“They are, a bit,” Jack admitted.
“Why don’t you have socks on?” inquired Will.
“And why are you wearing shorts?” Rob added.
“Because it’s hot where I come from,” said Jack. “My warm clothes are at the bottom of my pack and I didn’t have time to fish them out.” He looked apologetically at the vicar. “Sorry for buggering up the ceremony, Mr. Bunting. I’d’ve been here sooner, but my plane was late getting into Heathrow and it took for-bloody-ever to rent a halfway decent car and traffic was a bloody nightmare because half the bloody roads were flooded and—”
“Apology accepted,” the vicar broke in, with a sidelong glance at the children. Will and Rob were gazing up at Jack with stars in their eyes. Bloody wasn’t a word they heard often, especially in a churchyard. To hear a grown-up use it three times in one sentence at a funeral was an undreamt-of treat. I exchanged looks with Bill and silently added a refresher course in appropriate language to the day’s schedule.
“Mrs. Bunting and I are hosting an informal gathering in the schoolhouse in remembrance of your late uncle,” the vicar continued. “We would be honored if you would join us, Jack.”
“There’s cake,” Will piped up.
“And hot chocolate,” Rob said, staring at Jack’s pink toes.
“Gallons of hot chocolate,” Will confirmed.
“Sounds like a proper feast,” said Jack, grinning at the boys. “Lead the way, mates!”
Will and Rob grabbed Jack’s outstretched hands and bounced along on either side of him, talking a mile a minute. As if on cue, the villagers flowed through the lych-gate and up the cobbled lane toward the old schoolhouse, which served as Finch’s village hall. The Buntings, Bill, and I followed at a more sedate pace while Mr. Barlow and Bree stayed behind to fill in the grave.
“Did you know he was coming?” I asked Lilian.
“I didn’t know he existed,” Lilian replied.
“Mr. Huggins’s family wasn’t mentioned in the letter I received from the solicitor,” said the vicar.
“Maybe Mr. Huggins didn’t mention his family to his solicitor,” I said.
“It seems an odd sort of thing to keep from one’s legal adviser,” said the vicar.
“Mr. Huggins was an odd man,” said Lilian. “May he rest in peace.”
“Amen,” said the vicar.
“There have been rumors floating around,” I said thoughtfully, “about relatives living overseas. If Jack MacBride is Hector Huggins’s nephew and if he’s as Australian as he sounds, he’d count as an overseas relative.”
“I suspect our questions will be answered before too long,” said Bill. “Young Jack doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to be interrogated by the entire village.”
Whether consciously or unconsciously, our foursome picked up its pace. I wasn’t sure about the others, but I wanted to be on hand to hear my neighbors give young Jack the third degree.
? ? ?
The schoolhouse was blessedly warm and dry after the churchyard. We stashed our rain gear in the cloakroom and hurried into the schoolroom to help ourselves to steaming cups of tea. A coterie of influential women usually supervised the tea urn, so I was surprised to find a group of men lounging near it. Henry Cook, Dick Peacock, Jasper Taxman, and Grant Tavistock watched patiently while their significant others piled food on Jack MacBride’s already crowded plate.
“Can’t blame them, really,” Henry said philosophically. “He’s a good-looking lad.”
“The accent helps, of course,” said Grant. “Charles has always had a soft spot for Aussies.”
“Peggy can’t abide Australians,” said Jasper. “She thinks they’re loud and vulgar.”
“It looks as though Jack’s changed her mind,” Dick observed.
“He hasn’t,” said Jasper, shaking his head. “She just doesn’t want Sally’s cake to outshine hers.”
“She’s fighting a losing battle there,” Henry asserted. “My Sally is the best baker in the county.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Jasper said morosely. “But you’ll definitely get one from my wife.”
“Perhaps there’ll be a food fight,” Dick said hopefully, and his companions perked up.
Potluck meals were competitive events in Finch, and since my neighbors had expected the schoolhouse gathering to be the highlight of Mr. Huggins’s funeral, they’d gone all out to show off their culinary skills. The trestle tables along the walls trembled beneath the weight of savory casseroles, sausage rolls, quiches, and sandwiches, while the tables on the dais held a cornucopia of cookies as well as a truly magnificent parade of cakes. My own contribution, a modest seed cake, paled by comparison with the Dundee, Eccles, Madeira, and coconut cakes surrounding it. Devil’s food cake, I’d learned through hard experience, was regarded as unsuitable fare at a funeral luncheon.