this perfectly.) NOTE: The readings must be taken
only
from St. John’s Gospel, a work of extraordinary literary merit, and there is to be
no singing.
(Without a first-class choir singing is pointless.) Under no circumstances whatsoever should that ghastly but popular passage from the writings of Canon Henry Scott Holland be read, and under no circumstances whatsoever must anyone give some nauseating speech about how wonderful I was. The clergyman must refer to me throughout as Miss Harrison, not as Beatrice or—God forbid—Bea.”
That seemed clear enough, but I wondered what the clergyman at the crematorium would think.
The doorbell rang to herald the arrival of Aunt’s doctor.
V
At eleven o’clock
that morning, after the undertakers had removed Aunt’s body and just as I was beginning to realise how much there was to do after someone died, the doorbell rang again and this time I found Nicholas’s colleague on the doorstep. He was the silver-haired clergyman who had read the lesson at the healing service, and at the time I had assumed he was just another decorous elderly gentleman in a clerical collar, but as soon as I saw him at close quarters I realised I’d been mistaken.
For a start, his silver hair was shaggy and allowed to taper into furry sideburns which gave him a rakish look. He also had yellow teeth (he reeked of nicotine) and sinister black eyes which conjured up images of gangsters. In a heroic effort to neutralise this villainous appearance he had encased himself in an exquisitely cut clerical suit, but this only made him look like an actor who had been hopelessly miscast.
“Miss Fletcher?” he said briskly. “I’m Lewis Hall, and I assist Nicholas Darrow at St. Benet’s. Is this a bad moment to call? If it is,just say so and I’ll disappear—and don’t worry about giving me offence because I assure you I shan’t take it.”
I found this straight talk very refreshing. The detestable doctor had been unctuous to hide his relief that Aunt could now be struck off his list of patients.
“Thank you, Mr. Hall,” I said. “Do please come in.” As I showed him into the living-room I noticed again that he had a pronounced limp. Accepting my offer of tea, he bared his yellow teeth in a benign smile when I mentioned the word “cake.”
“I’m always very partial to elevenses,” he said.
I had made a large banana cake the previous day and although most of it had now gone there was still enough left for two generous slices. Mr. Hall took one bite of his slice and demanded: “Is this from Harrods?”
“No, I made it. I’m a cook. It’s what I do for a living.”
“I trust you have a top job at Buckingham Palace.”
As I smiled, grateful for his kindness, I suddenly realised that he too was treating me as if I were a real person instead of a fat freak. I began to feel less shy.
“But I must stop drooling over the cake,” he was saying briskly, “and start talking about you. First, let me offer you my sympathy. Even a long-awaited death can be extremely distressing when it finally comes. Second, let me offer you some assistance in dealing with all the things that have to be done. I understand there’s no family available.”
“Well, that’s most kind of you, but—”
“At St. Benet’s we have a team of people we call Befrienders—their main task is to listen to people in trouble, but occasionally it’s appropriate for them to take a more active role, particularly when someone’s bereaved and on her own. You talked to Francie, I believe, at the church yesterday?”
I said startled: “How did you know?”
“It’s in Nicholas’s case-notes—when you fainted she told him she’d spoken to you earlier. Now, we’ve often asked Francie to lend a helping hand in this sort of situation. You’d still be in control—she’ll do as much or as little as you want—and if she gets on your nerves you can tell her to get lost. But she could be useful.”
I found the proposal
only
from St. John’s Gospel, a work of extraordinary literary merit, and there is to be
no singing.
(Without a first-class choir singing is pointless.) Under no circumstances whatsoever should that ghastly but popular passage from the writings of Canon Henry Scott Holland be read, and under no circumstances whatsoever must anyone give some nauseating speech about how wonderful I was. The clergyman must refer to me throughout as Miss Harrison, not as Beatrice or—God forbid—Bea.”
That seemed clear enough, but I wondered what the clergyman at the crematorium would think.
The doorbell rang to herald the arrival of Aunt’s doctor.
V
At eleven o’clock
that morning, after the undertakers had removed Aunt’s body and just as I was beginning to realise how much there was to do after someone died, the doorbell rang again and this time I found Nicholas’s colleague on the doorstep. He was the silver-haired clergyman who had read the lesson at the healing service, and at the time I had assumed he was just another decorous elderly gentleman in a clerical collar, but as soon as I saw him at close quarters I realised I’d been mistaken.
For a start, his silver hair was shaggy and allowed to taper into furry sideburns which gave him a rakish look. He also had yellow teeth (he reeked of nicotine) and sinister black eyes which conjured up images of gangsters. In a heroic effort to neutralise this villainous appearance he had encased himself in an exquisitely cut clerical suit, but this only made him look like an actor who had been hopelessly miscast.
“Miss Fletcher?” he said briskly. “I’m Lewis Hall, and I assist Nicholas Darrow at St. Benet’s. Is this a bad moment to call? If it is,just say so and I’ll disappear—and don’t worry about giving me offence because I assure you I shan’t take it.”
I found this straight talk very refreshing. The detestable doctor had been unctuous to hide his relief that Aunt could now be struck off his list of patients.
“Thank you, Mr. Hall,” I said. “Do please come in.” As I showed him into the living-room I noticed again that he had a pronounced limp. Accepting my offer of tea, he bared his yellow teeth in a benign smile when I mentioned the word “cake.”
“I’m always very partial to elevenses,” he said.
I had made a large banana cake the previous day and although most of it had now gone there was still enough left for two generous slices. Mr. Hall took one bite of his slice and demanded: “Is this from Harrods?”
“No, I made it. I’m a cook. It’s what I do for a living.”
“I trust you have a top job at Buckingham Palace.”
As I smiled, grateful for his kindness, I suddenly realised that he too was treating me as if I were a real person instead of a fat freak. I began to feel less shy.
“But I must stop drooling over the cake,” he was saying briskly, “and start talking about you. First, let me offer you my sympathy. Even a long-awaited death can be extremely distressing when it finally comes. Second, let me offer you some assistance in dealing with all the things that have to be done. I understand there’s no family available.”
“Well, that’s most kind of you, but—”
“At St. Benet’s we have a team of people we call Befrienders—their main task is to listen to people in trouble, but occasionally it’s appropriate for them to take a more active role, particularly when someone’s bereaved and on her own. You talked to Francie, I believe, at the church yesterday?”
I said startled: “How did you know?”
“It’s in Nicholas’s case-notes—when you fainted she told him she’d spoken to you earlier. Now, we’ve often asked Francie to lend a helping hand in this sort of situation. You’d still be in control—she’ll do as much or as little as you want—and if she gets on your nerves you can tell her to get lost. But she could be useful.”
I found the proposal
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