Persephone had taken upon herself the task of organising what they were calling not a funeral, but a celebration of Ned, Ned and his multi-faceted, brilliant, and often rather difficult life. She had called upon a diffident, sorrowful Jillie to help her. ‘If I need it, darling, that is. It will be lovely to know you’re there, and he did love you so – sometimes, I think, more than anyone. Even more than me,’ she added, her great dark eyes spilling over with the ever-present tears.
Jillie, touched beyond anything, took upon herself the immediate task of compiling a list of possible attendants.
‘I got to know so many of his friends and colleagues when we – we . . .’ Her voice shook. ‘I think that would be the most helpful thing I could do. And – it’s going to be a long list,’ she added, with a twisty, difficult smile.
They agreed the ceremony should be held in a church. ‘I know he didn’t quite believe,’ said Persephone, ‘any more than I do, but he loved church architecture and church music, and nothing can begin to uplift you like a stained-glass window, with the sun streaming through. I shall pray for sunshine,’ she added. ‘And if it works, we shall know, perhaps, that we were wrong, and there is a God. And then we will know that Ned is there, somewhere, approving of what we are doing. Or disapproving. Oh, dear, he was often quite critical of services he went to, funerals and weddings – we must get it right for him, Jillie.’
‘We will,’ said Jillie. ‘Now, one thing I did think. His campaign was the children in hospital, so I think we should make a bit of a thing of that. He would have loved it. I’m sure Uncle William will talk. He was so impressed with it all.’
‘Wonderful’ said Persephone.
They chose St Mark’s Chelsea, it being his local parish church. ‘And, more important, the vicar, Christian Greenfell, has a beautiful voice,’ said Persephone. ‘Some of them these days are – well – not quite what you’d expect. And a perfect name – I mean, you’d more or less have to go into the Church being called Christian.’
Diana offered her house as a venue for afterwards, but agreed, as the list grew, it was simply not big enough.
‘Number five is, but it’s too far for everyone to go,’ said Jillie. ‘And we don’t want to go to a hotel.’
‘The Hurlingham,’ Diana said, when Persephone invited her opinion over tea one day. ‘It’s a lovely house, the grounds are gorgeous, and it’s on the river. Ned would approve,’ she added firmly. ‘So important.’
Persephone gave her a kiss and said she and Jillie had both been worrying about Ned’s approval of everything.
‘So silly,’ she said, ‘when we know he can’t approve or disapprove of anything any more.’
‘We may know it,’ said Diana, ‘but that’s different from feeling it.’ Her voice stumbled. ‘Oh, dear. Here I go again. I’ve cried so much I’m totally parched.’
She had postponed her sojourn in the States until after the funeral.
‘If it loses me the contract, I honestly don’t care. And I want to bring Jamie. He adored Ned.’
Diana also organised the flowers: she had spent much of the past few years watching florists building displays for photographic sessions, and knew the very best of them. ‘I know a marvellous girl, Harriet Jennings, she’s terribly imaginative, makes flowers look extra graceful, extra perfect, don’t ask me how. We can take her to the church, talk it all through with her. How lucky it’s June – oh, what a dreadful thing to have said. So sorry, Persephone.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Persephone, taking the proffered hanky. ‘He died, that’s unalterable, so much worse in November for all sorts of reasons.’
It was becoming real, this dreadful thing that none of them wanted, yet had to create. The music was chosen by a small committee, headed by Jillie, with Ludo Manners – perhaps Ned’s closest male friend, and immensely musically sophisticated – William Curtis and the vicar, Greenfell. He had offered a full choir, but William Curtis said he thought a smaller group would be better. ‘Maybe a dozen boys. We haven’t chosen any of the big anthems, we’re keeping this as an intimate tribute; he isn’t – wasn’t – some distant dignitary, and most of the people who come will have known him personally. And I think, Persephone, if you agree, a quartet or quintet to play the Mozart, a little unconventional perhaps, but again it would help capture the essential personality of the man.’
Persephone did agree; and also to Jillie’s faltering request that they might for the recessional have ‘Isn’t This a Lovely Day to be Caught in the Rain?’
‘I know it’s very unconventional, but he so loved all that kind of music, as well as the classical, and that was his favourite song of all. I think he’d like it, but not, of course, if you’d find it wrong.’
‘Not wrong at all. Very, very right,’ Persephone said.
The obituaries had been almost elegiac: The Times pronounced Ned, one of the most brilliant young surgeons of his generation, and the Telegraph, a visionary in the world of children’s medicine. The Sunday Times ran a short article, written by Josh, referring to his academic brilliance; his unfaltering courage in the war as commander of three torpedo ships, and his mention in dispatches; and then his skill as a distinguished paediatrician and a pioneer in the reform of pastoral care of children in hospital. The article was illustrated by a photograph of Ned in a hospital ward, looking absurdly handsome, holding a small blonde girl in his arms, her mother smiling beside them.
There had been a post-mortem and there would be an inquest, of course, but the coroner had released Ned’s body early. The night before the service, Jillie asked Persephone very gently if she would like to go and see him before the coffin was closed.
‘I would absolutely hate it, darling, thank you, not because I’m squeamish or anything, but because it won’t be him so what would be the point?’
They both wondered, even to one another, about the man Ned had found so recently, and loved so briefly. Would he come forward, would he declare himself to them, or would he just come quietly and anonymously to the service? They hoped he knew about it. ‘Of course, he’ll have seen the obituaries,’ Jillie said. ‘There’s no more we can do. Poor, poor man. Oh, it’s so sad . . .’
They woke to rain on the day of the funeral; Persephone phoned Jillie.
‘You see. No God. All those prayers . . .’