such an eyesore.'
'Maybe, maybe! Nevertheless, there's some as adds to the ugliness simply by tending the graves without real taste. Take that one next door to old Mrs Curdle now. I'm not mentioning names –'
Joan Young knew it was a relation of the Cooke family whose grave was under discussion, but let the old man continue.
' – but that woman has put five jam jars along her husband. Five jam jars, mark you, and everyone full of dead asters for month after month, not to mention stinking water. Now, there is an eyesore! With what she spends in cigarettes she could well afford a nice green vase like mine.'
At "The Two Pheasants" the debate went on night after night. Albert Piggott, with proprietorial rights, as it were, over the plot in question, found his opinion sought in the most flattering way, and very often a half-pint of beer put into his welcoming hand as well. He had not been so happy since his wife Nelly left him to share life with the oil man.
He adopted a heavily impartial attitude to the subject. He found he did better in the way of pourboires by seeing both sides of the question. He saw himself as a mixture of the-Man-on-the-Spot, Guardian-of-Sacred-Ground and One-Still-Longing-to-Work but regretfully laid low by Mr Pedder-Bennet's surgical knife.
'No one who ain't done it,' he maintained, 'can guess how back-breaking that ol' churchyard can be! If I 'ad my strength, I'd be out there now, digging, hoeing, mowing, pruning.'
'Ah! That you would, Piggy-boy,' said one old crone, and the others made appreciative noises of agreement, although every man-jack of them knew that Albert Piggott had skrim-shanked all his life, and that the churchyard had never been kept in such a slovenly fashion until it fell into his hands.
'Well, I call it desecration,' said the landlord, twirling a cloth inside a glass. 'Plain desecration! What, flatten all them mounds containing the bones of our forefathers? It's desecration, that's my opinion. Desecration!'
'I'm with you,' said a small man with a big tankard. 'And not only bones! Take a newish grave now, say, old Bob Bright's, for instance. Why, he hasn't even got to the bones stage! He must-'
Someone broke in.
'Them mounds don't have bones or anything else in 'em!'
'What are they then?'
'Earth, of course. What the coffins displaced. The body has to be a proper depth. That's right, ain't it, Albert?'
Albert drained his glass quickly and put it in a noticeable position on the counter.
'That's right. So many feet, it's all laid down proper, or there'd be trouble. And hard work it is too. Specially in this 'ere clay. But that's what them mounds are, as Tom 'ere says. Simply earth.'
'Another half, Albie?' queried Tom, gratified at being supported by authority.
'I could manage a pint,' said Albert swiftly.
'Right. A pint,'agreed Tom.
'I don't agree about the desecration,' said a large young man with a red and white bobble-hat. 'It's more of a desecration to see it full of weeds and beer cans, to my mind. I'm all for straightening it up. It's the living we've got to think of, not the dead.'
'That's sense!' said the small man who had feared more than bones in the mounds.
'Ah!' agreed Albert. 'It's the living what has to keep it tidy, and the living what passes by and has to look at it.'
He took a long swig at the freshly-drawn pint.
'I'm backing the rector,' said bobble-hat. 'He wouldn't do anything what wasn't right, and I reckon his idea's the best one.'
'A good man, Mr Henstock,' said Albert, wagging his head solemnly. 'Wants to do right by the dead and the living.'
'Well, he's not flattening my Auntie May without a struggle,' announced the landlord, still twirling the glass cloth madly.
'We all respect your feelings,' said bobble-hat, 'but they're misplaced, mate.'
Albert put his empty glass on the counter. It rang hollowly.
'You gotter a thoughtful mind,' he said to bobble-hat, with a slight hiccup. 'A thoughtful mind what thinks. I can see that. I'm a
'Maybe, maybe! Nevertheless, there's some as adds to the ugliness simply by tending the graves without real taste. Take that one next door to old Mrs Curdle now. I'm not mentioning names –'
Joan Young knew it was a relation of the Cooke family whose grave was under discussion, but let the old man continue.
' – but that woman has put five jam jars along her husband. Five jam jars, mark you, and everyone full of dead asters for month after month, not to mention stinking water. Now, there is an eyesore! With what she spends in cigarettes she could well afford a nice green vase like mine.'
At "The Two Pheasants" the debate went on night after night. Albert Piggott, with proprietorial rights, as it were, over the plot in question, found his opinion sought in the most flattering way, and very often a half-pint of beer put into his welcoming hand as well. He had not been so happy since his wife Nelly left him to share life with the oil man.
He adopted a heavily impartial attitude to the subject. He found he did better in the way of pourboires by seeing both sides of the question. He saw himself as a mixture of the-Man-on-the-Spot, Guardian-of-Sacred-Ground and One-Still-Longing-to-Work but regretfully laid low by Mr Pedder-Bennet's surgical knife.
'No one who ain't done it,' he maintained, 'can guess how back-breaking that ol' churchyard can be! If I 'ad my strength, I'd be out there now, digging, hoeing, mowing, pruning.'
'Ah! That you would, Piggy-boy,' said one old crone, and the others made appreciative noises of agreement, although every man-jack of them knew that Albert Piggott had skrim-shanked all his life, and that the churchyard had never been kept in such a slovenly fashion until it fell into his hands.
'Well, I call it desecration,' said the landlord, twirling a cloth inside a glass. 'Plain desecration! What, flatten all them mounds containing the bones of our forefathers? It's desecration, that's my opinion. Desecration!'
'I'm with you,' said a small man with a big tankard. 'And not only bones! Take a newish grave now, say, old Bob Bright's, for instance. Why, he hasn't even got to the bones stage! He must-'
Someone broke in.
'Them mounds don't have bones or anything else in 'em!'
'What are they then?'
'Earth, of course. What the coffins displaced. The body has to be a proper depth. That's right, ain't it, Albert?'
Albert drained his glass quickly and put it in a noticeable position on the counter.
'That's right. So many feet, it's all laid down proper, or there'd be trouble. And hard work it is too. Specially in this 'ere clay. But that's what them mounds are, as Tom 'ere says. Simply earth.'
'Another half, Albie?' queried Tom, gratified at being supported by authority.
'I could manage a pint,' said Albert swiftly.
'Right. A pint,'agreed Tom.
'I don't agree about the desecration,' said a large young man with a red and white bobble-hat. 'It's more of a desecration to see it full of weeds and beer cans, to my mind. I'm all for straightening it up. It's the living we've got to think of, not the dead.'
'That's sense!' said the small man who had feared more than bones in the mounds.
'Ah!' agreed Albert. 'It's the living what has to keep it tidy, and the living what passes by and has to look at it.'
He took a long swig at the freshly-drawn pint.
'I'm backing the rector,' said bobble-hat. 'He wouldn't do anything what wasn't right, and I reckon his idea's the best one.'
'A good man, Mr Henstock,' said Albert, wagging his head solemnly. 'Wants to do right by the dead and the living.'
'Well, he's not flattening my Auntie May without a struggle,' announced the landlord, still twirling the glass cloth madly.
'We all respect your feelings,' said bobble-hat, 'but they're misplaced, mate.'
Albert put his empty glass on the counter. It rang hollowly.
'You gotter a thoughtful mind,' he said to bobble-hat, with a slight hiccup. 'A thoughtful mind what thinks. I can see that. I'm a
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