Free Books Do Furnish a Room by Anthony Powell

Burton’s ‘vile rock of melancholy, a disease so frequent, as few
there are that feel not the smart of it’. Melancholy was so often the
explanation, anyway melancholy in Burton’s terms. The bearers took up the
coffin once more. The recession was slow, though this time uninterrupted.
    ‘I hope old Skerrett will be
all right,’ whispered Isobel. ‘He looked white as a sheet when he passed.’
    ‘Whiter than Mrs Widmerpool?’
    ‘Much whiter.’
    Outside, the haze had
thickened. The air struck almost warm after the church. Rain still fell in
small penetrating drops. The far corner of the churchyard was occupied with an
area of Tolland graves: simple headstones: solid oblong blocks of stone with
iron railings: crosses, two unaccountably Celtic in design: one obelisk. Norah,
who had never got on at all well with her eldest brother, was in convulsions of
tears, the other sisters dabbing with their handkerchiefs. There was no sign of
Pamela in the porch. The mourners processed to the newly dug grave. The old
parson, his damp surplice clinging like a shroud, refused to be hurried by the
elements. He took what he was doing at a thoroughly leisurely pace. There
seemed no reason why the funeral should ever end. Then, all at once, everything
was over. The mourners began to move slowly, rather uncomfortably away.
    ‘I’ll just have a word with
Skerrett,’ said Isobel. ‘He’s looking better now. Meet you at the gate.’
    Before I reached the lychgate,
a tall, rather distinguished-looking woman separated herself from other shapes
lurking among the tombstones, and came towards me. She must have sat at the
back of the church, because I had not seen her
until that moment. She was fortyish, a formal magazine-cover prettiness organized to make her seem not only younger than that, but at the same
time a girl not exactly of the present, rather of some years back. Her voice
too struck a
note at that moment equally out of fashion.
    ‘I thought I
must
say hullo, Nick, though it’s
years
since we met – you remember me, Mona, I used to be married to Peter Templer – what ages. Yes, poor Peter, wasn’t it sad? So brave of him at his age too.
Jeff says you’re
never
the
same in war after you’re thirty. We’re weaving about fairly close here, and I’ve
got to
scamper
home this minute, because Jeff’s quite
insane
about
punctuality. We’re living in a
horrible
house over by Gibbet Down, so I thought I
ought
to
make a pilgrimage for Alf. It’s poor Alf now too, as well as poor Peter, isn’t
it? Alf didn’t have much of a time, did he, though he
was
kindhearted in his way, even if he
abominated
spending a farthing on drink – one’s throat got absolutely
arid
travelling with him. I shall never forget Hong Kong. JG used to get so
angry
in the old days if I complained about the
drought
when we dined at Thrubworth with Alf, which wasn’t all that often. Lack of
drink was even worse when I was alone with him, I can assure you. Fancy JG
turning up today too.
So
unexpected when he does the right thing for once. I hear he lived for a time
with someone called
Lady Anne Stepney
, and
then she went off with one of the Free French. That did make me laugh – and
Gypsy here too. Do you think she
did
have
a walk out with Alf? He used to talk about seeing her at those
awful
political conferences he loved going to. I sometimes wondered. Well, we’ll never know now. I just
waved
to JG and Gypsy. I thought that would be
quite enough
.’
    Isobel reappeared.
    ‘Your
wife
? How sad it must be to lose a
brother, I never had one, but I’m sure it is. And not at all old either, except
we’re all
centuries
old now, I feel a
million
,
but, of course – well, I don’t know – anyway, I just thought it was my
duty
to come, even in
daunting
weather. I’ll have to proceed back now with all possible speed, or Jeff will be
having
kittens
. Jeff’s an Air Vice-Marshal now. Isn’t that grand?
Burdened
with