A Rather English Marriage Read Free

trouble you any longer.’ He nodded and smiled at her, took the photocopied list which she extended towards him across the desk, and left the office.
    Reggie was on the telephone. ‘I’m going to spell that for you,’ he said, with his habitual mixture of pride and exasperating slowness. ‘No, not CUN: it’s C-O-N-Y-N-G-H-A-M-E and then the hyphen and then pronounced Jarvis but spelt J-E-R-V-I-S. Old family name and all that. Read it back to me, would you, there’s a clever girl, so I can make sure you’ve got it right?’
    He nodded, tightening his lips at each letter as she read them out…
    â€˜
I
don’t know how it’s supposed to be worded!’ he expostulated, frowning into the telephone. ‘Not allowed to say “died”, eh? Thought that’s what Deaths columns were all about. Never done one of these things before. Mary took care of all that kind of nonsense. Conynghame-Jervis, Marigold - no, she’d tell me off - better make it: Mary, wife of Reginald, and then the date, I suppose …
    â€˜
Where
she died? What difference does that make? Oh all right … Flowers? Well of course people will send flowers. Look here, I’m not paying your chaps any more money. Just the name and date and place, d’you hear? Oh, and where the funeral will be. People will want to come and pay their last respects. Put King Charles the Martyr. It’s very well known in Tunbridge Wells. They’ll find it…
    â€˜
My
address? It’s not
me
that’s died … The bill? Ah yes, of course; got to make sure you collect your baksheesh.’
    The young woman in the classified advertising department of the
Daily Telegraph
was patient. Deaths were always the worst. Either people broke down in floods of tears and told her what a marvellous man he’d been and how much everyone had loved him; or she got this disoriented, unfocused anger. Slowly, she repeated the address back to the poor old fogey, thinking, Fancy still calling himself Squadron Leader! The war’s been over for fifty years or whatever.
    â€˜The Cedars, Nevill Park, Tunbridge Wells, Kent. Yes, I’ve got that, Squadron Leader, thank you. And you don’t want “dearly loved” wife or anything? Very well. Please accept my condolences.’
    A few days later, Roy Southgate slipped into the church of King Charles the Martyr and chose a seat in the upper gallery where he would be unseen but could look down on the congregation. From that high vantage point he saw that the grey and white marble tiles on the floor of the old church were exactly like the vinyl tiles on the floor of the hospital ward; and this piercing memory — for every detail of Grace’s last surroundings stung cruelly - made his eyes fill with tears. He creaked to his knees and bent his forehead on to his knuckles. ‘Look after my dear wife Grace, and this woman, Mary,’ he prayed, adding ‘Of thine everlasting goodness, Amen.’
    The church was not crowded. There were barely enough people to fill the first two pews at the front of the church. Above their heads the magnificent plasterwork ceiling was a riot of curving, scrolling tracery. Fruit and flowers, angels and cherubs cavorted joyously around its deep inlaid ovals, like dolphins in a brilliant sea. Above that, from the octagonal tower, the church bell tolled its monotonous single note. At eleven o’clock the coffin entered, borne upon the shoulders of four pall-bearers, followed by the vicar in a white surplice, behind him the minimum complement of the choir, and behind them, straight-backed, eyes fixed rigidly ahead, expressionless, the Squadron Leader. The organ had switched to ‘Fight the Good Fight’. The choir sang, the congregation quavering in its wake.
    â€˜Let us pray,’ said the vicar, and with a soft rustle the people in the front pews sat down.
    Roy Southgate sank unseen to his knees, letting the