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Authors: Patrick Gale
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and paints in the Sunday School cupboard and hand them out right now, have everyone decorate the coffin as part of the ceremony. In the play of this funeral he would find the courage at least to stand up and speak of his shame and of how he would have painted the cardboard had he the nerve.
But Garfield had never spoken in Meeting in his life. He had often felt the prompting. Sitting in the silent circlehe would find the urge to speak of joy or sorrow or of simple sudden understanding welling up in him and would even get as far as shifting his feet so they were planted firmly and evenly so he would stand with confidence. The same niggling inner voice that checked his hand above the paint box always sapped his resolve, however, by reminding him he must only speak if what he felt were true ministry and not merely a desire to hear his own voice or take issue with what an earlier speaker had said.
And Morwenna was not there. Garfield had not stopped hoping even now that she might appear, breathless, noisy and welcome. Knowing no friends who still saw her regularly, having no phone numbers or addresses not hopelessly out of date, they had placed announcements of the funeral in the Guardian and The Times adding Please tell Morwenna at the end. He kept up a show of being angry with her because it was easier that way. He had been angry when Hedley first found out about her selling the birthday cards – especially since it wasn’t even her own she was selling – but now, if anyone had thought to challenge him, he would have admitted that he was more upset than angry, unhappy that she should be so desperate as to be reduced to selling something precious when she could have come to any of them for help. What anger he ever felt at her was really with himself for being unable to change the situation.
He nodded at people he knew. Lizzy was kissing, of course, Hedley and Antony were shaking hands. Then they all sat.
Penzance Meeting had no purpose-built house and currently met in a disused school from the era when alarge room would be subdivided by screens and curtains for smaller classes then thrown open again for meals and assemblies. There was far more space than the Friends needed so they occupied one of the cosier subsections. The windows were placed high to avoid distracting children with views but they let in lots of light and birdsong from the surrounding streets and playground. There were the elements common to Meeting Houses the world over, the posters (for peace, for environmentalism), announcements of talks, concerts, prison and hospital visiting, the shelves of books and pamphlets. He was especially fond of this Meeting Room because of its strong, happy associations with kindergarten and school libraries. For some reason a potent silence was always especially achievable here in a way he did not often find in Falmouth.
Rachel’s coffin was set upon trestles in the midst of their circle at the point where there was usually a small plain table with a faded Fifties tablecloth and a copy of Quaker Faith and Practice . The table was still there but moved to one side and, because this was a Meeting for Worship as well as a funeral, whoever it was who normally brought something to decorate the table had brought a clipping of a rose bush complete with glossy red hips, and set it on the table in a small glass vase.
Lizzy reached out for his hand and squeezed it briefly before settling into stillness. He glanced at her then at his father and across at Hedley, who was blowing his nose, no, crying. It struck him they had each sat not with each other but with a comforter. He had Lizzy, his father had Jack Trescothick, his oldest friend in the community, and Hedley had his partner, Oliver. He felt a pang of envy atHedley’s tears. Hedley had always found his emotions easy to access, a shallow current safely dipped into then shaken off. Perhaps it was the source of his essential easeful blandness. He would rage or weep for a few
But Garfield had never spoken in Meeting in his life. He had often felt the prompting. Sitting in the silent circlehe would find the urge to speak of joy or sorrow or of simple sudden understanding welling up in him and would even get as far as shifting his feet so they were planted firmly and evenly so he would stand with confidence. The same niggling inner voice that checked his hand above the paint box always sapped his resolve, however, by reminding him he must only speak if what he felt were true ministry and not merely a desire to hear his own voice or take issue with what an earlier speaker had said.
And Morwenna was not there. Garfield had not stopped hoping even now that she might appear, breathless, noisy and welcome. Knowing no friends who still saw her regularly, having no phone numbers or addresses not hopelessly out of date, they had placed announcements of the funeral in the Guardian and The Times adding Please tell Morwenna at the end. He kept up a show of being angry with her because it was easier that way. He had been angry when Hedley first found out about her selling the birthday cards – especially since it wasn’t even her own she was selling – but now, if anyone had thought to challenge him, he would have admitted that he was more upset than angry, unhappy that she should be so desperate as to be reduced to selling something precious when she could have come to any of them for help. What anger he ever felt at her was really with himself for being unable to change the situation.
He nodded at people he knew. Lizzy was kissing, of course, Hedley and Antony were shaking hands. Then they all sat.
Penzance Meeting had no purpose-built house and currently met in a disused school from the era when alarge room would be subdivided by screens and curtains for smaller classes then thrown open again for meals and assemblies. There was far more space than the Friends needed so they occupied one of the cosier subsections. The windows were placed high to avoid distracting children with views but they let in lots of light and birdsong from the surrounding streets and playground. There were the elements common to Meeting Houses the world over, the posters (for peace, for environmentalism), announcements of talks, concerts, prison and hospital visiting, the shelves of books and pamphlets. He was especially fond of this Meeting Room because of its strong, happy associations with kindergarten and school libraries. For some reason a potent silence was always especially achievable here in a way he did not often find in Falmouth.
Rachel’s coffin was set upon trestles in the midst of their circle at the point where there was usually a small plain table with a faded Fifties tablecloth and a copy of Quaker Faith and Practice . The table was still there but moved to one side and, because this was a Meeting for Worship as well as a funeral, whoever it was who normally brought something to decorate the table had brought a clipping of a rose bush complete with glossy red hips, and set it on the table in a small glass vase.
Lizzy reached out for his hand and squeezed it briefly before settling into stillness. He glanced at her then at his father and across at Hedley, who was blowing his nose, no, crying. It struck him they had each sat not with each other but with a comforter. He had Lizzy, his father had Jack Trescothick, his oldest friend in the community, and Hedley had his partner, Oliver. He felt a pang of envy atHedley’s tears. Hedley had always found his emotions easy to access, a shallow current safely dipped into then shaken off. Perhaps it was the source of his essential easeful blandness. He would rage or weep for a few
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