After the service, the Gumbo Jazz Band serenaded the coffin with the "Beale Street Blues," a number traditionally played in slow-drag tempo. Then the hearse was driven to Haycombe for the burial. Rachel had resisted all suggestions of using a plot in the village churchyard.
Inside the cemetery gates, the undertaker (who had been rather upstaged by King Gumbo) had his moment of attention, walking in front of the cortege wearing his top hat. Rachel and the jazz friends went to the graveside with Otis, who spoke the words of committal. Quietly, they took leave of Gary.
On their return to Foxford they were greeted with the enlivening blare of "When the Saints Go Marching In" played lustily by King Gumbo and his lads. This was up-tempo time. The mutes were off, the top hats were back on and the music swelled. All the bands joined in, giving full vent to their playing, bobbing, stomping and swinging to the end of the street and back again, ending at the pub.
King Gumbo sank two glasses of beer in a short time and said, "Man, oh man, that was some boogaloo."
In Rachel's cottage, over cheese and wine, the real Foxford people, friends and neighbours, had come, as if to reclaim the occasion for the village. Long after the camera crews and jazz bands had gone, this was the community that would help the young widow adjust to her changed life. More humdrum than big drum, as Bill Armistead put it. The talk was subdued compared to the bedlam in the pub, but all agreed it had been a day to remember. "And wasn't the rector wonderful, the things he said?" Peggy Winner enthused. "I was so proud of him. He had me in floods of tears, and between ourselves I was never very fond of Gary."
"That's a gift from God, being able to fit your words to the occasion like that," said Geoff Elliott. "Not that I recall what was said, but I found it moving at the time. Beautiful words, yes."
"And not the same words he used at poor Stanley's funeral. Not the same at all."
"Different man," Elliott pointed out.
"Yes, but two funerals coming so soon, one after the other, it would be easy to repeat yourself."
"No, no, Peg. He thinks it through. Next time someone goes, it will be different again. You'll see."
"I hope no one else is going," she said. "Two in just over a month is more than we can afford to lose."
"And that's not counting the bishop."
"The bishop wasn't a Foxford man."
"No, but he was our bishop. It's a connection. Rector remembered him in church, if you were there."
"I was-and he said just the right thing in the circumstances."
"In the circumstances, yes." Geoff Elliott's eyes widened slightly at the memory of the bend-over bishop, so slightly that no one else noticed.
Two of the confirmation class were drinking orange squash and talking with approval about the service. "Considering Gary wasn't a church-goer, it was wonderful," Ann Porter remarked to Burton Sands. "I said a prayer for him, hoping he gets to heaven."
"If he wasn't a believer, he won't," said Burton flatly. "You know what the Te Deum tells us. 'Thou didst open the Kingdom of Heaven to all believers.' "
"We don't know what he believed," Ann pointed out.
"Just because he didn't come to church every Sunday, it doesn't mean he was a heathen."
"It's unlikely."
"Well, I wouldn't count him out," said Ann. "As a matter of fact, he may have been on the point of joining the church. I saw him walk through the rectory gates on the day he died."
"What, like a ghost?" said Burton.
"No, silly. Before he died. This was about five in the afternoon. He must have been calling on the rector, and it wouldn't surprise me if he'd seen the light."
"You're guessing."
"Maybe he had some kind of message from God that he hadn't got long to go."
"Maybe," Burton echoed, but with a heavy note of scepticism.
"We can't really ask Otis, but I'd give anything to know."
Across the room, Cynthia Haydenhall was being helpful, topping up people's glasses. "She'll manage, I'm sure," she confided to Mary Todd from the shop. "She'll go through a period of grief of course, but she's a survivor. She'll bounce back." She checked where Rachel was, making sure she was too far away to hear. "And they weren't as close as some couples are, if you understand me."
"I'd noticed that."
"She'll miss him, of course, but…"
"She's just a young thing," said Mary Todd. "She won't be alone for long, if I'm any judge."
"Do you think so?"
"If she looks after herself, keeps her hair nice."
"She's in the Frome Troupers. They're a lively lot. Not many men, though."
"It's always the problem in amateur dramatics."
"She was all set to star in There Goes the Bride on Friday. 1 suppose they'll have to find a replacement now."
"Shame. She must have been looking forward to it, learning the part and all."
"Well, you can't act in a farce the same week you bury your husband."
The rector put his head around the door, and Cynthia shimmied through the crush to offer him a drink. He'd taken off his cassock and was wearing a dark suit. He said, rather curtly, she thought, that he wished to speak to Rachel first.
"1 think she's handing out sausage rolls. She's bearing it very well."
"Good."
"Everyone agrees you excelled yourself in church, Otis. You gave a wonderful address."
"Doing my job, Mrs. Haydenhall. Where exactly is she? I don't see her."
"In the kitchen, I expect."
He went in search of her.
The party in the Foxford Arms continued past closing time and the last coach left Norman Gregor's field after midnight. Rachel heard it pass the cottage, music still being played and audible between the gear shifts. It would be a long time before she chose to listen to jazz again.
Alone now, she had nothing to do. The guests had insisted on washing and wiping every last teaspoon. Everything was put away. They had emptied the ashtrays and vacuumed the carpets. The place looked better than it had in weeks. The possibility hadn't occurred to them that she would have liked something to keep her busy.
Her brain was too active for sleep. It fairly fizzed with words said in the past twelve hours, things meant to cheer or console, most of them hopelessly wide of the mark. The only true comment- and it sounded tasteless, however it was put-was that Gary would have been happy with his own funeral. "You could almost say he was a lucky man," someone said. "It softens the blow, doesn't it?" Another remarked, "You did him proud, Rachel. You'll always be able to say you sent him off in style."
She put on the kettle for a cup of tea, and went round checking that the doors were locked and bolted. She wasn't afraid to be alone. Just wanted the chance to come to terms with her changed life and get over the feeling of numbness that had gripped her since the moment of Gary's death.
She had to keep telling herself she was free.
Gary was gone, six feet under. Out of her life.
In the eyes of the village, she was not far short of a saint. Bravely she'd suppressed her own grief to arrange this spectacular funeral. She'd held back the tears all day.
She was no saint, and she didn't feel very brave.
In a curious way, she felt as if she was outside her own body, looking at herself, trying to understand how she could have done what she had. The decision to do away with Gary had been made quickly, impulsively. There was none of that malice aforethought. Not much, anyway.
He had made the fatal mistake of asking for a strong curry and she'd had this sudden prospect of release like the clouds parting. An end to a gruesome marriage and a new life with Otis, the man she loved.
With astonishing clarity she'd seen how much she despised her husband and wanted to be rid of him. He was unattractive, oafish, selfish, messy, abusive, shabby, conceited, undersexed and old, old, old. His return from New Orleans had brought it home to her, literally. She couldn't bear to be close to him any longer. She knew the man she wanted, and she'd seen the unattached women of the village closing in on him. She knew how urgent it was to set herself free.