quipped back, eyebrows wagging.
Cecilia had finally rushed with nail scissors to part them and Marjorie had stood back panting and unamused, hands clenched
at her sides like a boxer.
As her identity was now revealed, Dad looked desperately at Dan, but Dan had been struggling for a good ten minutes with these
two and had watched helplessly as my father had flown into their web.
‘Lovely … party?’ said Dad, in despair.
‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Dan.
Marjorie and Cecilia looked aghast.
‘I mean … as these things go,’ added Dad, waving his hand lamely.
Dan gazed bleakly into his beer; my father at his feet.
The four of us lined up at the Aga viewed this little vignette with interest.
‘Those two are the only men in that room who belong to us,’ Jennie observed. ‘Take a long hard look, girls. That’s what we’ve
ended up with. That’s what’s left for us in the man pool. Two men still in short pants. No offence, Poppy.’
‘None taken,’ I assured her.
‘But would you want any of the rest?’ Angie murmured.
We took a sip of wine and surveyed the throng thoughtfully. We liked this sort of question.
‘I wouldn’t mind a crack at Angus Jardine,’ Peggy said at length.
She was playing to the gallery but we all gasped dutifully. Angus Jardine was the silver-haired, silken-tongued husband of
Sylvia, queen bee of the village, who’d praised Phil’s bell-ringing skills. Retired from the City, where he’d been a big fish
at Warburg’s, he now just swished his tail contentedly in his river-fronted rectory. He was very much out of bounds.
‘You hussy, Peggy,’ Angie told her.
‘I said a crack. Once I’d got him I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t want him. The word is he’s stingy as hell, a finger of whisky
is literally that. And anyway, don’t tell me you haven’t got a crush on Passion-fuelled Pete,’ Peggy retorted.
‘I might have,’ Angie agreed equably, ‘but he’s not here, is he? You said anyone in that room.’
‘Oh, we can digress,’ Peggy told her. ‘Jennie?’
‘You mean hypothetically?’
‘Of course hypothetically. This is a wake, dear heart. We’re not suggesting you jump anyone right now.’
Jennie hesitated. Just a moment too long, I thought. I
turned, surprised. ‘Nah,’ she said, sinking into her wine. ‘You know me. I’m off men, full stop.’
‘Poppy?’ Peggy asked smoothly.
I blinked. ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ I spluttered. I seized a plate of fairy cakes and stalked, irritated, into the next
room. ‘I’ve just buried my husband!’
‘Quite,’ I heard Peggy say softly as I left.
4
Death has a way of sorting the men from the boys. Some people kept their distance fearing they’d trigger emotion, be responsible
for a nasty scene. There were those who’d walk right around the pond on the green just to avoid me, and if they did have to
pass me, would scuttle on by, head down. Men, mostly. Others couldn’t resist bringing it up at every opportunity. Outside
the village shop, for instance, at the school gates; would positively leap the pond to be by my side. Women, mostly. They’d
lay caring hands on my arm: ‘How are you? Are you all right, Poppy, are you coping?’ Looking right into my eyes. Too much
sometimes, but so hard to get right. Then there were those who cut the crap and made lasagne for you, picked up the kids,
were keen to set you back on track, genuinely wanting to help. Friends, mostly. And Jennie in particular.
Some weeks after the funeral she burst in through my back door on a blast of cold air and let it slam behind her. ‘Right,
money,’ she announced firmly, putting a blue casserole dish on the side.
‘Money?’ I turned to her abstractedly, sitting as I was at the kitchen table in my dressing gown, staring into space as Archie
had his morning sleep. I did a lot of that, these days.
‘Have you thought about it?’
‘Not really,’ I said dully.
‘Well, did he have much?’ she
Cecilia had finally rushed with nail scissors to part them and Marjorie had stood back panting and unamused, hands clenched
at her sides like a boxer.
As her identity was now revealed, Dad looked desperately at Dan, but Dan had been struggling for a good ten minutes with these
two and had watched helplessly as my father had flown into their web.
‘Lovely … party?’ said Dad, in despair.
‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Dan.
Marjorie and Cecilia looked aghast.
‘I mean … as these things go,’ added Dad, waving his hand lamely.
Dan gazed bleakly into his beer; my father at his feet.
The four of us lined up at the Aga viewed this little vignette with interest.
‘Those two are the only men in that room who belong to us,’ Jennie observed. ‘Take a long hard look, girls. That’s what we’ve
ended up with. That’s what’s left for us in the man pool. Two men still in short pants. No offence, Poppy.’
‘None taken,’ I assured her.
‘But would you want any of the rest?’ Angie murmured.
We took a sip of wine and surveyed the throng thoughtfully. We liked this sort of question.
‘I wouldn’t mind a crack at Angus Jardine,’ Peggy said at length.
She was playing to the gallery but we all gasped dutifully. Angus Jardine was the silver-haired, silken-tongued husband of
Sylvia, queen bee of the village, who’d praised Phil’s bell-ringing skills. Retired from the City, where he’d been a big fish
at Warburg’s, he now just swished his tail contentedly in his river-fronted rectory. He was very much out of bounds.
‘You hussy, Peggy,’ Angie told her.
‘I said a crack. Once I’d got him I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t want him. The word is he’s stingy as hell, a finger of whisky
is literally that. And anyway, don’t tell me you haven’t got a crush on Passion-fuelled Pete,’ Peggy retorted.
‘I might have,’ Angie agreed equably, ‘but he’s not here, is he? You said anyone in that room.’
‘Oh, we can digress,’ Peggy told her. ‘Jennie?’
‘You mean hypothetically?’
‘Of course hypothetically. This is a wake, dear heart. We’re not suggesting you jump anyone right now.’
Jennie hesitated. Just a moment too long, I thought. I
turned, surprised. ‘Nah,’ she said, sinking into her wine. ‘You know me. I’m off men, full stop.’
‘Poppy?’ Peggy asked smoothly.
I blinked. ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ I spluttered. I seized a plate of fairy cakes and stalked, irritated, into the next
room. ‘I’ve just buried my husband!’
‘Quite,’ I heard Peggy say softly as I left.
4
Death has a way of sorting the men from the boys. Some people kept their distance fearing they’d trigger emotion, be responsible
for a nasty scene. There were those who’d walk right around the pond on the green just to avoid me, and if they did have to
pass me, would scuttle on by, head down. Men, mostly. Others couldn’t resist bringing it up at every opportunity. Outside
the village shop, for instance, at the school gates; would positively leap the pond to be by my side. Women, mostly. They’d
lay caring hands on my arm: ‘How are you? Are you all right, Poppy, are you coping?’ Looking right into my eyes. Too much
sometimes, but so hard to get right. Then there were those who cut the crap and made lasagne for you, picked up the kids,
were keen to set you back on track, genuinely wanting to help. Friends, mostly. And Jennie in particular.
Some weeks after the funeral she burst in through my back door on a blast of cold air and let it slam behind her. ‘Right,
money,’ she announced firmly, putting a blue casserole dish on the side.
‘Money?’ I turned to her abstractedly, sitting as I was at the kitchen table in my dressing gown, staring into space as Archie
had his morning sleep. I did a lot of that, these days.
‘Have you thought about it?’
‘Not really,’ I said dully.
‘Well, did he have much?’ she
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