“Patronized?” The young man glanced at his wife and smiled. “You mean nobody has been buried there yet?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s this bit here?” He pointed to a circle shaded in gray.
“That’s a piece of sculpture. The Triumph of Azrael.” Eden pulled out a folder and opened it to a page with a photograph of an angel in welded steel. “It’s by a local artist.”
“Well, it’s…”
“Perfect.” The old lady squeezed his arm. “We’ll take one plot with the clause you mentioned earlier.”
“An excellent choice.” Eden marked down the plot numbers and turned to the computer. “Will you be wanting the standard burial plan? Twin burial or the cryomation procedure?”
“The er…the what?”
“Cryomation? It’s a fairly new process that will soon replace cremation. The body is frozen with liquid nitrogen and vibrated into dust. Metals are removed and either returned or disposed of, and then the remains are freeze dried and compacted into a block which will decompose entirely in six to twelve months. It’s very good for the environment. Informally we call it ‘composting.’ Very popular with the environmentally conscious as well as the frugal. We rent the cryomation plots for one to ten years, though of course, the relatives can take the remains home with them instead, just like a standard cremation.”
“Six to twelve months?” The old lady raised her eyebrows. “We’ll have that.” She put her handbag on the desk and fished about in it. “Francis dear, I think my glasses are still in the car. Would you be a dear and fetch them for me?”
“Of course, Elizabeth.” He flashed a smile at Eden. “I’ll be right back.”
The lady watched him go before pulling out her glasses case. “He’s such a love but so gullible. We’ll just have the plot for five years, I think. Francis has a degenerative disease but he’s no idea he’s dying. I doubt I’ll be long after him. He’s such a love. He’s convinced making the arrangements in advance will take the pressure off him when I die but of course, it’s entirely the other way round.”
“That’s so sad.” Eden pressed her hand again, looking into her eyes with a measure of sympathy. She turned away as Francis returned and tapped some figures into the computer. “Will that be cash or credit?”
Once she’d shown the couple out she hurried back to her office where Mr. Claremont was in floods of tears and clutching a large checkered handkerchief as if it was a lifeline. Two cups of tea sat untouched on the edge of her desk and Mrs. Johns seemed relieved by her return.
“I’m so sorry to have left you for so long,” Eden sat at her desk. “I had to see to a couple needing to make arrangements in advance. The poor lad won’t see thirty. All very sad.” She reached over to squeeze the old man’s arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how upsetting it can be.”
“We’ve decided to take your composting package.” Mrs. Johns spoke in a hushed tone, as if to keep the decision from her father. “He likes the idea of her always in the garden with him.”
Eden nodded. “A very wise choice, if I may say so. Would you like the service done here or at a church of your choice?”
“Here I think.” She shook the old man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go and wait in the car, Dad? I’ll sort things out here and come out when I’ve finished.”
“We do have a lovely garden of remembrance. You’re welcome to use it.”
Mr. Claremont said nothing, but walked out of the room with his head bowed. Eden could believe he was Atlas, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Will he be all right on his own?”
“He’ll be fine.” Mrs. Johns reached for her tea. “It’s not like he hasn’t had time to get used to the idea. Mum’s been in and out of a coma for weeks. It’s a relief she’s dead to be honest with you. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my mum dearly but I was sick to death of traipsing up to that care home to hold her hand. That wasn’t my mum at all, the last few weeks. Just a shell.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s a difficult time, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Thank you, I’m sure.” She put the cup down and pulled an Eden Gardens catalogue from her handbag. “Truth be told, I’ve had this planned for a fortnight. We’ll have the cryomation with basic humanist service, followed by a finger buffet and the remains delivered.”
“Oh.” Eden opened her laptop and tapped in the order. “How very efficient of you, Mrs. Johns.”
“You can thank my husband for that.” She put the catalogue back in her handbag. “He’s an accountant, you know.”
Chapter 6
Meinwen Jones sheltered from the rain under the sculpture of an angel made of copper sheets. The drops hitting the parts of the piece of art combined to sound more like music than an autumnal storm. The hissing of tires as mourners drove up to the re-purposed community center provided a counterpoint, and if she’d been trained as a musician instead of a secretary-cum-short-order cook in her native Aberdovey, Meinwen might well have discovered a symphony in the sounds around her.
After what seemed like an hour of waiting, but according to her mobile phone was less than half that, the hearse appeared followed by two black Daimlers. She waited until the coffin was transferred to the building and the family ushered inside, then joined the rank and file of mourners attending the funeral of Helen Matthews, ignoring the askance looks some of the other attendees gave her for her rainbow-colored umbrella.
She slipped into a seat at the back of the chapel, hoping the service would not be layered in religion. Helen had been a good friend and supporter of Meinwen’s books and pamphlets on the history of Laverstone, but other than the Tuesday-night reader’s group, Meinwen knew little about the woman. Piped music played Abide with Me at a muted volume.
Her heart sank as she picked up the order of service. At least it was an Anglican one, rather than the full-blown spectacle of a Catholic requiem mass. Reverend Dodgson appeared from the staff door and strode to the lectern. It could be worse.
“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here to pay tribute to our sister, Helen Matthews…”
Meinwen stifled a yawn and wondered if it was too late to slip out again. Probably. The doors had been closed and were guarded by a gentleman in a morning suit as if they were prisoners who might take the opportunity of the first hymn to bolt screaming from the room. A glance at her mobile earned her a pursed-lip expression from the elderly lady to her left. Meinwen pretended not to notice.
After a brief but heartfelt prayer, since the priest seemed to know the deceased personally, a young man stood and walked to the front. He faced the assembled mourners with a set of index cards in his hand. His mouth opened and closed several times before he glanced at the cards and cleared his throat.
He gripped the lectern with his free hand. “My mother was a woman of many passions…”
Meinwen perked up. This sounded more interesting. As far as she’d been aware, Helen was the sort of woman who’d prefer a nice cup of tea to unexpected passionate sex over the kitchen table but she wasn’t one to judge unfairly.
“Her passion for reading was almost matched for her passion for collecting antiques and she had a habit of penning a poem every day of her life. It pleases me to say I’ve paid for the hosting of her website for the next five years as a lasting tribute to her.”
Meinwen snorted. Five years? It wouldn’t last five weeks without fresh input, just one of those sites that stayed around to skew the results of internet searches. Type in the name of a fluid discharged by a septic ulcer and you’d get Helen’s poem about her cat, Molly.