as if she expected them to go down on one knee and kiss it. No one stayed with them, and the three kept to themselves as if they knew it was pointless to try to talk.
Jack moved between them and the rest, half belonging to both groups, neither oil nor water, looking stressed. Like all the men he was sweating in his dark suit, with spots of damp staining his shirt across his chest. The younger woman must be his wife, so the military man and the duchess were the in-laws, and the families didn ’ t get on.
Jack waved when he saw George. Nothing too enthusiastic, but enough for her to wander over and say hello. She was ready for the mother-in-law ’ s fingers. If you slide your hand under that kind of regal greeting, then grip and twist, you can turn it into a proper handshake. The d uchess didn ’ t like that. She didn ’ t like George ’ s looks, either. The duchess was tall enough for her eyes to be at the level of George ’ s hair, and George saw her wince. So what? George liked orange. It ’ s a strong colour, and it was only a streak. While Jack fumbled the introductions the woman ’ s eyes dropped so she was looking down her nose at George ’ s skirt, and her mouth pursed into a tight, wrinkly, cat ’ s – arse circle of disapproval. Maybe yellow was a bit bright for a funeral, but there wasn ’ t much call for dark, smart stuff in a boatyard. At least George had put a decent jacket over it, and she bet the duchess couldn ’ t tell that the jacket came from a charity shop.
Jack ’ s wife introduced herself as Charlotte. Very upmarket, with the sort of accent you hear in posh shops. Her handshake was straight, if a bit cool. She was tall, like her mother, and slender and attractive, unlike her mother. Her black straw hat was broad-brimmed so she had to tilt her head to one side to whisper in George ’ s ear.
‘ Thank God for some colour. I think Old Eddie would have loved it. ’
George decided she was going to like Charlotte. She stayed near her as they were ushered inside.
*
Twenty minutes later George was like, ‘ was that it? ’ A whole life, nearly eighty years, reduced to one reading, two hymns, a three- minute drone from Rent-a-Priest and a poem?
Jack ’ s father gave the reading, bellowing it out like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. Isaiah 61, the order of service said.
‘ The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good tidings to the poor . ’ He stared at a young woman in the front row, with two young children beside her. Another Ahlquist by the look of her, and the kind of blonde who ’ s gone way too plump with motherhood. ‘ He has sent me to bind up the broken hearted … ’ She didn ’ t look very broken hearted. She had big, dark eyes, a snub nose and puffy cheeks, like a seal pup with tits. Jack ’ s father didn ’ t strike George as a preacher, either, but he turned that stare towards Jack as he finished, and thundered , ‘ To proclaim the year of the Lord ’ s favour, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn. ’
Rent-a-Priest did his job. He ’ d probably never met the man he was about to incinerate, even though he ’ d been fed the key facts and wrapped them up in lofty, churchy tones. Edvard Ahlquist, born into hardship as the son of a Danish sailor. Forty years a shipwright. Had his share of tragedy. Liked sailing and Nordic folklore. Let us pray.
Jack read a poem that was George ’ s favourite. She didn ’ t know many poems, but this one about the lonely sea and the sky had stuck, ever since she was a kid. Something in those words about steering a tall ship by a star had struck a chord. Other kids escaped into video games or petty crime but she was the loner who dreamed of sailing away. She couldn ’ t even remember which school she had been in when she had learned it, but it had told her about a world beyond a dirty playground and the waiting gangs. She ’ d been in her late teens before she felt a tiller ’ s kick for the first time, or heard Masefield ’ s wind song, and then it had been like coming home. She still knew it well enough to shut her eyes and mouth the words with Jack.
Jack spoke with passion, as if he ’ d chosen that bit of the service. It was the only time some feeling for Mad Eddie came over. His voice caught, just a little, as he spoke those final words about a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick ’ s over, and George opened her eyes.
He was watching her. Again. She blushed and looked away, angry with herself, but not before she ’ d seen that he was a bit full. He paused like he was collecting himself, then said, ‘ Sweet dreams, Grandpa, ’ as if he really meant it, but Rent-a-Priest was already standing to announce the final hymn. The next lot were waiting.
‘ …Oh hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea. ’
The priest looked bored as he pressed the button.
III: GEORGE
Charlotte persuaded George to go to the reception afterwards. George had followed her out of the crem , wishing she had a dress like Charlotte ’ s and the body to wear it. Charlotte’s parents were in front of her, shaking hands with the line of Ahlquists . Charlotte ’ s father was a lot shorter than Harry Ahlquist, and he was a stiff little man who tilted his whole torso to look Harry in the eye, leaning back rather than looking up. They shook hands the way boxers touch gloves.
‘ Will you come back to the house? The wife ’ s laid on a bit of a spread … ’ Harry Ahlquist pushed out an invitation the way George would fend off a boat.
‘ Awfully decent of you . ’ Charlotte ’ s father spoke in clipped, plummy tones, recoiling from the invitation so much that George thought he might overbalance backwards. ‘ But it ’ s a long drive home … ’
‘ Sure. ’ Harry looked relieved. His shoulders opened, bonhomie restored.
‘ You ’ ll come though, won ’ t you, George? ’ Charlotte turned, making big, pleading eyes. She must have been dreading being stuck with Jack ’ s lot on her own.
‘ I need to get the bus back to Furzey … ’ George was like, ‘ Feck , no way ’ .
‘ We ’ ll run you back, won ’ t we, darling? ’ Charlotte turned to Jack, who was last in the line of Ahlquists . He started and said ‘ sure ’ warmly enough, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Charlotte settled it by slipping her arm inside George ’ s and leading them towards her car. George was too flattered to argue.
Harry Ahlquist ’ s house was modern and a bit flash, the kind of place a man might build for himself if he ’ d made a shedload of money and wanted to show it by having the biggest house in the neighbourhood. There was a bar-and- games room where Jack ’ s mum had laid out sandwiches and nibbles. She was a dumpy, homey sort in a black dress who fussed around everyone, but wouldn ’ t stand still long enough to talk. Charlotte disappeared, leaving George clutching a sausage roll, looking at a lawn that was filling with people she didn ’ t know. Beyond the lawn was a hedge with a gap and more steps down, and there must have been a swimming pool on the far side because shifting sunlight was shining upwards through the hedge.
George didn ’ t fit with that kind of money. She ’ d find a taxi. The boatyard could pay. Eddie had been a customer, after all. She turned to go.
Charlotte had the kind of smile that made George think they shared some private joke, and she was holding two glasses of wine with a God -I-need- this look on her face. She ’ d taken off her jacket and hat, and had thick, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail in a way that emphasised her face. As she pushed a glass at George, she looked like a model who ’ d just walked off a photo shoot.
‘ Sorry. Queue for the loo. Cheers. ’ She winced at the taste but swallowed. ‘ Today ’ s a day I ’ m really glad Jack ’ s driving. ’
‘ Where is he? ’
‘ Probably being told what a naughty boy he is. ’ She swigged again and stared into her glass. ‘ This gets better. The first