A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Jillie,’ her father whispered urgently. ‘Where is Josh? He should be here, we’ve held his seat.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking wildly round, wishing rather fervently that he was there, she didn’t know quite why. ‘He’s just – just not here.’

  ‘Odd. Very odd.’

  It was.

  And then, as the introit began from the organ loft, the glorious waterfall of Bach’s Fugue in G Minor, she turned back to the front, to the flowers and the altar; thereby missing the arrival of a young man with wild dark hair, dressed in a black linen jacket and palest grey linen trousers, who had come to say goodbye to Ned who he had known a little, introduced by Josh, and perhaps see Jillie, risking the agony of her being there with the man she had clearly chosen to spend the rest of her life with.

  Looking round helplessly for someone he knew, feeling dreadfully out of place, he saw Josh and, on the other side of the aisle, a wonderfully, gloriously familiar figure, her narrow coat in palest grey, with long straight brown hair, the sight of whom clutched at his heart and he stood, drinking her in for so long that a queue formed behind him, and one of the ushers came over and guided him very politely to a pew on the other side of the church, so that he could no longer see her. But it had been her, and the man beside her was most assuredly not The Man, for he was silver haired and far from thin. Comforted briefly, Julius settled to studying the order of service before wondering if The Man was sitting elsewhere. And then he read the order of service, delighted by the choice of music, the fact that Jillie was doing a reading, and especially the rather bold choice for the recessional.

  Looking more furtively now at the people coming in, Julius saw a very beautiful woman he recognised from the pages of Vogue. She wore brilliant blue silk, and a wide-brimmed darker blue hat; huge dark glasses half obscured her lovely face, and she was holding the hand of a boy, aged about eight, with dark hair and huge brown eyes, followed closely by a heavily built man, with dark greying hair and the unmistakably, well-weathered looks of someone who spent his life outdoors. They were clearly important, inner circle, for they were being ushered right forward, near to where Jillie sat, and thus out of his sight. Following the usher also, another clearly important pair, she prettily dressed, but not fashionably so, with curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes, and he tall, extremely good-looking, with very dark auburn hair and wearing a dark suit, a little tight for his broad shoulders, but otherwise immaculate, apart from a small but distinct white stain on his left shoulder and down his back. Wendelien Bellinger, who was sitting behind him, caught the unmistakable whiff of baby sick.

  Wendelien was sitting with the circle of friends that Ned had been part of from the very beginning – she and Ian, Ludo and Cecily, Michael Southcott and Betsey.

  And once, when they were very young, Johnathan had been one of them as had Diana; but he belonged no more, removed from them both physically and emotionally. Wendelien had been fond of Johnathan, indeed they had had a very brief, summer-long fling when he was still a stockbroker and she had not yet met and fallen in love with Ian. She hadn’t seen him at all since Jamie, who looked a nice boy, had been born. It was odd, seeing him with Diana: a study in incompatibility, she so showy and glamorous, he so introverted and – well, dull.

  The church was almost full now; a few anxious-faced latecomers crowding in at the back, no seats left. Goodness, Ned had had a lot of friends; although he had often seemed lonely, or at any rate solitary. She supposed the crowd was as much made up of people who admired him and felt they wanted to celebrate his life, as ordinary friends.

  There was a diversion then. One of the funeral directors bustled in, went up to Persephone and whispered in her ear; she looked startled, turned to Jillie for a whispered conference, then turned back to the man and nodded and smiled and he bustled out again.

  ‘How strange,’ was all she said to Jillie, who nodded, puzzled too.

  Almost still now, the congregation; everyone there. Scanning the latecomers, standing at the now-crowded back of the church, Wendelien suddenly saw a half-remembered face: who was it? She knew him, with his thick blonde hair, his rather heavy eyebrows: he saw her looking at him, and smiled – and she remembered, at once. They had been on the same table at a couple of charity dinners and she had found him rather charming. Leo Bennett. Why was he here? To bid farewell to Ned or to find Diana under cover of that? Had Diana seen him? Probably not; she did look genuinely and deeply upset, and Wendelien knew she was dreading her reading, afraid she would break down and not get through. Few people, Wendelien thought, would believe Diana capable of such frail emotion.

  Diana was indeed seldom fearful, but now, holding Jamie’s hand, waiting trembling with anticipation, as Christian Greenfell’s splendid voice rang through the suddenly silent church: ‘I am the way, the truth and the life …’ and the congregation stood, and the coffin, slowly and with infinite care, was borne down the aisle.

  She looked at the coffin, and thought of what it contained and tried and failed to believe it. Ned, beautiful, charming, brilliant Ned, who she had danced and laughed and talked with, who she had known for so long, who had loved her she truly believed in the end, although not as she would once have wished, but who had become one of her dearest, most best-beloved friends. How could this have happened, how could he have changed into something cold and still and silent, gone from her, from all of them? It wasn’t possible, it was a lie, a terrible, shocking, outrageous lie.

  But – it seemed the truth; for the coffin had been set down, bearing its crown of white roses and trailing ivy. Only two of the coffin bearers were known to her – Ludo Manners and her brother, Michael Southcott. But then, two strangers, not William Curtis who she had expected, and who had come hurriedly, and taken his place with the family, but one a heavily built bruiser of a man, in an ill-fitting jacket, his face fierce with suppressed grief and pride: Jack Mills, father of the cheeky clever Susan, who had cystic fibrosis. And the fourth, a slight, dark young man, ashen pale, his eyes fixed straight ahead. And then – then she saw his grief-ravaged face, set determinedly, looking at no one, only the man before him, and she knew. It was Josh. Josh, as she had never seen him, white, stricken, his arm supporting the coffin trembling, but strong.

  And at the same moment Jillie saw him, and in a huge, almost unbelievable moment of revelation, she understood it all, and stood there, staring, her eyes filled with tears of sympathy and love. How could they not have seen it, not understood; how hard for him it must have been, all of it, but especially her relationship with Ned, and how loving and how brave of him now to come, to have found the courage, to let them know, and to play his part in this farewell.

  And now the first hymn, that well-worn, much-loved ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, was announced and sung, and Diana, knowing she must, feeling she could not, was climbing the steps to the pulpit, to read.

  She looked out over the congregation, her face quite calm now, and stood there, just for a moment, commanding their attention; and then half smiled and said, ‘Death is nothing,’ and her voice did tremble and she paused, clearly fighting for control. And then, more strongly, she read on: the lovely words of Henry Scott Holland, diminishing death, increasing hope:

  ‘Death is nothing at all.

  I have only slipped away to the next room.

  I am I and you are you,

  Whatever we were to each other,

  That, we are still …’

  Her voice was beautiful; low, musical, made more remarkable with just-suppressed grief.

  Tom realised that he had never noticed it, being too taken up, or amused by, or angry with, or wondering at, what she was saying. He sat staring at her, at this woman who he knew really so extraordinarily and intimately, while so few people here were aware that he knew her at all, and then stopped looking and simply listened. And as he listened the day came back, the day when Ned had held, literally, his son’s life in his surgeon’s hands, how calm he had been and how patient, as the ugly
war was waged before him, and how incredibly privileged they had been, Alice and he – and in that instant the last of the ice between them melted and a frail recovery began as he looked at Alice and smiled, and took her hand in his as they listened, in the utter stillness of the great church:

  ‘ … Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

  Laugh as we always laughed

  At the little jokes we enjoyed together

  Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

  …

  Somewhere. Very near.

  Just around the corner.

  All is well.

  Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost

  One brief moment and all will be as it was before.’

  Diana paused there, clearly almost broken: but then she took a deep breath and said, with a quick, bright smile,

  ‘How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!’

  Watching her, as she stayed in the pulpit for a moment, gazing out over the congregation, Leo felt surprisingly moved: not for Ned, who he had scarcely known, but for the cruelty of life, that it must end like this, in death and sorrow; and for this remarkable woman whom he had loved, albeit briefly, and whom he had so wantonly thrown away. It had been madness, he thought, and must be set to rights: and wondered if that was even possible. And suddenly, and almost miraculously, just as she placed her hand on the rail to come down the steps, she saw him, their eyes met and all the bitterness and anger between them was gone, flown from the church, shamed by this greater, deeper emotion; and he smiled at her, and very, very briefly, she smiled back at him and he knew that it was, after all, going to be all right.

  Music followed: ‘Pie Jesu’ from Fauré’s Requiem, the soprano voice flying, soaring; Tom felt deeply moved, his eyes filled with tears, staring at the now empty space that had held Diana; he wanted to go to her, to thank her, for what he scarcely knew.

  And then Jillie, looking very pale, very frail, went up to the pulpit, looked over the church in silence. Then began, looking up.

  ‘ “Remember Me”,’ she read, her voice surprisingly strong, ‘by Christina Rossetti. Ned’s favourite female poet.’

  It was all Julius could do, staring at her, listening to her, to sit still, and at the end, not to applaud.

  ‘Better by far you should forget and smile,

  Than that you should remember and be sad.’

  ‘But,’ she added, with her calm, sweet expression, ‘I think we shall be able both to remember Ned and smile.’ Then she returned to her seat and her composure left her, and she buried her head in her hands and wept.

  Mozart then, the ‘Benedictus’ from the Requiem, enough for Jillie, and for Alice, suffering with her, to recover composure; and then William Curtis mounted the pulpit to give the eulogy.

  He said he must begin with an apology, for he felt there were others, closer to Ned, with more right to speak of him, but he had admired him hugely, and when he had been asked, thought, ‘I simply want to do it.’

  He spoke of Ned’s academic achievements, of his courage in the war, of his post-war student days at St Bartholomew’s, where perhaps, for the only time in his life the words ‘Could have done better’ could have applied to Ned, and who could blame him, released from the horrors of war, and finding himself free?

  ‘He spent much of his time, first learning, then playing, jazz piano, and those of us fortunate enough to have heard him will know that it was not time wasted.’

  He spoke of Ned’s early days as a junior doctor, his ability to carry on working for days on end with scarcely any sleep, ‘learned, I suspect, during those years at sea’, his unstinting giving of himself, his passionate longing to do good. He spoke of his pioneering work with children in hospital: his vision of a child frightened and in pain, able to be with the person it needed most, the mother, and his battle to accomplish that against considerable and extraordinary odds. ‘As some of you know, he was about to join my own medical team. I cannot tell you for how many reasons I grieve that that will not be so.’

  He spoke of Ned’s love of music. ‘I can only pray he will approve of today’s offering. How we longed to have him with us to help us choose, but in his absence, we have done our poor best.’ He looked at the coffin and smiled and said, ‘Be tolerant of us, Ned, please,’ and the whole church smiled, some laughed even.

  He spoke of Ned’s love of good food and wine, of the guarantee of the very best of both in his company, of his own talent for cooking and in unexpected ways. ‘I tell you, if you have not tasted Ned Welles’s marmalade, you have not lived.’

  And then, finally, he moved on to his nature, his self:

  ‘People always say what a lovely man he was, not just those closest to him, but his acquaintances, neighbours, colleagues, patients, and it was true; in all the time I have known Ned, I have never known him speak maliciously, behave shoddily. He was always courteous, gentle, tolerant of weakness, understanding of fear.’

  And then he said, ‘We have another speaker today, one who knew Ned very well indeed, one of his patients, a remarkable young person, Miss Susan Mills. Come and join me, Susan, and tell everyone what you wanted to say about Mr Welles.’

  Susan, undaunted by the size of the church, the fact that it was packed from wall to wall, that she had heard more wonderful words and music than she had ever done in her short life, scrambled past her mother, marched to the pulpit, climbed the steps, coughed a few times and then beamed round the church.

  ‘Mr Welles was a very special doctor. I called him Dr Make-me-Welles. He was always kind, he always had time to listen to us, sometimes he read us stories, and he never minded if any of us children was noisy, or cried, or wetted our beds.’ Laughter at that, but gentle, tolerant laughter. ‘He didn’t just make us better, he made us feel better.’ She looked down towards the coffin. ‘I would just like to say, thank you, Mr Welles, for all you did for all of us. We shall miss you very much.’

  At which moment, the sun shone suddenly and determinedly through the stained-glass window above the altar; and Jillie and Persephone looked at one another and smiled, and embraced, and Jillie whispered, ‘Phew! He liked it,’ and Persephone whispered back, ‘And, maybe, there is a God.’

  And William Curtis climbed down the steps back to his seat.

  * * *

  ‘We will now have the anthem,’ said Christian Greenwell, into the silence, ‘and make no apologies for more Fauré. Ned loved Fauré, and he would not mind – I hope – “In Paradisum”, from the Requiem.’

  And so, Edward Welles, MD, FRCS, was borne to whatever heaven he might have wished, and they sang a last hymn, and then he was lifted by the pallbearers, for the start of his journey towards his earthly resting place, a graveyard in Cornwall, found by Persephone and near the sea.

  And Julius, pushing determinedly against the flow, reached Jillie finally; and she saw him, and was briefly and entirely lifted from her sorrow, and smiled at him in pure joy as he took her hand and they made their way slowly out of the church together.

  Even the most sternly faced members of the congregation looked around at one another, tear-stained and smiling at the same time, as they were assured it was a lovely day to be caught in the rain. Which was just as well, as the sun had already relinquished its place in the sky, and the clouds had rolled in once more.

  Epilogue

  It was a beautiful day, in the end. The sun had finally won its battle with the clouds, and shone determinedly through the afternoon. People were able to leave the marquee and walk on the lawn, exclaiming at the garden and its beauty; a little faded, to be sure, now that autumn was almost come, but still offering roses. And besides, with so charming a service behind them, what promised to be a banquet to come, and the most perfectly chilled, vintage champagne to drink now, who would criticise anything, anything at all?

  A few eyebrows had been raised at the bridegroom’s variation upon his morning dress, namely a striped coat and black trousers; mercifully, no one had seen his choic
e of top hat, which had been white, rather than black, and vetoed by the bride only the evening before in extremely certain terms.

  The bride, however, looked wonderfully and conventionally bride-like, her dress white silk, with a slightly elongated bodice, long tight sleeves and a skirt that billowed into almost exaggerated fullness, becoming a train at the back. Her grandmother’s tiara held her veil, and her bouquet, passed to her matron of honour for the service – she had no bridesmaids – was of white and yellow roses. The only criticism, voiced by perhaps only a very few after she had gone away, was that her hair was not teased into conventional bridal curls, or bound into a stiff chignon, but hung, die-straight, down her back.

  That was how the bridegroom liked it, and indeed, he had told her it was one of the first things about her he had noticed, and therefore fell in love with; and since it was the sort of hair that did not take kindly to teasing or binding, it was a decision easily taken.

  Not that any of them had been difficult: for who else would she want as her matron of honour, but her best friend from her school-days, with whom she had shared and suffered and rejoiced so much? And who was looking quite absurdly pretty in a long, narrow dress, made of blue taffeta in a shade that exactly matched her eyes: her hair at least she wore in the statutory curls, but then it had a mind of its own, and she never wore it otherwise. Her husband, watching her as she walked down the aisle behind the bride, thought how much he loved her, and how incredible it was that that slender body had borne three children, the eldest of whom sat on his knee, bribed into silence with a new Thomas the Tank Engine book, which he studied intently throughout, the younger two being in the care of their next-door neighbours for the day.