5. The Funeral Tea

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson

A WIDOW WOMAN Part 5

If George had been alive and well for his funeral he would have enjoyed himself immensely at the tea afterwards because Gwennie was there.

Gwennie was Jane’s oldest friend and for many years they had supported each other in a world where the social presence of the male of the species was a rarity. The memorial stone in the churchyard was testament to why that should be, all the young men who should have been targets for their greedy eyes decomposing in a foreign field after the first Great War, a corner that a poet said would be forever England. What nonsense that was! All it meant was lonely nights when they should have been snuggling up to a husband, a lover, a friend. But during the twenties and thirties there were too few men or too many eligible ladies, whichever way you looked at it.

George liked Gwennie. Of course he did because she was the first woman who had ever looked at him with anything but contempt.

Back in his home county he had been caught, as a young teenager, showing indiscreet interest in the contents of another lad’s underpants one night when a small quantity of illicit drink had been taken.

It had been innocent on his part, everything except the drink, that is. They were both young and going through a stage that involved curiosity and experimenting and lasted for almost no time at all, but they had been discovered and the word had got around via a small group of big-mouthed girls, and wouldn’t go away. They were unnatural. They were despicable. They were sinners of the worst order. And the reputation had stuck even though he was one of the rare breed of eligible young men in his town. Nobody wanted a creature like himself. He was, in fact, untouchable and ought to be locked away where he could inflict no harm on other youths or besmirch pretty maidens. That was what they said.

Then with a second war looming he’d been ordered to Brumpton and the first person he’d seen was Gwennie with her bright eyes and obvious chest. By that time he was getting on for forty and looked upon himself as a confirmed bachelor. But Gwennie with her bright eyes and cheeky smile had soon showed him the error of his ways, and they would have become a most definite couple had it not been for Melvin.

Melvin had a serious limp due to a war wound that persisted in making him hobble around years after his leg was almost shot off, and in order to compensate for the ugliness he perceived it endowed him with he became a chirpy, good humoured man who Gwennie rather liked despite his limp. And because of his handicap she was too decent to let him down by responding to the enchantment of George. But she was only human, and for a while she and Jane shared George in an unofficial sort of way as between good friends until the inevitable happened and one of them became pregnant, and that one was Jane.

There was no hammer-and-tongs about their relationship and they only succumbed to the weakness that flesh is heir to the once, but once was enough. Betty began to develop, unseen for a while until the bump was getting to be obvious and a hasty marriage was planned.

All this might have spoiled a wonderful friendship, but it didn’t because Gwennie and Jane were always going to be life-long friends. It was as if it was written in the stars.

They’d always shared a tent during holidays together because camping meant a cheap holiday, (Melvin was unsuited to the camping life due to his battered leg), and the two of them ventured miles from their home town on bicycles when they could, leaving Melvin to regret ever volunteering for war and battle.

Now it was a funeral. George’s funeral, and with both Gwennie and Jane there he would have loved it had he not been securely contained within his coffin six feet under the graveyard soils.

Jane saw Gwennie at the after-funeral tea being held in the church hall where every Sunday an elderly retired school teacher spent a glorious hour with bible stories and a group of youngsters. Gwennie was, thankfully, on her own. It wasn’t that Jane didn’t like Melvin, but to her mind he was often a spare part in their twosome.

“On your own, love?” she asked, “thanks for coming.”

Gwennie smiled and nodded. “It’s sad,” she said, “and you know how sorry I am. You should have had a lot more time with George.”

“I know, but life’s like that,” replied Jane, displaying a surprising minimum of grief.

“Are the kids all right?”

“I don’t think they’ve understood properly yet. I think Roger’s still wondering when his dad is coming back home. Anyway, I thought it best to leave them at home with a neighbour.”

“That was probably best.”

“That’s what I thought. What do you make of the vicar, Gwennie?”

“He’s … I wondered… did you notice?”

“I think it’s egg yolk. Again!” laughed Jane, “it was the same when he called round to my place last week!”

“He needs a woman to take him in hand.”

“I hope you’re not putting ideas into this widow woman’s head!”

“I meant his appearance and not what you thought I meant!”

“I wonder…” mused Jane, “I mean, even vicars have to get undressed sometimes…”

“What are you thinking, lovey? He’s little more than a child, so don’t you get to thinking of cradle-snatching!”

“Gwennie! As if I would!”

“Shush! He’s coming this way!”

“I had to invite him because it’s his church hall and he let me have it for free!”

“Maybe he fancies you.”

“I’ve heard that it’s the younger women he’s got eyes for! Now shush!”

The Reverend Jonah Pyke wandered with assumed aimlessness to where Gwennie and Jane stood talking.

“A fine interment,” he said with what would have been a sleazy smile on anyone but a vicar.

“The weather was right for it,” agreed Jane, wondering what kind of weather would have been wrong for a funeral if today was right. After all, it had been raining earlier, and although it had stopped for their ceremony at the graveside the skies were still heavy.

The vicar smiled again. Was it sleazy? “And what plans do you have now, Mrs Simpson? After all, you’re still a young woman…”

“Not quite,” she corrected him.

“But a woman needs a man,” he almost enthused, “in much the same was as a man needs woman…”

“You mean, in bed?” put in Gwennie with a wicked smile that wasn’t remotely sleazy despite an accompanying wink.

“I wasn’t … I didn’t mean … I mean for other matters!” he mumbled, embarrassed because the bed part of men and women needing each other had really lain behind his statement.

“But being in bed together is important, don’t you think? A man’s strong arms around a woman, her sweet breath on him?” teased Jane.

“And waking up together in the morning,” contributed Gwennie, “a man and a woman greeting a new day together, all cuddly and romantic.”

“I wouldn’t know about that!” he almost barked, and, blushing, he slithered away.