Tom was still tugging at the neck of his shirt; red in the face, he looked fit to burst. ‘It’s choking me, damn it!’
‘It’s me as’ll choke you, if you don’t stop yer moaning!’ Turning away, Beth winked at her daughter. ‘Look at our Judy,’ she told her husband. ‘She’s quietly got herself ready an’ not a word of complaint.’
Judy didn’t mind their friendly bantering; she had other things on her mind. ‘Do you think Don or Davie will be there?’ she asked. She’d dressed up with Davie in mind, just in case by some miracle he turned up; had wanted to look her very best. She knew it was silly. He’d have his heart and mind on his mam, not her. And she worried about how he’d been surviving, these past few days. He hadn’t been back to the barn.
‘I’ve been wondering the very same,’ Tom said. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to see the lad there at some point. I mean, look how he stuck by his mam when everyone else turned against her. He’ll not desert her now, not if I know the lad, he won’t. As for Don, it’s a crying shame. He’ll probably not even know that the poor lass is dead.’
‘If he does put in an appearance, do what you can to persuade him to stay, Tom,’ Beth said. ‘Tell him he can have a home with us for as long as he wants.’
A few minutes later, with Tom lagging behind, still moaning because he was ‘being throttled by this blessed tie!’ the three of them made their way to the car. The old Morris Minor was in a bad humour today, and needed the starter-handle to get it going, by which time Tom had taken his tie off again, and had muck on his hands.
‘I hope Joseph was ready when they came for him,’ Tom said, breathing a sigh of relief as the engine caught. ‘I don’t expect he’s had a wink of sleep.’
As they made the short journey to St Peter’s Church, the conversation centred on Rita’s father. ‘You needn’t worry about him not being ready,’ Beth replied. ‘When we popped in yesterday, Judy and I went through everything with him – the time the undertakers would be there to collect him, and what he would need to wear. He had it all set out on the sofa ready.’
‘Aye, well, you never can tell with Joe. He’s a stubborn old devil when he puts his mind to it.’ Tom recalled his conversation with the older man. ‘I said it might be best if he stayed with us for a few days, and that we’d follow Rita to the church from here, if he wanted. But he were adamant that she had to go from his house, and try as I might, there was no persuading him otherwise.’
‘To tell you the truth, Tom, I never wholeheartedly agreed with your suggestion, kind though it was,’ Beth said now. ‘Joseph is used to his own four walls about him. Besides, I happen to believe he was right to insist that Rita was taken to the church from his house. It’s the accepted tradition, and she was his daughter, after all.’
‘And God help anyone who has a daughter like that!’ As Tom thought of the poor young woman dying in his cart, his heart broke at the pity and waste of it, and for Rita’s devastated family.
Over in Derwent Street, Joseph Davies took a last look in the mirror. His beard was neatly trimmed, and the night before, he had had a bath in the old tin tub. His shoes were shined and his fingernails trimmed. He had done his best for his daughter.
Turning to the photograph of Marie, his wife, he told her: ‘Jesus promises us we’ll be reunited with our loved ones, so I don’t fear for Rita, knowing you’ll be with her and our little baby Matty.’ He sobbed as he spoke, then went on, ‘I know that you and our Rita were good women; you never meant to do anyone harm. You both had hearts of gold – ’twas some strange quirk in your natures that made you run wild. I feel I failed you both, and now I long to be with you. If God is kind, He will let me join you in heaven. But first, I have young Davie and Don to look out for.’
Tears ran down his face, and he took a long, withering sigh. At that moment, he heard the sound of an engine, and pulling aside one of the curtains, which were closed throughout the house, he saw the hearse draw up at the kerb. Inside was a coffin, covered with the flowers he had ordered. This was the third member of his family he had seen to their last resting-place from here, and his heart cracked under the burden of his sorrow.
Bracing his shoulders, and saying a last, brief prayer, the old man went to open the front door to accompany his daughter to the church.
When the Makepeaces turned down Watson Street they were surprised to see several groups of people already gathering outside the church. ‘Well, I never!’ Beth was surprised at the considerable turnout. ‘Look! There’s Mr and Mrs Reynolds.’ She’d never really taken to the couple. There was summat sly about the pair of them, although their son Lenny was a nice boy.
Today, the young woman was nicely turned out, her hair freshly washed and brushed loose about her shoulders and a touch of lipstick to her mouth; and with no children round her ankles, she seemed more relaxed and much prettier than Beth recalled. Patsy had four children, two girls and two boys – the eldest being Lenny. Not yet sixteen but already with his own little stall on the market, Lenny apparently made no secret of his intention to make a fortune by the time he was twenty. Beth thought he was a grand lad, hardly a chip off the old block, as Patsy’s husband Ron was a tall, thin-faced man, a surly character, and workshy by all accounts.
Beth greeted them with a nod. ‘I hardly recognised you without your childer,’ she told the woman.
‘When I’ve got my hands full with them, I never have time to make myself look nice,’ Patsy replied. ‘I’ve roped our Lenny in to look after the kids. That’ll bring him down to earth with a bump!’
She turned to her husband, who returned a wry little grin. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it won’t hurt the cocky young devil to know his place … keep him from getting above himself, if you know what I mean?’
Beth said in his defence, ‘As I recall, your son looked a sensible, capable sort.’ Lenny was a well-built boy with a mop of dark hair and a wary look in his eye. ‘I imagine he’ll cope with the children very well.’ Bidding them good day, she moved on, feeling put out, somehow.
‘I don’t think that woman gets on too well with her eldest son,’ she confided in Tom. ‘I heard her going at him hammer and tongs that day at the house, and now they’re talking as though he’s a ruffian who needs to be kept under control.’
Tom was his usual self. ‘None of our business,’ he said, and the subject was closed.
There was a smattering of other neighbours, most of them Joseph’s friends and old workmates, and others who were attending out of curiosity. There were also a number of younger men; these were Don’s colleagues from the workshop, men who knew of Rita’s reputation but never lowered themselves to be acquainted with her or betray Don. Together with their wives they were here to support the bereaved family, and show their respect. In Don’s absence, they tried to represent him. The poor fellow would be devastated when he found out. It was a thoroughly bad do all round.
The others, the men who had used Rita and fought over her like dogs over a bone, they knew well enough to stay away.
No sooner had Tom parked his car than the organ started up and everyone began to file into the church. ‘No signs of Don then?’ Tom glanced anxiously about.
Beth had also been discreetly watching. ‘Happen the police didn’t find him, after all.’
‘Poor devil.’ Tom shook his head. ‘So he’ll not know his wife’s gone and his son missing?’ As he went in through the church door he kept his eyes peeled.