Free The Sweet Smell of Decay by Paul Lawrence Page B

1664
     
    Thee didst hide thy face, and I was troubled.
Now shalt thou lift thy face unto God.
    Composed by William Ormonde, no doubt; I was pretty sure it wasn’t from the Bible. Interesting that the husband’s name was ignored. Was the unhealthy-looking man with Ormonde her husband? Anne Giles died on the same day that she was born, her twentieth birthday.
    Half an hour later the chief mourners emerged, and led a small procession up the shallow hill. I positioned myself that I might watch the woman with the shapely behind from the rear. The mourners took their positions around the grave and the local priest began to read from the Book of Common Prayer.
    ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery,’ the priest read. This really is the gloomiest nonsense and I cannot abide it. What is the purpose in complaining how short a time we have to live on the one hand, then moaning that even though it is short it is also miserable? If it be so miserable then best that it is short – for those that are miserable. I am not myself miserable but will enjoy what life I do have and thank my blessings for it. Not waste my time decrying how short it is, for if I did that – then I would be truly miserable. Nonetheless some people were moved enough to cry, others even wailed, apparently in great distress. As the gratified minister read on, the coffin was lowered into the ground. Ormonde stood straight and still with his head slightly lowered. The woman whose behindmade me want to whimper wept quietly. The unhealthy man that I now decided looked like a stoat, stood by himself, eyes fixed upon the coffin.
    The priest paused to give the mourners time to take a hand of earth. Most did, and made their own farewells quietly while the priest proceeded through the rest of the service. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the stoat take advantage of the movement of people to step swiftly away. Once he was apart then he broke into a trot and ran quickly into the woods. I caught his eye for a second before he vanished. Though I felt some sympathy with his desire to be elsewhere, still it was an odd way to behave.
    ‘The love of God be with us all for evermore. Amen.’
    Amen indeed.
    ‘Mr Lytle!’
    Turning, startled, I found myself face to face with the woman with the behind. My heart skipped merrily and tripped through the fields singing songs of love. She lifted her veil and brushed back a hair from her forehead. Her nose was small and upturned at its tip; the end of it faintly freckled. Her mouth was wide and curved with full lips. Her hair was long and brown with a red sheen. Her eyes were green and looked straight into my soul. It was the face of the dead woman. My yard collapsed like a softly boiled mushroom.
    ‘My father told me about you and how you would help us.’ She spoke so softly that I found myself leaning forwards, stretching my neck like a chicken. I straightened quickly.
    When did I offer help to her father? ‘You are Anne Giles’s sister?’
    She bowed her head. ‘Mary.’
    Though I expressed my sympathies, clumsily probably, foretiquette is not a particular strength of mine, I saw in her face that whatever she sought, it wasn’t kind words.
    ‘Mr Lytle, I pray that you will enjoy of our hospitality?’
    Bowing awkwardly I contemplated with anxiety the prospect of going back inside that house with this group of wailing ranters. It was easier to do with an invitation, though, and I don’t suppose any would stop me leaving if I felt so disposed. I accepted her invitation.
    ‘Then I will see you at the house.’ She smiled at me with lovely white teeth then hurried away to her coach. Ormonde sat in it waiting, peering out through the little window like a malevolent rabbit.
    At the house she squeezed my hand as I entered in the line and gave me a look with those green eyes that I found difficult to interpret – under the circumstances. If we hadn’t been exchanging pleasantries at her