trapped inside the window, was buzzing and bouncing against the pane.
‘Don’t cry, my darlings!’ Mary stretched her good arm around them as they blubbed out the news. ‘Please don’t cry. He had to die some time. And it was a wonderful way to die.’
Amos spared no expense on the funeral and ordered a brass-bound coffin from Lloyd’s of Presteigne.
The hearse was drawn by a pair of glistening black horses and, on all four corners of the roof, there were black urns full of yellow roses. The mourners walked behind, picking their steps through the puddles and cart-ruts. Mary wore a collar of jet droplets that she had inherited from an aunt.
Mr Earnshaw had sent a wreath of arums to lay on the lid of the coffin. But when the pall-bearers set it down in the chancel, there were mounds of other wreaths to heap around it.
Most of these were sent by people who were strangers to Mary, but who certainly knew Old Sam. She hardly recognized a soul. She looked round the church, wondering who, in Heaven’s name, were all those old biddies snivelling into their handkerchiefs. Surely, she thought, he can’t have had that many flames?
Amos stood Rebecca on the pew so she could see what was going on.
‘“Death be not proud …”’ The new vicar began his address; and though the words were beautiful, though the vicar’s voice was resonant and pleasant, Mary’s mind kept wandering to the two boys sitting beside her.
How tall they’d grown! They’ll soon have to shave, she thought. But how thin and tired they were! How tiring it was to come home from school, and then be put to work on the farm! And how awkward they looked in those threadbare suits! If only she had money, she’d buy them nice new suits! And boots! It was so unfair to make them go about in boots two sizes too small! Unfair, too, not to let them go again to the seaside! They’d been so well and happy last summer. And there now, Benjamin coughing again! She must knit him another muffler for the winter, but where would she get the wool?
‘“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”’ The clods thumped on to the coffin-lid. She handed the sexton a sovereign and walked away with Amos to the lych-gate, where they stood and bade farewell to the mourners.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘Thank you … No. He died quite peacefully … It was a mercy … Yes, Mrs Williams, the Lord be praised! No. We shan’t be coming this year. So much to do …’ – nodding, sighing, smiling, and shaking hands with all these kind commiserating people, one after the other till her fingers ached.
And afterwards, at home, when she had taken out her hatpins and her hat lay like a slug on the kitchen table, she turned to Amos with a look of heartfelt longing, but he turned his back and sneered, ‘I suppose you never had a father of your own.’
17
THAT OCTOBER, A new visitor made his appearance at The Vision.
Mr Owen Gomer Davies was a Congregational Minister who had recently removed from Bala to Rhulen and had taken charge of the Chapel at Maesyfelin. He lived with his sister, at Number 3, Jubilee Terrace, and had a bird-bath in his garden, and a yucca.
He was a bulky man, with unpleasantly white skin, a roll of fat round his collar, and facial features set in the form of a Greek cross. His sharp mouth grew even sharper if he happened to smile. His handshake was frigid, and he had a melodious singing voice.
One of his first acts, on coming into the county, had been to quarrel with Tom Watkins over the price of a coffin. That alone was enough to recommend him to Amos – though to Mary he was a grotesque.
His views on the Bible were childlike. The doctrine of Transubstantiation was far too abstruse for his literal mind; and from the sanctimonious gesture with which he dropped a saccharin tablet into his teacup, she suspected him of a weakness for sticky cakes.
One teatime, he solemnly set his fists on the table and announced that Hell was ‘hotter than Egylypt or
‘Don’t cry, my darlings!’ Mary stretched her good arm around them as they blubbed out the news. ‘Please don’t cry. He had to die some time. And it was a wonderful way to die.’
Amos spared no expense on the funeral and ordered a brass-bound coffin from Lloyd’s of Presteigne.
The hearse was drawn by a pair of glistening black horses and, on all four corners of the roof, there were black urns full of yellow roses. The mourners walked behind, picking their steps through the puddles and cart-ruts. Mary wore a collar of jet droplets that she had inherited from an aunt.
Mr Earnshaw had sent a wreath of arums to lay on the lid of the coffin. But when the pall-bearers set it down in the chancel, there were mounds of other wreaths to heap around it.
Most of these were sent by people who were strangers to Mary, but who certainly knew Old Sam. She hardly recognized a soul. She looked round the church, wondering who, in Heaven’s name, were all those old biddies snivelling into their handkerchiefs. Surely, she thought, he can’t have had that many flames?
Amos stood Rebecca on the pew so she could see what was going on.
‘“Death be not proud …”’ The new vicar began his address; and though the words were beautiful, though the vicar’s voice was resonant and pleasant, Mary’s mind kept wandering to the two boys sitting beside her.
How tall they’d grown! They’ll soon have to shave, she thought. But how thin and tired they were! How tiring it was to come home from school, and then be put to work on the farm! And how awkward they looked in those threadbare suits! If only she had money, she’d buy them nice new suits! And boots! It was so unfair to make them go about in boots two sizes too small! Unfair, too, not to let them go again to the seaside! They’d been so well and happy last summer. And there now, Benjamin coughing again! She must knit him another muffler for the winter, but where would she get the wool?
‘“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”’ The clods thumped on to the coffin-lid. She handed the sexton a sovereign and walked away with Amos to the lych-gate, where they stood and bade farewell to the mourners.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘Thank you … No. He died quite peacefully … It was a mercy … Yes, Mrs Williams, the Lord be praised! No. We shan’t be coming this year. So much to do …’ – nodding, sighing, smiling, and shaking hands with all these kind commiserating people, one after the other till her fingers ached.
And afterwards, at home, when she had taken out her hatpins and her hat lay like a slug on the kitchen table, she turned to Amos with a look of heartfelt longing, but he turned his back and sneered, ‘I suppose you never had a father of your own.’
17
THAT OCTOBER, A new visitor made his appearance at The Vision.
Mr Owen Gomer Davies was a Congregational Minister who had recently removed from Bala to Rhulen and had taken charge of the Chapel at Maesyfelin. He lived with his sister, at Number 3, Jubilee Terrace, and had a bird-bath in his garden, and a yucca.
He was a bulky man, with unpleasantly white skin, a roll of fat round his collar, and facial features set in the form of a Greek cross. His sharp mouth grew even sharper if he happened to smile. His handshake was frigid, and he had a melodious singing voice.
One of his first acts, on coming into the county, had been to quarrel with Tom Watkins over the price of a coffin. That alone was enough to recommend him to Amos – though to Mary he was a grotesque.
His views on the Bible were childlike. The doctrine of Transubstantiation was far too abstruse for his literal mind; and from the sanctimonious gesture with which he dropped a saccharin tablet into his teacup, she suspected him of a weakness for sticky cakes.
One teatime, he solemnly set his fists on the table and announced that Hell was ‘hotter than Egylypt or
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