Born of Woman by Wendy Perriam

pinioned, as if they were crying out in pain, satin ribbons lassooing plastic foliage.
    The vicar flung his handful of dust, ‘Ashes to ashes’ punched out like a rugby song. Lyn stared at the oblong box lying so snugly in its oblong hole. Never before had Hester been so submissive, fitted the space she was given, done what she was told. He felt he ought to haul her out again, rip the wood apart and let her holler. He stepped towards the edge. The ground came rushing towards him, Hester’s mouth a black and screaming hole. The vicar grabbed his elbow, led him away. Jennifer was already standing by the porch and he was pushed into position beside her. Death was still muddled up with weddings—a long reception-line snaking towards him, queuing up to pump him by the hand. Jennifer was sniffing and smiling at once, as she had done three years ago, except she had been white and radiant then, instead of black.
    All the locals’ names were crumbling into dust. Three short years he had been away, and they all looked much the same as when he’d left, but the last few days had warped time like elastic, mouldered all his brain cells. He was blanking out on people he had known for thirty years or more. Thank God for Jennifer who was collecting names and inviting them back for tea. Half of them declined, cold-shouldering her fairy cakes and trifles, preferring a double whisky in the Rose and Crown. Special licence for a funeral. The publican already counting up his profits. Molly Bertram was shepherding the rest. ‘Over here, Mrs Walters. Jack can take one more. No, you go with Peggy, Mr Bryant.’
    Revving of engines, slamming of car doors. He was the host and he couldn’t even drive. His legs were made of sunlight, his hands were lumps of wood. He climbed into a Land Rover. His own car was packed with strangers, the vicar’s full of hats. People chatted to him as they laboured up the hill, scraps and shreds of Hester passed between them.
    â€˜Marvellous for her age …’
    â€˜Of course, she was so independent …’
    â€˜At least it was over quickly …’
    â€˜Mustn’t blame yourself …’
    Blame … Blame ? How had they found him out? If he had gone up earlier, done what his wife advised, hadn’t wasted a whole Saturday with Matthew, then Hester wouldn’t have died. He’d have had time to call the doctor, phone the ambulance, found her still alive.
    He had killed her, then—or he and Matthew had. Matthew had sent messages and money (always money with Matthew) and sensible advice. Drive in daylight, try and keep her cheerful, phone if you need us, always ready to help.
    More time wasted fondling Jennifer. Caressing her breasts while Hester gasped for water. Stopping for picnic kisses when his mother was a corpse. They were probably filling in that hole now, earth falling on her face.
    â€˜Mind the step,’ said the driver. Somehow they had reached the house while he was still fighting off the grave-diggers, scrabbling at the soil. How could he have missed road and hills and forest; bumped across seven cattle-grids and not even felt them rumble?
    He staggered up the path into his house— Hester ‘s house—except, for the first time in his life, she wasn’t there. His wife was Mrs Winterton now, already pouring tea. She was using the best gold-rimmed Dresden china which Hester had packed away when Thomas died, the damask cloths, the silver apostle spoons. All those fine fancy things belonged to Matthew’s era. He and Hester had made do with earthenware—thick brown clumsy stuff laid on the bare boards. He feared his mother might march back and demand less fuss.
    â€˜Have a cup of tea, Lyn. You look frozen stiff.’ Molly Bertram mothering him, passing him Jennifer’s ham-and-mushroom patties. ‘Try one of these. You ought to eat, you know.’ Eating herself, mouth full, a mushroom fragment caught in