The Difference a Day Makes by Carole Matthews Page B

we’d still been living in Notting Hill and had suffered this tragedy, then I’m sure that they would have been the first to come around. But in Yorkshire we’re now out of sight and out of mind. Not even Maya is coming. She says that her new employer won’t give her the day off. Old friendships clearly count for nothing when there’s a long stretch of motorway in between. My sister tried to convince me to bury Will in London, but I know that this is where he’d want to be. We’ve been here for such a short time, but I know that he’d want his soul to settle here.
    Our friends and colleagues have all sent floral tributes to assuage their consciences. I feel like throwing them on the fire. How could they do this to Will? Did my husband mean so little to them? What a meagre party we’ll make for Will’s send-off. How can someone who has been so popular in life be so neglected at his death? The people that we cared for have turned out to be nothing more than fair-weather friends. It’s at times like this when you find out who your true pals really are.
    Hamish howls some more. I give up the search for my phone. ‘Let’s go. Are the children ready?’
    Serena nods. ‘They’re being very brave.’ More than I am. I feel like lying down on the floor and never getting up again. My sister shouts to the children and they come into the kitchen.
    I bend down and hug them. Jessica is crying silently. ‘I love you both very much,’ I tell them. ‘Daddy would be so proud of you.’
    Then I take their hands - for once Tom doesn’t object - and we go out to the funeral car.

Chapter Twenty-Five
     
     
     
    I ’ve wanted to come to this lovely little church since we arrived in the village; I just didn’t imagine it being in these circumstances. The day is incongruously bright and warm. In the churchyard the trees are hanging onto the last of their autumn coats, their few remaining leaves tinged with gold and raspberry, the rest of them forming a colourful carpet in the churchyard. Will would have loved a day like this. He’d have taken the children by the hand and kicked through the leaves with them, shouting happily. I blank out the image.
    We follow the coffin into the church and I find it hard to believe that my husband is lying in there. I keep having to say it over and over to myself - he’s gone and he’s not coming back . I squeeze the children’s hands and they look up at me with tearful eyes.
    The church has been decked with white lilies and the scent is beautiful. But that’s not what takes my breath away. Inside, the pews are filled with people from the village, people that I’ve barely glanced at over the last few months.Yet they’ve all turned out to say goodbye to Will. I’m touched that they’ve taken the time to find space in their busy lives to be here when our friends could not.
    We walk down the aisle, our sad little procession, and the sun streams through the stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopes of rainbow colour across the floor.This is very beautiful in its own poignant way.
    The vicar comes to the front of the altar and the undertaker’s bearers place the coffin on its stand. I don’t know the vicar, but he called on me yesterday and discussed what I’d like him to say, what readings, what hymns. How could I tell him that I couldn’t care less? Now he starts to speak and a respectful hush falls on the congregation. ‘We’re gathered here in the sight of God,’ he says solemnly,‘to celebrate the life of William Ashurst . . .’
    I feel my legs start to shake. How will I be able to get through this?
    Then, all of a sudden, behind us there’s a terrible howling noise. I turn in terror. The shout is out of my throat before I have time to consider where I am or what the occasion is. ‘Hamish! No!’
    Through the church doors, the dog charges. I dread to think how he’s got out of the house, but he has. He barrels down the aisle, knocking us all out of the way and showering