Bob’s funeral had been meticulously well organised, but that would have come as no surprise to anyone who knew Marcia. On a bright morning in April her husband of five years had been commemorated, then incinerated. His ashes had been collected and would be scattered in the copse by the eighteenth tee of the beloved golf course that abutted their home. Permission had been forthcoming for the scattering when Marcia had spoken to the club chair about the creation of a new small pavilion in memory of Bob.
As Marcia had thought fitting, the order of service had been printed with a warm invitation to all those attending to celebrate Bob’s life over a buffet in the club house; a place that Bob had spent many happy hours since moving to the village when he married Marcia. When she had issued that invitation, Marcia had not anticipated that the crematorium chapel would be so full of mourners, very few of whom she recognised. She had sighed inwardly in relief that she had not scheduled an elaborate eulogy for Bob; just some hymns, a tasteful poem or two, and then the committal. From an alcove, she watched as the congregation from the crem meandered into the club house. Fortunately, she had ordered much more food than she thought would ever be needed, expecting that any leftovers could then be quietly distributed to weary golfers frequenting the ‘nineteenth hole’ in the coming days.
Nonetheless, Marcia felt bewildered by the range of the mourners who continued to funnel through the modest entrance lobby and into its main space where the buffet and drinks had been set up. The range of ages was perplexing. Marcia had assumed that most of those coming to the funeral would be of Bob’s generation. She had also expected them to be well dressed in an unassuming manner. Instead, she had noted some flamboyant colours amongst the throng. And then there were those who, to put it kindly, had dressed down for the occasion in tatty jeans, or, even worse, in joggers with an odd hoodie or two.
Marcia found herself placing a hand gently on the arm of her younger brother Miles. He had been her rock these last few weeks. She steadied herself before drinking from the small glass of wine that had been pressed into her hand by a well-meaning server. Then, perhaps she might be able to work out quite why all these unexpected people had turned up and were now talking animatedly to each other, not even paying much attention to the copious buffet set out in the middle of the room.
In the days leading up to the funeral, Marcia had managed to maintain a calm demeanour. She had recovered herself since getting the call about Bob’s sudden death and returning on the first flight she could get back to Heathrow. Her P. A. had arranged it all and rescheduled her visit for a month’s time at Marcia’s instruction. Since then, she had simply shifted into a different kind of project management and felt on surer ground in still dealing with officialdom and making plans work.
Bob had never wanted to cramp her style when he suggested marriage to her. He had been twenty years older than her and felt himself to be quite ready to leave the itinerant lifestyle behind. All he had wanted, as he had confided to her, was to settle down in a pleasant community, hold the fort for her, and play a little golf between times. Perhaps he hadn’t bargained on how much of her time she would spend away from their new home, but she had thought him as content with their arrangement as she was. Whenever she had been with him at home, he had loved to hear about the wheeling and dealing that went with the multinational projects she managed. He had less news of his own to give her, though she had enjoyed the tales of club politics he told her over a glass or two of a new white rioja he had discovered at the local deli.
Marcia had been proud of their light touch marriage, but now, sipping her wine and observing her guests from one of the room’s alcoves, it occurred to her that she knew very little about how Bob had spent the time whilst they had been apart. After they had settled in the village, she had become increasingly enmeshed in her work. Of course, they had exchanged affectionate messages whilst she was away, but neither of them had felt the need to go into the nitty gritty of their daily lives.
Marcia decided that she needed another glass of wine. Miles was still at her side but was now involved in an animated discussion with a young woman who had sidled up to him. Marcia caught only a few words of their conversation, but it was obvious that they were talking about Bob and about some kind of village quiz. Miles was leaning in towards his new companion and smiling. It seemed to Marcia that she would have to replenish her own glass, and she moved decisively away towards the bar where the filled glasses of red and white wine were waiting for takers. As she stepped forwards, Marcia could not help but overhear some of what the woman was telling Miles.
‘It was all his idea. He was convinced it would work. It did. We made enough from the music quiz nights and then we used that to start up the cinema nights at the village hall. That raked it in as well you see… and that’s how we’ve been funding the new play equipment.’
Moving on into the surrounding chatter, Marcia caught more stray words amidst the hubbub. ‘Oh yes he inspired us to get cracking, didn’t he?’ a vibrantly dressed older woman was saying to the colourfully attired group gathered round her. One of their number, dressed in emerald -green, raised a glass to Bob, whilst her eyes glinted with incipient tears. Marcia had hesitated for a moment, wanting to ask exactly what it was that Bob had inspired them to do, but feeling suddenly embarrassed that this seemed to be another part of Bob’s life she’d known nothing about. Fortunately, Marcia was granted another clue as she lingered for a moment in earshot.
‘And next year it will be “Yeoman of the Guard”, won’t it? How splendid,’ said a lady in bright blue.
‘Oh yes – for the air ambulance this time,’ the lady in green had replied.
Unremarked by Bob’s friends, Marcia moved on. No-one had seemed to notice her in her understated black skirt and checked jacket – but then she knew so few people here and she’d been almost hidden at the front with her back to everyone during the service. She wondered whether Bob had planned to tell her about some kind of operetta group he’d had a hand in on her next trip home. Then again, she’d never actually asked him much about what he got up to in her absence.
By this time, a group of more casually dressed mourners had interposed themselves between her and the bar. Again, they were clearly discussing Bob.
‘No, he was a decent type,’ said an older man.
‘So modest too,’ said a younger.
‘How did he have the time to keep hammering away at the council?’ chipped in another.
Again puzzled, Marcia listened carefully for clues. What was it Bob had done this time?
‘You must admit … The Fair Share store would never have got off the ground without him,’ someone else muttered as she stepped around their group and reached for another glass of red. What happened at this store, she pondered as she drank. Why were they all so grateful?
Uncertain of how to proceed, Marcia stood quietly by the bar. Before she could gather her thoughts, an elegantly dressed middle aged man had approached her, introduced himself and shaken her hand.
‘I’m Hector Matthews, your husband’s publisher. I’m sure Bob would have mentioned me to you. I wanted to offer my sincere condolences. Such a hard grafter and a keen instinct for a feel-good best seller.’ The man had hesitated then, waiting perhaps for her approbation and so she’d smiled at him and nodded, almost convincing herself that Bob had told her about some writing project and that he’d found a publisher for it. Now she would have to continue to try and find out more about what the book was about, without giving away her complete ignorance.
‘Did you get as far as a title?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh yes, that’s how I knew you. He’d sent a picture of the two of you for the back cover. Of course we don’t include family in any author photo. I’m just sorry Bob didn’t make it to see the launch next month. We’re calling it “The village that found happiness”. What do you think? He was quite an entrepreneur, your husband.’
After that, Marcia retreated, speaking briefly to Miles before leaving through a side door. She knew that Miles could be relied on to make her apologies and thank the guests for coming. Who else was there really to miss her as she slipped away? She needed time to think, away from the marauding crowd of Bob’s admirers. For the first time since she had heard the news that he was gone, she felt the full force of grief as she set off to walk the short distance back to their house which Bob had made a home. Mulling over what she had heard, she took the measure of the man and wondered if she had ever quite appreciated him for the generous, inventive, person he had been. She wondered now how she would ever be able to honour the village’s memory of him. But then again, she thought, the village did not need her help to remember him. Clearly, they all would. And yes, she did regret not having known about all the good he had initiated and the successes he had had, but then again, did that really matter in the end? They had been so happy just as they were, both together and separately. Once she’d unlocked the door, Marcia retrieved her phone and perched briefly on a hall seat to call her P.A. Marcia would be travelling out of the UK again by the end of the week, once Bob’s ashes had been scattered in the place they should be.
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