hard and muttering: “Thanks. Typical bloody Colin, he adored the damn thing,” while on the other side of the room a plump, overdressed blonde lady in a very elaborate black hat had to have Tom Hopgood’s second spare hanky passed to her across Maureen. The Bellingford butcher and his wife had never seen her before in their lives but when she whispered shakily: “Entschuldigen—I mean, I am so sorry. Thank you. Colin always luffed that silly song,” it was pretty clear what she was, if not precisely who.

    The memorial service, however, wasn’t the half of it—not nearly. Many of those present went across to Portsmouth for the cremation, whether officially invited to or not, while the Club’s big room was rearranged and the wake got ready. It wouldn’t start until the official party got back from Portsmouth, of course, so those not directly involved with the preparations went off to the pub. Terence had officially closed it but what the Hell, half the village was here anyway, and when you came to think of it, it was a bloody fitting memorial to Colin, so he opened up all the bars and, given the crowd of people, let them institute a kitty, though the first round was on him.

    Viola Melchett wiped her eyes, accepted a plate of mixed English savouries, Spanish savouries and Indian pakoras from Terence and admitted with a shaky smile: “Ma and Pa don’t approve, of course, but I think it’s lovely! Colin would have loved it!”

    “Yes,” agreed Terence, “he certainly would! Fancy some champers?”

    “Ooh, is there any?” replied Colin’s sister eagerly.

    Amiably Terence poured champagne for her from his own private bottle of the very decent stuff old Cousin Matthew had coughed up. Well, she wasn’t all bad.

    “Naturally we would have preferred a church service,” Colin’s mother told Rosie. “Paul was so upset when her side override his wishes.”

    “It wasn’t just Penn’s side, it was John as well,” replied Rosie with the utmost placidity. “Though I don’t think Colin would have minded a church service.”

    “Er—no. Well, it was the way he was brought up,” she said in an exhausted voice.

    “Mm. Let’s sit down.”

    They sat down and Rosie passed her a plate of mixed savouries. Dazedly Colin’s mother took one and let Rosie fill her glass. She ate the savoury and burst out: “We told him not to go into the Army!”

    “Yes. Have one of these lovely Spanish savouries, Liz.”

    Liz Haworth took one and having washed it down with more champagne, offered: “Thank you for singing so beautifully, Rosie, my dear.”

    “Um, thanks,” said Rosie, blinking. “I was glad to.”

    “You okay?” said Jack Powell with a sharp look.

    John blinked. “Me? I’m fine.”

    “Tell that to the marines.”

    John sighed. “As okay as any of us are, I suppose, Jack. At least Rosie’s bearing up okay.”

    “Women are stronger than men,” replied Jack stolidly. “Gotta be, it’s them that have to produce the kids. There’s a crate of Black Label out the back. Not wasting it on this lot. Might bring it out when ’is bleeding relatives what never turned up to ’is wedding ’ave pushed orf. Wanna see if it’s gone orf?”

    Gratefully John headed for the back regions with him.

    “I suggested a decent church service in town,” said old Matthew Haworth sourly.

    “That would of been lovely,” replied Jasmine with complete sincerity. “Proper flahs an’ all, like Diana’s Funeral, eh? But Colin and Penn’s friends mostly live ’ere. And most of the other lot seem to ’ave turned up: didn’t stop them, eh?”

    “Yes,” he said with a gusty sigh. “I don’t even know who half of them are, to tell you the truth, Jasmine!”

    “Me neither,” she said kindly. “You sit down over ’ere, Maffew, you been on your feet long enough for one day. Try some o’ these. ’Ot but tasty, Colin liked them. And lemme pour you a drink.” She poured. “’Ere’s to ’is mem’ry. Colin, bless im!”

    “Colin, bless him,” agreed his uncle, drinking. “Christ!”

    Jasmine winked. “’Nover one?”

    “Don’t mind if I do!” he said with some feeling. “What the Christ is it?”

    “Stuff me Gran made, back in Jamaica. You know what passionfruit are?”

    “Uh, yes. Had a passionfruit soufflé—where was it? The Ritz, I think,” he groped.

    “Right, well, it’s got passionfruit juice in it. To colour it up, like.” She winked again.

    “As well as the over-proof rum, would this be?” he croaked.

    Jasmine just winked, and poured.

    Rupy, Molly, Anna, the elderly Mrs Humboldt and old Jim Parker had given up and were sitting round a table together—just like the wedding, yes. Except that this time Benedict, Richard and Potter Purbright were with them. And Terence, in the intervals of seeing the guests had plenty to drink. And Marion, since Potter Purbright had spotted her standing on one leg looking lost. The professed aim was, as Jim put it, to get bloody well stonkered in ’is memory, and ’ere’s to ’im!

    “That’s deff’ly one of Colin’s,” decided Jim.

    The lady in question was possibly in her fifties. She had glowing auburn hair under an enormous black hat adorned with what Molly claimed were ostrich wisps. Not plumes, wisps, they stripped them off the feather, the Wardrobe lady at Henny Penny had—Ooh! ’Scuse her! ’Splained it all to her. Wishps.

    “Pretty nearly almos’ definitely,” agreed Alice Humboldt drily.

    “All right: that one!” he suggested.

    They all looked at the lady with narrowed eyes. Late thirties? Very well-cut black suit but, as Marion pointed out: “Not an Army suit.” Jim poured her a drop more on the strength of it. Perfectly done blonde hair in a big shiny bun under the hat—very smart, rather than pretty. Mixed black and violet loops.

    “Not a relation?” offered Anna uncertainly.

    “Would that of stopped ’im?” retorted Jim swiftly.

    Alas, their table collapsed in rude sniggers with one accord. Rupy then, however, waxed rather lachrymose and tried to explain that that Army lady over there, she was an Army lady, he’d seen her that time darling Colin was in hospital, and he couldn’t even think of the word without remembering the way he used to say “’orspital,” bless him, sniffle, so Benedict and Richard quickly grabbed more plates of nibbles from the buffet and refilled everyone’s glasses.

    “That one. Dark. Fruity-looking,” suggested Jim. “Bound ter be!”

    “Isn’t she a bit old?” said Potter Purbright uncertainly.

    Her father coughed, Jim snickered, and Rupy gave a high-pitched giggle and clapped his hand over his mouth. “Not for him,” concluded Marion on a sour note.

    “Here ya go, Marion,” said Jim immediately, refilling her glass again.

    “Is this the non-alcoholic punch?” she asked uncertainly.

    “’Course,” he lied cheerfully. “It’s the ginger ale makes it taste strong.” He eyed her blandly as she knocked it back.

    Molly narrowed her eyes. “English!”

    “Um, yeah, are we guessing that?” said Jim in confusion.

    “We are now!” admitted Benedict with a laugh. “Have a savoury, Molly, dear: these ones are yummy.”

    “Some of Terri’s,” said Molly with a smile, taking one. “Do ’oo fink?” she asked indistinctly through it.

    “There are some German ones here, though, dear!” hissed Rupy.

    She swallowed, nodding. “Yes! And some Scotch ones, Rupy!”

    “Right!”

    They all stared hard at the fruity-looking dark lady…

    “They seem to be getting pretty merry,” noted Max, smiling. “Does Terence know?”

    Georgia eyed her sister’s spluttering table with disfavour. “Yeah. He’s been bringing them refills. Personally I can’t see why a funeral’s an excuse for getting horribly drunk and laughing your heads off.”

    This was the third funeral Max had been to in the last couple of months and the idea of getting blind drunk had considerable appeal, actually. He got up. “In that case, Georgia, it’s high time you tried joining the rest of humanity. Come on.”

    Numbly Georgia tottered to her feet. “But—but where are the girls?” she said lamely.

    “No idea. Disappeared with Molly’s little boy some time back. If you want to get married next month, come on.”

    She took his arm but hissed: “Max, perhaps we should put it off?”

    “I didn’t know your friend Colin but I don’t think he was the sort that would’ve wanted us to do any such thing.” He led her over to the table full of giggling drunks and said firmly: “Hullo, there. Can we splice the mainbrace with you?”

    To which old Jim Whatsisname who’d once let him and the girls use his spare room replied with a smart salute—would’ve been smart if he hadn't had a sausage roll in his fist—“Aye, aye, sir! Come aboard!”

    “Sit, Georgia,” said Max firmly, sitting down beside him and investigating his jug of whatever-it-was. Phew! Knocked you back at fifty paces!

    “Non-alcoholic punch,” said the old boy with a wink.

    Right! He poured some for Georgia immediately.

    “I have to say it, Miriam,” noted Colin’s Aunt Louise acidly to Lady Haworth, “after the wedding, this is exactly what one might have expected.”

    “Quite,” agreed John’s mother coolly.

    “Aren’t they awful?” hissed Isabel Potter in horror.

    Jim helped himself to some of Terri’s wonderful stew. “What, Colin’s old flames?’

    “N—Ssh! Um, them, too,” she admitted. “No, the relations! They’re—they’re worse than the ones at the wedding!”

    Jim thought it over. “You’re right,” he concluded. “Have some Spanish stew.”

    “Sit. Eat,” said Euan firmly to his fiancée. “Those who’ve been cooking for the last two days need nourishment.”

    “I don’t feel very hungry,” she said dolefully.

   “I know. Eat.”

    Obediently Terri sat and tried something from the plate he’d filled for her. A surprised look came over her face. She looked sideways at his plate. He had a great mound of it, too. “Euan,” she said cautiously as he took a huge forkful of it, “I think that this contains a great deal of bought mayonnaise.”

    Euan chewed slowly, smiling round it, and swallowed. “Yum! Heinz salad cream, actually. Mum only used it for best, even though we could’ve afforded it, after all we did keep a shop!”

    “As well as potatoes?” she said faintly. “What about the calories?”

    “I love it, that’s one in its favour. Two, Belinda Stout made this—they often have salad cream, Murray’s no’ as careful as Dad was—that’s ‘careful’ in the northern sense, ‘mean’ to the rest of the British Isles—and three, she often used to make it for the suppers at the Club and Colin loved it. So let’s eat it in his memory, okay?”

    Terri nodded, blinking back tears, and they ate potato salad in Colin’s memory. Rather fortunately by the time she’d got it down her her appetite had returned, so Euan didn’t have to point out that the chicken casserole was an offering from Carole Jackson and Colin had also been known as a lover of that. So to speak.

    “What the Devil is this muck?” demanded Colin’s Uncle Hector grimly.

    Unfortunately there had been no way of stopping him from joining their table. John just sat back and let Rosie field that one.

    “Gumbo,” she replied calmly. “Don’t worry, there’s no bacon in it.”

    John just sat back and watched as Sir Hector turned purple and spluttered incoherently. Though he did croak, as he then marched off angrily to find more sympathetic company: “Wasn’t that a bit on the nose?”

    “I wasn’t even sure he’d remember the rumour his lot spread at the wedding. But in any case, the nose is big enough to take it, John.”

    Regrettably, the deceased’s cousin and executor gave a yelp of laughter and collapsed in hysterics.

    Rosemary Dalziel’s scarlet claws dug sharply into Willi Duff-Ross’s arm. “That is Euan Keel!”

    “Ow! I dare say it is, but he brushed all offers off like flies at the wedding, so be warned.”

    “Is that Catherine Zeta Jones with him?” she gasped.

    “No!” snapped Willi.

    “In that case,” said Rosemary with a very silly giggle, “one may be in there with a chance, darling!”

    Colin’s cousin watched drily as Lady Dalziel wiggled her way over there in her skin-tight, far from funereal black suit. Ouch! Whatever that was, it worked, she was beating a very swift retreat. “So?” she drawled as she returned.

    “Peasant,” Rosemary replied evilly.

    “Is he? Yes, one had read something about his origins, dear.”

    “They’re eating something disgusting and he had the brass face to ask me what I was to Colin, if anything, and— Never mind.”

    After a moment Willi shrugged lightly, picked her plate up, and wandered over to them.

    “Hullo. I’m Willi Duff-Ross, I was Colin’s cousin and sometime lover, and if you’d let me join you it’d really put Rosemary Dalziel’s nose out of joint. The bitch who was just over here flaunting it at you,” she explained grimly.

    The girl had gone very red but Keel just said mildly: “We’ll be up for that, if you can tell us why we’re eating potato salad.”

    “What? Oh, God, bloody Doddsy’s special. Um, Colin loved the muck,” she said limply.

    “Yes. By all means join us, Willi. This is Terri.”

    “Hullo! Please do not mind Euan! He was very fond of Colin!” gasped the girl.

    “I don’t mind him at all. I was, too,” said Willi grimly, sitting.

    “The food’s good,” admitted Murray Stout.

    “All stomach,” replied Belinda with a sigh.

    “Well, Colin would of enjoyed it!” he said valiantly.

    “Mm.”

    Murray looked at her fearfully: was she going to bawl? But she suddenly brightened and launched into some story about some time Colin had come into the shop, something about Ma Granville Thinnes and biscuits. He didn’t know that he particularly wanted to hear it, and nor did anyone else at their table, judging by the looks on the faces of his ex-sister-in-law Pauline, Heather Carter, her ex, Fred Carter, their son, Tony, and Fred’s young helper, Ivan Coates—very red-eyed, poor kid, he’d thought the sun shone out of Colin’s ears after he’d told him what a good carpentry job he’d done down at the Green. But as it was definitely a great deal better than having her bawl at Colin’s wake, he put a very interested look on his face and concentrated on the food. Well, it was good. And Colin would have enjoyed it.

    Rob Cowan was doing his best to be very, very supportive but so far it hadn't worked all that good. Carole had had almost unceasing crying jags since they’d got the bad news, interspersed with feverish shopping expeditions. There was the small point that it wasn’t that flattering to him to have her bawling her eyes out over another man but then, he’d been the Colonel, what could ya say? If there was one woman on earth under forty that had been able to resist him he’d like to meet her! Not that turning forty had stopped them. Or him, really.

    “This is Terri’s bean stew thing, I think: he really liked that,” he ventured. “Want to try some, love?”

    Carole smiled wanly. “It’s very foreign, Rob. Oh, well, why not? In his honour.”

    With huge relief Rob heaped their plates with Terri’s bean and meat stew thing and led her back to their table. They were sitting with John and Rowena Mason but then, as the Colonel himself might of said, it was Allah’s punishment for not keeping a better eye or him, or—or something. Blast! Quickly he downed his glass of whatever it w— Gawd!

    Old John Mason eyed him blandly. “Just some of Jim Parker’s non-alcoholic punch, Rob.”

    What? That old guy was practically preserved in the stuff, if he’d let a non-alcoholic drop past his lips any time these past ten years he, Rob Cowan, was a Dutchman in his—Oh!

    Looking smug, John Mason refilled his glass and urged him to tell them about the time him and the Colonel had blown the bridge up in Iraq. Uh—which one of the many? Oh, well! Rob began forking up tasty bean stew, telling them all about it in between mouthfuls.

    Carole sat back in relief. He was off! Weren’t men funny? You’d think it’d make it worse, remembering old Army times with Colin. She tasted the stew cautiously. Oh, dear. Full of garlic. Still, it was quite tasty… She tried a little more.

    Out of the corner of his eye as he ate and talked Rob registered old John filling her glass with Jim Parker’s fruit-flavoured firewater and Carole sipping daintily, the way she always did. She could sip her way daintily through three good glassfuls of the hard stuff in the time it took the average bloke to down a pint, he’d now discovered, so he stopped worrying about her. Though with the mental reservation that if she didn’t perk up considerably when he got her home and got that posh tight black suit off ’er he might have to do something really drastic. Holiday in Marbella? But she’d been there, had the funny bottle to prove it. Quick trip to Miami? You could get cheap flights and he had a fair bit in the bank, he could swing it. Yes: get her away to the sun for a bit! Why not?

    “Pudding,” said Greg briefly, setting dishes down before Rosie and John. He drew up a spare chair at Rosie’s elbow, regardless of the fact that she actually had old Admiral Sir Bernard at that elbow and the old boy had to edge along to let him in. Well, up his: if he had the guts of a louse he’d tell that bloody wife of his to shut up. And that lemon-faced cow next to her, too.

    “I thought there was going to be cake?” said Rosie, smiling at him.

    “Yeah. Big one, kind of in memoriam. They’ve voted old Merv Watkins to make a bit of a speech over that, a bit later. Sort of as the oldest inhabitant. Well, not literally; sort of more as the oldest inhabitant that used to get stinko with Colin,” he said fairly. And loudly. Just in case Lady Haworth might’ve missed it.

    “I really do think we might leave before the village ceremonies, Bernard,” said the old bitch immediately in that frosty voice of hers.

    The old boy replied calmly: “Go if you like, Miriam. I’m staying. These people were Colin’s friends.”

    “Just as you like,” she said in this weary voice, ugh!

    Now, the old admiral actually speaking up had been shock enough, but at this moment Greg Singh got the second big shock of the day.

    “Yes, why don’t you go, Mother?” said John, just about as bloody cool as she was! “I think Terence and Molly will have your room ready at the pub.”

    “If you say so, John.” She waited.

    But gee, nobody at the table offered to drive her!

    “Perhaps I might have the car keys, Bernard,” she said icily.

    “It’s only across the road, Miriam,” he replied, avoiding her eye.

    Greg got up hurriedly, because maybe if someone didn’t drive her she’d stay on and ruin all the rest of the day for everybody as well. “Let me drive you, Lady Haworth.”

    “Here you are, me boy!” beamed the old man, handing over the keys.

    Numbly Greg staggered out with the keys to the old boy’s sacred Merc that even Terence wasn’t allowed to drive, remembering only just in time to hold the door for the old bat.

    “I think we might go, Hector,” said Lady Duff-Ross in relief as it dawned that Miriam Haworth and then Hector’s sister Catherine had left. Bernard Haworth hadn't moved, but then he always had had low tastes.

    “Eh? Oh, local people taking over; I see,” agreed Colin’s uncle with distaste. “Better say goodbye to her, I suppose, though she won’t thank us for it.”

    They were right. Penn merely looked at them blankly as they went up to her and said goodbye very nicely and reiterated their sympathy with her loss. That peculiar father of hers reminded her: “Colin’s Uncle Hector and Aunt Louise, love; the Scotch ones,” but on the whole the only surprising thing about that was that he’d bothered to remember who they were.

    “Er—Willi and Andrew are still in there,” he said on a cautious note as they reached the car.

    She snorted.

    “Right.” Thankfully Sir Hector got into the car and ordered his chauffeur to head for town, leaving their offspring to fend for themselves.

    Pauline Stout had abandoned Murray’s and Belinda’s table in order to join up with Kristel, because dratted Georgia Carter, who had been with her earlier, had gone off to sit with that mad friend of hers, Kathleen, and she was all by herself. They got themselves some pudding and as Penn’s Aunty Susan and the tall, dark-haired lady who’d sung the foreign song were helping themselves at the same time and seemed a bit left out, invited them to join them.

    “You see,” she explained, “we always did his hair, didn’t we, Georgia?”

    “And beard!” said Georgia with a giggle. “That’s Isabel Potter’s trifle, she always puts loads of sherry in it,” she warned the dark-haired lady.

    “Good!” she said with a deep, gurgling laugh. “So he had a beard lately?”

    “Yes: he was always an absolutely lovely client. Wasn’t he, Georgia?”

    Nodding hard, Georgia giggled.

    “Yes…” said Pauline with a deep sigh.

    Susan Walsingham’s eyes and her niece’s met. Quickly Penn’s cousin said: “A beard must be very hard to do, I should think? Much harder than hair.”

    Brightening tremendously, Pauline replied eagerly: “Well, of course it is! But you see—”

    Having stopped assisting with the drinks—clearly no-one any longer needed assistance—and joined his fiancée’s table, Terence was now giving them the low-down. Those that were still with it enough to take in a word. Rupy’s friend Benedict was pretty well out of it, though he looked fairly staid and upright—well, diplomatic training. But if you spoke to him he merely smiled and smiled, right through you. Not that he’d known Colin—but then, he’d been through a fair bit lately. Georgia was pretty well blotto, too, old Jim seemed to have been pouring that so-called punch of his into her all afternoon. Well, good for him. Old Alice Humboldt was a lot tougher than she looked and could hold her liquor like an eighteen-stone cockswain who’d boxed for the Navy—in fact, thinking of the boxer in his own crew, better. Anna, however, was floating nicely—just as well, she’d been pretty fond of Colin.

    “That’s good old Margie, of course,” he pointed out.

    “Army lady,” agreed Rupy wisely, nodding.

    “Uh-huh.” He was still nodding so Terence added kindly: “You can stop nodding, ole man.”

    “So how long did that lash, Terenshe?” asked his beloved blurrily.

    “Uh—well, off and on, y’know. Well, forever, really. Her brother was at school with us, so it must’ve started when they were about seventeen. Um, hang on, Colin was a couple of years younger than her, that’s right.” Those who were still capable of arithmetic blinked. “Um, well, at one stage the husband was in evidence. But that didn’t stop him, come to think—” He didn’t have to finish his sentence, Molly had collapsed in drunken giggles already and old Jim was raising his glass and suggesting drunkenly: “’Ere’s to ’im!” On due consideration, Terence drank to that.

    “See that one?” he continued. Those who were capable of peering, peered. “Good-looking dame, black and white striped blouse. Uh—think she had a jacket, earlier,” he remembered hazily. “Anyway, her. When was it? Um, forget. Anyway, Colin was home on leave and he bumped into her at a party—was it? Oh yes, it was old Hazelwood’s tenth anniversary—Charlie, of course, Freddy’s gay. Mind you, didn’t last. Come to think of it, Colin was up her at one stage, too.” Molly, Georgia, Jim, Alice, Richard, Potter Purbright, Rupy and Anna all collapsed in giggles. Marion sighed, got up unsteadily, and staggered away. “Well, he was like that, poor old Colin,” Terence justified himself.

    Max wasn’t giggling, because he’d been helping himself to another, possibly to wash down that huge helping of pudding he’d taken and seemed to have forgotten about. “Yes, ’course. But wha’ ’bout her, particular-larly, ole man?”

    “Um, who?” replied Terence foggily.

    Promptly the entire table collapsed in helpless giggles. Except Benedict, of course, he just smiled and smiled.

    “I’m staying for the cake,” said Penn obstinately.

    Dick Martin swallowed a sigh. “All right, Penn. But people will understand if you don’t feel up to any more of this.”

    “They’re people that loved Colin. And they’ve done it all for him, I’m not leaving,” said Penn grimly.

    Dick just sighed. She was, of course, feeding the baby, so she hadn't been able to take any sort of sleeping pills and she couldn’t drink, either. That bloody hen, Marion Whatserface, had prescribed innumerable herbal remedies but none of them had observedly helped. Still, small mercies: at least she wasn’t sitting with them— Oh, shit!

    “Hullo, Marion,” he greeted her feebly as she staggered up to them.

    “What have you been drinking?” croaked Penn.

    “Nonal-lolic punch!” she replied aggressively.

    Dick refrained from raising his eyebrows, but it was an effort. Well, good: maybe the stuff’d shut her up. And it had better, because frankly, he couldn’t take one more syllable of the supportive shit.

    “Those frozen-faced dames have gone, think we could join those people?” suggested Jonno.

    Ramona agreed and they went over to John’s and Rosie’s table. “Hi, there, can we join you?” she greeted them. “We don’t really know anyone here except that poor sweet Penn.”

    John got up quickly, smiling. “Of course! I’m Colin’s cousin, John Haworth; I think you must be Ramona?”

    Happily agreeing she was, Ramona introduced Jonno, and, accepting introductions to Rosie, Greg, John’s father, Caroline and Robert, and the Granville Thinneses in return, sat down and began eagerly: “It’s a real nice memorial for him! We were in two minds whether to come over, weren’t we, Jonno? But Penn rang us personally, wasn’t that sweet? We were real shocked, though mind you—and I know this is gonna sound real funny—somehow not all that surprised.”

    “Me, too,” agreed Rosie mildly.

    “Ye-ah…” said Ramona on a long sigh. “Poor darling Colin. I said to Jonno—didn’t I, hon’?—I said there’ll be some broken hearts when this news gets out. He was really something, wasn’t he?” She shook her terrifically curled and frosted apricot head under the smart black feather cap.

    Eagerly Colin’s friends and relations agreed he certainly had been, and settled back to listen to Ramona’s reminiscences of his America days.

    There was a concerted: “A-ah!” in the Bellingford Working Men’s Club as, at long last, the cake was wheeled in.

    “Oh dear, where’s Micky?” cried Molly. “He’s missing it!”

    “Er—yeah. Not the same as a birthday, sweetheart,” replied Terence feebly.

    “Oh. No, I suppose it isn’t.”

    The cake was actually five cakes. COLIN—quite. Each about a foot long, the icing basically cream, but each letter edged with neat rows of blue and terracotta rosettes. Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises’ corporate colours—yes. Or as near as could be attained with food dyes. The cakes themselves had been commissioned from a bakery but there had been huge competition over the decorating: Juliette Bellinger and Pam Melly, to name only two, having both done cake-decorating courses in Portsmouth.

    The presentation was really something. The cakes were on a large commercial tea-trolley, of the sort generally seen in canteens, though its structure was not visible, being draped in Union Jacks. The cakes were bedded in choice hothouse blooms. They’d had to be hothouse, given the time of year. It had not proven possible to select flowers in the corporate colours and the result was, as Colin himself might have said, clashing ’orribly. Several people in fact had this thought and had recourse to their handkerchiefs. At the back of the cakes, supported by mysterious means which no-one could discern but which most of those still sober enough to think were hoping fervently would prove foolproof, stood Anna’s picture of Colin with his boozing mates.

    “’Ere’s to ’im!” announced Jim on the strength of it.

    “Shut up,” ordered Anna. “There’s gonna be a proper toast.”

    Grinning, Jim shut up.

    —“Those are our corporate colours, Ramona,” explained Caroline earnestly.

    “Really, honey? They look real good!” she said gallantly, doing her best to ignore Jonno’s mutter of: “That thing don’t look safe to me.”

    —“Thought there was gonna be a black bow on that?” ventured Murray Stout, peering.

    “No!” snapped Belinda.

    All right, there hadn't been. Would of looked bloody silly, anyw—

    “They voted for more stupid red, white and blue!” she snapped.

    Got it. Murray shut up.

    —“I suppose that’s how they want to remember him,” noted Marion sourly.

    “Here,” said Dick heavily. “Have another glass of non-alcoholic punch.”

    The widow’s table watched with a sort of numbed incredulity as he poured from a completely undisguised bottle of Black Label and Marion knocked it back.

    —“It looks really good!” approved Rosie, standing up and raising her glass.

    Greg pulled at her skirt. “They haven’t had the toast yet!” he hissed.

    “No. I’m standing in anticipation and respect,” she explained.

    “Good idea,” said John mildly. He got up, glass raised. “Come on, Merv: speech!” he yelled.

    Ably supported by Jack Powell and Bob Carter, old Merv Watkins tottered over to the cake, as all around the room people took their cue from John and got up, glasses raised, yelling: “Speech! Speech!”

    “Well, ’tisn’t really gonna be a speech, ladies and gents, ’cos Colin wasn’t into that,” said the old man, letting Jack fill his tumbler to the brim with Black Label. “And I didn’t know ’im all that good, shouldn’t really be me what’s talking, only Jim Parker, ’e wouldn’t do it.”

    Shouts of: “Rubbish!” And: “Speech!” And: “Go on!”, etcetera, from the floor. Meanwhile Rosie was explaining to their table: “1973, that suits dates from: see the sharp lapels?” They were sharp, all right: sharp and wide. Everybody nodded, and Jonno said with a gusty sigh: “Gee, I had a suit just like it. 1973, huh? Wow… Watergate. Takes you back.”

    “Anyway, Colin,” old Merv continued, “we all remembers you fondly, and yer done good for the village, and even if yer hadn't of done nobody wouldn’t of minded. And they’ve asked me to say as your picture, it’s been donated to the Club and it’s gonna go on the wall. And we’ll ’ave one in yer mem’ry every Sat’dee night, it’s a promise. And I’ll ask you all to raise yer glasses, ladies and gents, to a real gent what we won’t never ferget. Oy, and Molly ’Owell, you can stop that bawling, ’e wouldn’t ’ave wanted yer to bawl, yer silly moo! And you, Belinda Stout! Right, got yer glasses filled? ’Ere’s to Colin, Gawd bless ’im!”

    And the glasses were raised and the toast was drunk: “To Colin, God bless him!”

    The village was subsequently to discover that Colin’s wake had led to Greg’s walking the buxom, yellow-haired, bright little Cora Potter home to the ironmongery and making a date for the cinema even though she was only in her last year at school, to Jack Powell’s driving Kristel Melly home and getting a bit of the other even though he was old enough to be her dad and in fact, as certain people pointed out, might well have been, to Owen Bridges’s getting up one of Colin’s more glamorous cousins, which certainly made a change from getting up his sister like what he had done after the wedding, to Ivan Coates’s getting bit of the other from Sharon Bellinger, though when you looked at their precise relationship maybe it ought not to’ve happened, to Jasmine’s taking old Matthew Haworth home to her cottage and letting him have a bit, and to young Sly Hopgood’s getting his face well and truly slapped by little Amanda Black. All of which, when you came to think of it, would probably have earned Colin’s grinning endorsement, except perhaps the last. So it was quite a fitting memorial to him, wasn’t it? All right, it wasn’t! And Murray Stout, Jim Potter and Graham Howell had never spoken! Though later agreeing over a pint that it was, and the distaff side was mad, had they forgotten already what he was really like?

    Having removed the commercial photo of a simpering model with the sort of wisps that there was very little demand for in Bellingford, Pauline Stout hung the big sketch of Colin’s head carefully in pride of place over the spot where she parked her very own trolley.

    The staff of Sloane Square Salon looked up at it in silence for some time. Pauline had got it off Anna. She’d tried to give it to them for nothing, but Pauline wasn’t having that; art was her business, just like hairdressing was the salon’s. So she got her to agree to a trade: a nice shampoo and trim, just to strengthen the growth. It was a big sketch, slightly larger than life, and Anna had coloured in the hair and the tiny, wispy curls of beard—looking at its best—with what Pauline sort of thought was chalk. When you looked closely you could see that the colours weren’t right at all but when you stood back a bit the yellow and the orange and the brown kind of mixed together and really looked like his hair colour!

    “Um, do you like it?” said Pauline at last in a voice that came out a lot smaller than she’d meant it to. “I had it properly framed down at the Green. Kenny Price: he’s new.”

    “It’s lovely,” said Kristel Melly, blinking and trying to smile. “Really like him.”

    Georgia Carter’s round face was very doleful. Her lower lip quivered.

    “Don’t you like it, Georgia?” ventured Pauline.

    “’Course!” she said crossly. She swallowed hard. “’Smatter of fact, I’m thinking of applying for a job in Portsmouth. Snips’d take me.” Suddenly she marched out the back.

    Pauline bit her lip. “She’s taken it harder than I… Blow.”

    “Everybody’ll love it, Pauline! I think you did the right thing,” said Kristel loyally.

    Pauline swallowed hard. “Really? Ta, Kristel.”

    Kristel looked up at the picture sadly. “I miss him.”

    Pauline’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes,” she said in a stifled voice. She put an arm round Kristel’s powder-blue-smocked shoulders.

    “Do you think maybe Georgia was a bit in love with him, Pauline?” she ventured.

    Pauline sighed. “I think maybe we all were, Kristel. Not just the salon—the whole village.”

    “Yes,” said Kristel, blinking hard. “I think you’re right. Oh, well.” She gave a long sigh but added valiantly: “Dare say I could do some sweeping up. I’ll just put me scuffs on.” She went over to her reception desk to get them. After a moment she offered: “It looks good from here!”

    Pauline jumped. She turned round and smiled at Kristel’s pink, anxious, over-made-up face. “Does it? Good.”

    The picture of Colin at first didn’t have the effect Pauline had intended. Caroline Deane Jennings came in for a trim half an hour later, turned deathly pale, and walked straight out again. Half an hour after that Mrs Granville Thinnes came in for her usual shampoo and set, gasped and burst into tears. They had to sit her down with a cuppa and when that didn’t work, Pauline had to ring Mr Granville Thinnes and get him to run her home. She was at the point of taking it down, thinking it was too soon, she should of waited, when Molly Howell came in for a shampoo and set and, though having to blow her nose hard, told her ecstatically it was lovely and so like him! Well, maybe she’d leave it up, then. The other customers that day were retirees or in-comers who hardly knew him, they didn’t count.

    First thing next morning Isabel Potter came in for a perm, gasped, burst into tears and rushed out again. Oh, help. Ten minutes after that a panting Gwennie Potter rushed in. “Mum’s sorry but she can’t face—Heck!” She gaped at it.

    “I’ll take it down,” said Pauline grimly. “It’s too soon.”

    “No, it’s wonderful!” she gasped. “It’s just like him! No, leave it up, Pauline, we don’t wanna forget him! Gotta get back to Mum!” She rushed out again.

    “She’s only eighteen,” offered Kristel dubiously from the reception desk.

    “Mm. Well, we’ll see how it goes.”

    They had two male customers early on. Mr Kinnear didn’t notice it until after his shampoo. Then he gave a little gasp, but said firmly: “That’s a very nice memorial, Pauline. It looks just like him, doesn’t it? One of Miss Peregrine-White’s, is it?” So that was all right.

    Old Mr Mason, however, went very white.

    “I’m sorry, Mr Mason, I shouldn’t’ve put it up so soon,” said Pauline feebly.

    “That’s quite all right, my dear. It was just a little shock. I knew him quite well, you see.”

    “Yes. –Kristel!” she said sharply. “Get Mr Mason a cup of tea, quick!”

    Kristel shot out to the back and John Mason said valiantly: “It’s so very like him. It’s just caught that twinkle in his eye, hasn’t it? Oh, dear.” He blew his nose hard on a huge, black-edged hanky. He noticed Pauline looking at it and said wanly: “Rowena’s idea. Still, if it makes her feel better. And Colin would have understood.” He drank his tea gratefully but then said he didn’t feel quite up to an appointment today, after all. They offered to drive him home but he said he wanted the walk. They watched dubiously from behind their plate glass as he went off towards the top of Church Lane, moving very slowly.

    After that they had three lady retirees who only knew Colin slightly and all thought it was wonderful. Two of them wondering if the artist would do a sketch of their grandchildren.

    Mrs Hartley-Fynch, however, just about finished them off: they hadn't even known she knew Colin! She came in looking important, reminded Georgia bossily before she’d even been led to a chair that she never had the drier on too hot, and looked about her importantly. The fat leather handbag hit the floor, and she gasped and tottered. They had her in a seat in a trice and Kristel shot out the back unasked to make her a cuppa, and once she’d had a sip of it she was able to tell them it was just the surprise and it was so like him and of course Miss Peregrine-White’s work was unmistakable; but all the same!

    Pauline was looking up at it grimly, just about to take it down, when Rosie came in. She gave a gasp and stopped in her tracks.

    “I’m suh-sorry, Rosie!” gasped poor Pauline, turning all colours of the rainbow. “It’s too soon, I realise that, now. I’ll take it dow—”

    “No, don’t take it down! It’s so like him!” she cried, smiling through tears. “It’s perfect, Pauline!”

    Pauline sagged. “I thought it was really good.”

    “Everybody thinks so, only some of them were really upset,” contributed Kristel.

    “Of course. People loved him,” said Rosie with her warm smile, the tears sparkling on her lashes.

    Kristel’s lip wobbled. “Yes.”

    “I’d leave it, Pauline. People being upset isn’t a bad thing,” said Rosie. “Do you think some flowers’d look good underneath it?”

    “Hey, yeah!” cried Kristel. “Then it’d look as if it was meant, Pauline! Like a proper memorial!”

    “Yes. Hang on! I’ll be back in two twos!” beamed Rosie. She rushed out.

    The hairdressers looked blankly at one another, and waited.

    After some time Rosie rushed back in with a great armful of flowers. “Here!” she gasped.

    “Where did you get them from?” croaked Pauline.

    “Git—Garden—Centre!” she panted.

    “But he doesn’t sell loose cut flowers, only bunches to order.”

    “Blackmail!” she gasped. She panted, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “I told him they were to go under a picture of Colin in a public place and if he didn’t want the whole village to blacklist him forever and a day he better let me have some. These are from the bunches he was making up.”

    “These ones look like those hothouse lilies of his,” said Pauline dubiously.

    “Yeah, I told him he could throw some of them in, too. Colin always said they looked as if they had some ’orrible disease, but never mind! He’d of appreciated the joke!”

    Pauline gave a watery smile. “Yes, I can just hear him saying it. Oh, dear! Um, I’m no good at flower arranging, Rosie. Are you?”

    Rosie and Georgia were both hopeless, but Kristel bustled forward eagerly. “I’ve done a course! I’ll do it!”

    They stood back and watched in awe as she operated.

    “That looks marvellous,” said Pauline dazedly when her trolley had been replaced by a small occasional table usually used to display expensive salon-type shampoos and conditioners that no-one ever bought and the flowers were in place on it. “As if it was meant.”

    Rosie looked at it, smiling. “Yes. Bless you, Colin.”

    The hairdressers blinked hard, tried to smile, and nodded.

    There were still, of course, a lot of people who hadn’t yet seen it and were in for a shock when they did. But after this Kristel was able to greet every new arrival with: “Have you seen our memorial for Colin, yet? It’s ’cos we never want to forget him.”