I get a funny look from a teenage boy on an electric scooter and realise I’ve spoken out loud. So I reach down, give Olly a bit of a fuss, pretend I was talking to him. I’m not thinking too much about where I’m going and before I know it, I’m at the church. We came here every Sunday when I was a child, always dressed in our best. I remember feeling itchy and uncomfortable, my hair pulled into tight pigtails and scratchy tights underneath my stiff dress. The vicar was a family friend; he’d come round for tea and biscuits sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon.
And Arthur and I were married here, of course, not by that same vicar, who was retired by then, but by his successor. I have no idea who the vicar is now. Haven’t stepped through that stone archway for many years. Today, it feels right. I tie Olly’s lead to a railing and tell him I won’t be long, and then I step into the cool, calm building, find a pew to sit down on.
I close my eyes and the next thing I know, there’s someone beside me. A man of about fifty, with a sizeable paunch and kind eyes. I’m startled at first but he puts a calming hand on my arm.
‘Are you here to speak quietly with God, or would you like some companionship?’
That pulls me up short. Did I come in here to speak to God? Or just for the peace of the place?
‘I was married here,’ I say.
He nods, as if he knows.
‘It was spring of 1961, showers on and off all day. But in between, brilliant sunshine. There was a wonderful rainbow.’
‘A bit like marriage, then,’ he says.
And he’s right, but I’ve never thought of it like that.
‘He’s gone, now,’ I say.
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes. Arthur.’
‘Not Arthur Beaumont?’
I turn in my seat. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. And you must be Mabel. He spoke of you so fondly.’
I don’t know what to say because I thought I knew everything about Arthur and his routines, but I didn’t know that he came here, that he knew this man.
‘Did he come to church often?’
‘Oh yes, at least once a week. Never for a service, though. He’d just come in when he was out walking the dog and sit here in quiet contemplation, much like you were doing until I interrupted you.’
I remember Arthur saying that God wasn’t in churches, that that wasn’t where you found him. God was in the flowers and the snow, the tiny robins in the garden and those tigers we’d see prowling around on David Attenborough documentaries.
‘I didn’t know,’ I say. And then, I screw up my courage and ask something else. ‘Did he ever mention a woman called Dot?’
He frowns, and I realise it sounds like I think he was having an affair.
‘She was an old friend,’ I say. ‘Of mine and his. I found a note he wrote and I’m trying to work out what it means.’
‘I don’t remember him ever saying anything about a Dot,’ he says, his brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Unless, was she the one who was going to marry his friend Bill?’
‘Yes,’ I say, and the volume of my voice startles him. ‘Yes. Bill was my brother. Dot was my friend.’
‘He spoke of the four of you, how happy you all were.’
‘Anything else?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s… it’s all right.’
He puts one hand up to his head and rubs at his thinning hair. ‘People are such mysteries,’ he says. ‘You really never know someone wholly.’
And here I was, thinking I did.
6
I’ve been worried about arriving on my own, about doing it on my own. So much so that I’ve forgotten to prepare for the enormity of it, the emotions. It hits me so hard as we approach the church in the funeral car that I’m surprised I make it out without falling. My legs are like marshmallows. I must be frighteningly pale because a tall man rushes over and puts a solid arm around me and I think it’s one of Arthur’s cousins but I’m not sure which one because they all look the same. He smells a bit like Arthur, too, like coffee and shaving foam, and I know, then, that this will be one of the hardest days. Of course it will. Up there with us finding Bill, with the losses of Mother and Dad, and Dot. So many people I loved have gone. My little corner of the world is emptying out. I have to wonder why I’m still here.
‘Are you all right, Mabel?’ the cousin asks, and I cast around for his name but there’s nothing.
‘Yes, I think so.’
The vicar comes out, then, and makes a beeline for me. Steers me inside and to the front row.
‘This is where Arthur’s beloved should be. Is there anything you need to tell me, Mabel, before we start? Have you decided whether or not you’d like to speak?’
‘I will,’ I say. And I catch myself, turning to the side for Arthur’s approval. Old habits.
Throughout the service, I feel like there’s a moth caught in my ears, flapping wildly. I don’t hear a word. So when it’s time for me to go up, someone in the row behind has to touch my shoulder, and then the moth falls silent as I walk up to the lectern and all I can hear is the click clack of my low heels.
‘Thank you for coming today,’ I start, and my voice squeaks. I stop, clear my throat. ‘Arthur would have loved to see you all.’ I almost go, then, thinking about the way his face would have broken out into a big grin at the sight of everyone gathered here, and how sad and pointless it is that they’re here now, after he’s gone, and we’ll all say nice things about him, but wouldn’t it have been better if we’d said them to his face? Why do we wait until people are dead to talk about how we felt? The vicar walks over and touches my hand with his slightly damp one, and it grounds me. He leans in, whispers, ‘Remember you don’t have to do this.’
I nod. I know he means well, but I do have to do this. It’s probably the last important thing I’ll do. I can pull it together. I can. I blink away tears and give the inside of my arm a sharp pinch. I haven’t written anything down. Wasn’t even sure I knew what I was going to say. But now I do.
‘We’ve all got our own memories, and I’m sure you’ll tell me some stories later that I haven’t heard. So here’s one for all of you, from me. Sixty-four years ago, on a cold and calm March day, we said goodbye to my brother Bill, right here in this church. I don’t think anyone here knew Bill, but he was twenty-five, and he was a wonderful brother and man, and his death was unexpected and sudden and cruel. That day, I didn’t know how I was going to get through. But Arthur, who was my brother’s best friend, stood beside me in the pew and put a steady hand on my arm, and somehow that helped me to carry on breathing. And afterwards, when we were standing by his grave and watching him being lowered into the ground, Arthur took hold of my hand and didn’t let it go until it was all over.
‘I was drowning in grief, and he saved me. For the next few months, he called into the house to ask after me and my parents, and he asked me to go to dances, though it was a long time before I could face that. He took me to the cinema and let me cry silently in the darkness, always with that steady hand on my arm. And it felt like I blinked and it was winter. I’d lost months to that grieving, only leaving the house to go to work. And one day in November I told Arthur I was feeling a bit brighter, a bit more able to cope, and he said he was pleased. The following day, he took me to a dance and he asked me to marry him, and I knew I wouldn’t find a kinder or more generous man to spend my life with.