Chapter Twenty-Six
The weather was just
right for the funeral. Overcast, with spots of rain and a cold wind
swirling up the last of the autumn leaves. They all left the house,
shoulders hunched, and walked slowly around the square and across
South Grove. As April had predicted, she didn’t know many of the
people following them on the short walk to St Michael’s church,
each one in uniform black, each one looking grave and respectful,
some dabbing at tears. April herself could not cry. Somehow it
didn’t feel real. But then, there at the end of the aisle was the
coffin, covered in flowers, and suddenly her knees felt
weak.
‘You okay?’ asked
Fiona, taking April’s arm, squeezing her hand tightly. She hadn’t
left April’s side since she’d arrived that morning, and for that
April was grateful.
April nodded and
filed down to her seat at the front next to her mum and grandpa.
Time stood still as the vicar went into his eulogy, recalling
William’s sense of humour, his dedication, his love for his family,
talking as if he were an old friend. April knew he was being kind,
trying to help them through this, but she couldn’t help feeling
annoyed. You didn’t know him, she
thought, he was my dad. He loved me.
Even so, she went through the motions, saying the prayers, singing
the hymns, but it all felt so remote, like some weird movie she was
watching from a distance. It felt so wrong that a man who had been
so full of life and excitement could be so quiet and still now.
After the readings were over, they all filed out and climbed into a
line of shiny black cars for the short drive down to the cemetery.
April was glad that the one-way restrictions on Swain’s Lane meant
that they had to loop around down West Hill and back up, so she
didn’t have to watch the graves passing by on the other side of the
road. Instead she concentrated on the rain dotting onto the window,
the droplets joining together and forming little rivulets running
down the windows. Finally, the hearse and the following car turned
through the gates and parked. April stepped out and sucked in the
cold air.
Fiona was there
beside her, her arm linked with April’s. She smiled and nodded
encouragingly. ‘You can do this,’ she whispered. ‘For your
dad.’
April nodded. She had
to be strong for her mum, too. Silvia was a wreck, walking
unsteadily on her high heels, gulping at the air; Grandpa Thomas
was virtually holding her up, one huge arm around her. The vicar
came over to say a few words to Silvia, then approached April. He
had a round face and red cheeks and his eyes were
kind.
‘I’m so sorry for
your loss, April,’ he said. ‘William was a good man.’
April nodded
politely.
‘I always looked
forward to our chats,’ said the vicar. The priest saw April’s
quizzical expression and smiled slightly. ‘Ah, perhaps he didn’t
mention it, but he used to pop by every now and then. A most
engaging fellow. And of course, if you ever need to talk, I’m
always here.’
He patted her hand
and returned to April’s mother, gesturing towards the
steps.
What was all that about? thought April, frowning. What
‘chats’? We only moved to Highgate two weeks ago and Dad was never
a particularly religious man. Was it something to do with the
investigation? She shook her head and forced herself to
concentrate on the here and now as the pall-bearers hoisted
William’s dark wood coffin onto their shoulders and began to walk
up the hill to the tomb. The priest leading the way, chanting the
ritual words as he walked. ‘Christ is risen from the dead,
trampling down death by death, and giving life to those in the tomb
…’
April was
concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, doing her
best not to stumble, silently thanking Fee for persuading her to
wear ballet flats not heels. She stared at her feet and tried hard
not to think how, on the way back down this hill, she would have
said goodbye to her father for the very last time.
She looked up at
strangely familiar graves and statues as they slowly climbed the
hill. Angels and animals and unhappy renderings of Christ. Where a
few days before they had reassured April, today they looked forlorn
and powerless. Then she gasped and stumbled against
Fiona.
‘What is it?’ she
whispered.
‘Nothing,’ said
April.
But it wasn’t
nothing. Standing half-hidden by the foliage twenty metres back
from the path, April had seen the man from the little white
gatehouse. The one who had disappeared, the one Judith had claimed
was a figment of her imagination. April thought about asking Fiona
if she could see him, but she dismissed the idea. There’s nothing wrong with me, she thought,
I’m fine. But when she looked up again,
the man was gone. ‘I look after the graves,’ that was what he had said. April
could only hope he was as good as his word, because now she could
see William Dunne’s final resting place looming up ahead. The
Hamilton vault resembled a tall Greek temple, with pillars to
either side of an iron door and a pitched roof. To April, it looked
like a miniature bank, and to her surprise the name above the door
wasn’t ‘Hamilton’. It read ‘Vladescu’. Of course, her grandpa had
told her he’d changed his name, but it was still a shock to see.
Is that who I am? thought April
miserably. Now he’s gone, is that all I have
left? Someone else’s name?
The door was already
open and a table with a dark red velvet cloth laid over it was
standing to one side of the entrance, while huge flower displays
had been left to both sides of the steps. The pall-bearers gently
laid the coffin down and the vicar began the ancient rites, the
same words this hillside had heard over and over these past two
hundred years.
‘I am the
resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me,
though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me shall never die.’
April began to
cry.
‘Into thy hands, O
merciful Saviour, we commend thy servant William,’ continued the
priest. ‘Receive him into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed
rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the
saints in light.’
The mourners all
mumbled ‘Amen’; then, leaning on Grandpa Thomas’s shoulder, Silvia
shuffled forwards and, with a great sob, placed a white rose on the
coffin as the vicar made the sign of the cross and began to intone:
‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is
full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he
fleets as a shadow and cannot stay. In the midst of life we are in
death …’
April stepped
forwards and placed her own flower on the coffin. ‘I love you,
Daddy,’ she whispered.
‘We therefore commit
his body to this resting place; earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal
life …’
Each of the mourners
stepped forwards in turn, then the priest signalled to the
pall-bearers, who lifted the coffin into the tomb as they all
muttered the Lord’s Prayer over Silvia’s sobs.
‘Forgive us our
trespasses …’
Finally, the priest
stepped forwards to close the vault door. ‘Deliver us from evil
…’
And a terrible scream
went up.
‘Nooo!’ cried Silvia,
throwing herself against the door. ‘I won’t let you, I
can’t!’
‘Dear lady,’
whispered the vicar, and Silvia slipped down the door, as if in a
faint. April jumped forwards, but her grandfather got there first,
lifting Silvia to her feet and supporting her. The vicar, as gently
as he could, finished the service.
‘God of peace, who
brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, through the
blood of the everlasting covenant, grant eternal rest to his soul,
O Lord. May his soul and all the souls of the departed, through the
mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.’