St Mary’s. Such a nice man, very helpful. There’s a spot in the graveyard quite close to her parents’ grave.’
‘She’d like that.’
‘Yes. Oh, Sheila,’ Rosemary burst out, ‘all this suddenly makes it real. Somehow it wasn’t before …’
‘I know. Just at first you can abstract your mind in a way, but there comes a moment when it hits you and you know it’s really happened and nothing’s ever going to change that.
Chapter Seven
St Mary’s is a small church a few miles outside Taviscombe. Originally built in the Middle Ages, it was thoroughly restored in the Victorian Gothic style, which nowadays has a sort of nostalgic charm. The original graveyard immediately surrounding the church is full of leaning headstones whose inscriptions have been mostly obliterated, except where some earnest ancestor-seeker has scraped away the lichen in search of information which will complete the family tree.
The field next to the original burial ground was taken in a hundred years ago and this so-called ‘new’ graveyard houses the remains of the more recent inhabitants of the nearby villages and also others who were technically of that parish – both Peter andmy mother lie there – and had expressed a wish to be buried there instead of in the large Taviscombe cemetery. It too has its lichen-covered stones, since the pure, damp air promotes such green coverings, but there are also more modern, and to some, less-attractive memorials. As I stood by Eva’s grave, I could see what might be described as an art deco memorial, angularly shaped with eye-catching green and black decorations. The subject of many furious objections long ago, when it was first put up, over the years (and after several laudatory articles about it in
Country Life
and other journals), it has acquired a sort of respectable fame and now people come from some distance to see it. And I remembered how Rosemary, Eva and I, with the enthusiasm of youth, praised it as an example of modern art, in the face of the horrified opposition of our parents.
Eva would have a traditional stone, like that of her parents nearby. Daniel had left the arrangements to Rosemary and had only come down to Taviscombe a few days before the funeral. I saw him, his arm supporting Mrs Dudley, as the family came into the church. There was a good congregation; Eva had made many friends in the short time since her return. As well as the family and a few friends from the old days, there was a large group from Brunswick Lodge, including Donald. I hadn’t seenhim since Eva died. He was sitting behind me in the church so I wasn’t able to see him there, but here, outside, he looked haggard and weary. He’d been away and it must have hit him hard to come back to such news.
By the graveside the vicar pronounced the traditional, solemn words, earth was sprinkled and we all turned away, some more slowly than others, and made our way to our cars and the buffet lunch that Rosemary had arranged nearby. Here, in the warmth and the comfort of the hotel, people relaxed, with reminiscences and more general chat and there was, as there so often is, a sort of party atmosphere (‘What Eva would have wanted’).
‘I think it all went off all right,’ Rosemary said as she paused beside me for a moment with a plate of food for her mother. ‘Do you think?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘It was a lovely service and so many people came.’
‘It was a big responsibility. Daniel’s been in a very bad way and I wasn’t sure what he wanted. Fortunately Patrick was marvellous and was able to get through to him when none of us could.’
‘Where’s Patrick now?’
‘Over there, helping Jilly with Mother, bless him.’
I looked across at the little group – Mrs Dudleyensconced on a sofa with Jilly beside her and Patrick, bending towards her, talking earnestly. There was no sign of Daniel.
I looked enquiringly at Rosemary.
‘He went outside for a bit,’ she said. ‘I think he found
‘She’d like that.’
‘Yes. Oh, Sheila,’ Rosemary burst out, ‘all this suddenly makes it real. Somehow it wasn’t before …’
‘I know. Just at first you can abstract your mind in a way, but there comes a moment when it hits you and you know it’s really happened and nothing’s ever going to change that.
Chapter Seven
St Mary’s is a small church a few miles outside Taviscombe. Originally built in the Middle Ages, it was thoroughly restored in the Victorian Gothic style, which nowadays has a sort of nostalgic charm. The original graveyard immediately surrounding the church is full of leaning headstones whose inscriptions have been mostly obliterated, except where some earnest ancestor-seeker has scraped away the lichen in search of information which will complete the family tree.
The field next to the original burial ground was taken in a hundred years ago and this so-called ‘new’ graveyard houses the remains of the more recent inhabitants of the nearby villages and also others who were technically of that parish – both Peter andmy mother lie there – and had expressed a wish to be buried there instead of in the large Taviscombe cemetery. It too has its lichen-covered stones, since the pure, damp air promotes such green coverings, but there are also more modern, and to some, less-attractive memorials. As I stood by Eva’s grave, I could see what might be described as an art deco memorial, angularly shaped with eye-catching green and black decorations. The subject of many furious objections long ago, when it was first put up, over the years (and after several laudatory articles about it in
Country Life
and other journals), it has acquired a sort of respectable fame and now people come from some distance to see it. And I remembered how Rosemary, Eva and I, with the enthusiasm of youth, praised it as an example of modern art, in the face of the horrified opposition of our parents.
Eva would have a traditional stone, like that of her parents nearby. Daniel had left the arrangements to Rosemary and had only come down to Taviscombe a few days before the funeral. I saw him, his arm supporting Mrs Dudley, as the family came into the church. There was a good congregation; Eva had made many friends in the short time since her return. As well as the family and a few friends from the old days, there was a large group from Brunswick Lodge, including Donald. I hadn’t seenhim since Eva died. He was sitting behind me in the church so I wasn’t able to see him there, but here, outside, he looked haggard and weary. He’d been away and it must have hit him hard to come back to such news.
By the graveside the vicar pronounced the traditional, solemn words, earth was sprinkled and we all turned away, some more slowly than others, and made our way to our cars and the buffet lunch that Rosemary had arranged nearby. Here, in the warmth and the comfort of the hotel, people relaxed, with reminiscences and more general chat and there was, as there so often is, a sort of party atmosphere (‘What Eva would have wanted’).
‘I think it all went off all right,’ Rosemary said as she paused beside me for a moment with a plate of food for her mother. ‘Do you think?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘It was a lovely service and so many people came.’
‘It was a big responsibility. Daniel’s been in a very bad way and I wasn’t sure what he wanted. Fortunately Patrick was marvellous and was able to get through to him when none of us could.’
‘Where’s Patrick now?’
‘Over there, helping Jilly with Mother, bless him.’
I looked across at the little group – Mrs Dudleyensconced on a sofa with Jilly beside her and Patrick, bending towards her, talking earnestly. There was no sign of Daniel.
I looked enquiringly at Rosemary.
‘He went outside for a bit,’ she said. ‘I think he found
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