Penny

Chapter 1

Rain fell down hard from the dark grey sky. The day was gloomy and oppressive. An elderly man and young woman stood sheltering from the rain under an old arch bridge. Her head was bowed, her face tearful. He was wearing a dark suit, a white rose in one of the buttonholes of his jacket. Waving a pointed finger, he was gently scolding her.

"Stop being so hard on him! It's not his fault!" he said.

Abigail nodded, crying, but happy. Thankful. He was with her. Talking to her! She looked up at his kind old face, his warm hazel eyes. She lunged forward, intending to embrace him tightly. But, before she reached him, she woke up. Through tear-filled eyes she could see she was holding the Victorian porcelain doll he had given her. Its red silk dress was stained with her tears.

Patrick looked around slowly, solemnly. The church was almost empty. He quickly counted, there were only twenty people in attendance. Make that twenty-one, an elderly lady entered and was now slowly making her way to the back pew. The people seated were scattered around the room. Some on their own, a few in small groups. Most were elderly men and women. So few, Patrick thought. At the front pew sat Mr and Mrs Clarence, a handsome couple in their early 40's, and young Abigail, a teenager, maybe 15 or 16.

The elderly woman seemed settled in her seat now. Patrick began, "Thank you everyone for coming here this morning. I realise this being a weekday some of you will have had work commitments you had to break, or travelled long distances to come here, and to you I offer especial thanks."

As he spoke, Patrick could have kicked himself. It was obvious that most people here were pensioners, and most of these were local parishioners he recognised. He was a young priest but demanded better of himself. He continued, "James Clarence was a good man, ..."

A modest brown coffin rested on aluminium A-frame stands before Patrick. There were three bouquets of flowers laid on top of the coffin. Abigail looked at the priest, watching him eulogise nervously, but could not register his words. Her mind was flooded with images of the small man lying lifeless in that box by her side. Her mind was awash with feelings of loss, with guilt, with confusion. She was mentally exhausted and yet her mind was racing. She had been crying for the past five days. Not loud wailing, but in sudden outpourings of quiet sobbing on what had been an emotionless face moments before. This would happen with no warning. Sometimes thirty minutes would elapse and then suddenly tears flooded from her eyes apparently of their own accord. Another five, ten, twenty or thirty minutes would elapse and then the same would happen again. Now, as she sat on this hard wooden pew, her face was blank, numb. Her eyes appeared bloodshot through almost a week of little sleep and frequent crying.

Theresa, seated to Abigail's right, placed a comforting arm around Abigail. She wept softly, but her tears were for the loss she saw in Abigail. It pained her to see her like this. She was so young and had never known grief like this.

Suddenly, Theresa felt the minutest vibration on her right arm. She sensed her husband silently putting his hand into his breast pocket. In her peripheral vision she caught the aqua glow of his mobile phone display indicating an incoming text message.

Philip kept up the pretence of paying attention to the priest's words, keeping his eyes on the young man, but all the while adeptly opening the message he'd just received on his phone. He inconspicuously glanced at Theresa and Abigail. They were both looking at the priest. Just when the priest turned his gaze to the meagre congregation at the other side of the church, Philip stole a glance at the phone masked in his hands below the elbow rest of the pew. The text read,

Message from Manchester office, Fri 10:50am 17/11/2000

Good! Philip thought, looking back up at the priest. They must have landed!

The priest looked down at some notes in his trembling hand. Philip saw the opportunity for a second glance at the message.

Phil, you said to let you know - John and George from Fenermans on way here from airport. Should be in office for 2pm meeting as planned. Stacy

Forgetting where he was for the briefest of moments, Philip stared at the message as the glow blinked off, and he gave the slightest of self-satisfied nods. He felt a sharp nudge on his left arm. Looking to his left, Theresa was calmly looking forward, but he knew now she had seen him and was angry. Then he saw Abigail, looking directly at him, her eyes full of hate and disgust. He had only met her eyes for a fraction of a second but it was enough for him to understand the look she was casting him. Like a sharply scolded schoolboy, Philip returned his eyes front, and as meekly as he had retrieved it, slipped his phone back into his breast pocket.

Organ music rang out. The ageing and sparse congregation got to their feet and began a disjointed rendition of the hymn Amazing Grace. With the overpowering volume of the organ music, and some people with defective hearing aids in the hall, this beautiful hymn now sounded weak and unmelodious. Abigail tried her best to sing out, but her voice trembled badly under the weight of her sorrow.

Theresa sang out sweetly, but quietly. She held Abigail closely to her as she caught sight of the undertakers reverently approach the altar, bow, and take their positions around the coffin.

Philip watched on dispassionately as his father's coffin was held aloft, and settled on the shoulders of the sombre team of men. Looks like there's not much weight in the old man, Philip thought. He looked down at the order of service in his hand, passing the time until the hymnal cacophony would cease. He flicked through the small pamphlet. Abigail had done a good job, he thought. A couple of spelling mistakes, but she'd taken it bad this week. Really bad come to think of it. He turned to the back of the pamphlet and stared at the picture of the old man, his father, resting on his deck chair surrounded by a multitude of different coloured flowers. A flicker of a smile crossed Philip's face. The old man never did stop loving his garden, he thought. Philip thought back to when he was a little boy, playing with his little sister and his parents in that garden. Quite suddenly, Philip looked up, straight ahead, the order of service now hanging limply by his side. Drifting into one of those sleepy trances that sometimes happen to one during the day, he found himself imagining himself saying goodbye to his dad. It made him feel sad, regretful. He felt a gentle nudge, the girls were leaving the pew.

Theresa supported Abigail who was clearly inconsolable. Philip turned to follow them. Something white at his feet caught his eye. It was the order of service he'd been holding. Curious, he thought, he hadn't felt it slip out of his hand. He picked it up and followed Theresa, Abigail and the coffin out of the church.