The Distant Dead by Lesley Thomson (most difficult books to read .txt) 📗

when Stella had been there for evensong. She, too, had to be over seventy. In her early fifties, Stella wondered if she should come back later. Twenty years later.

‘I’m Stella,’ she told Felicity.

‘We’ll do introductions in a mo. There’s builders’ tea, sachets of a ghastly herbal concoction that promises to send you to sleep and coffee. No milk, it got spilt. Serving beverages is harder than performing an autopsy.’ Felicity banged a bowl of sugar onto the counter. ‘I hope you weren’t expecting wine. As I told Clive, the purpose of this evening is honest discussion, not getting plastered. The Death Café lot say you have to provide refreshments or, frankly, I’d get on with it.’

‘Black coffee please.’ Stella was startled at the reference to an autopsy – presumably Felicity had to keep on a death theme.

Once everyone was seated, Felicity distributed perfectly cut slices of the cake on paper plates. Opposite Stella and Stanley – held tightly on Stella’s lap – was an overweight woman, the fringe of her iron-grey bob clamped with a slide shaped like an elephant’s tusk. Stella reckoned the woman was late sixties. Her demeanour was grim, a weird contrast to her brightly coloured Elizabethan-style tunic embroidered with deer and rabbits who were being chased by men firing arrows.

‘Does he moult?’ The woman was looking at Stanley. ‘I’m allergic.’

‘No.’ Stella clutched Stanley tighter which made him struggle to jump down. ‘He’s made of wool.’

‘I do hope so,’ the woman said.

‘Don’t panic, Joy.’ An elderly woman shut the door to the toilets next to the servery. ‘You’re more likely to get asthma from my angora jumper.’ Sitting down next to Stella, the woman winked at her. Stella took in the auburn-coloured bob and turquoise polo-neck. The woman arranged a silver quilted jacket around her shoulders.

‘Evening, Gladys,’ the Tudor woman said.

Seeing how smartly dressed all three women were, Stella felt embarrassed by her fleece, worn since cleaning the abbey that morning. She’d left time no go home and change.

Sticking to the rules of a Death Café, Felicity informed them she was their facilitator and asked everyone to ‘go gently into the night with me, it’s my first time in the hot seat’. She listed ground rules, ‘mobile phones off’ and said not to:

‘…promote your business particularly if you are an undertaker or sell wreaths. A Death Café is not a bereavement support group, if your loved one is recently deceased and your grief raw, this ain’t for you.’ She rested her gaze on Clive who was on a second slice of Victoria sponge and looked to Stella the picture of chirpiness. For herself, she welcomed the no tears rule. Were she to start crying, Stella feared she’d never stop.

‘Tell us why you have come tonight. Offer us a point for discussion. What do you hope to take away?’ Glancing up from what looked like a crib sheet, Felicity’s smile revealed a row of expensive-looking teeth. All Stella could think she must take away was her rucksack which last week she’d left in the abbey after evensong.

‘We’ll start with Mrs Gladys Wren.’ Felicity pointed her fountain pen at the woman in the silver jacket. ‘Please tell the group your name and what you do for a living.’

‘You’ve given it away.’ Gladys Wren raised eyebrows dyed to match her hair. ‘Landlady, for my sins. Now, what do I say?’

‘Why you’re here.’ Tudor tunic rolled her eyes.

‘Call me Gladys.’ Gladys toyed with her cake. ‘It was recommended by a friend. Death is never far away, is it? My hubby Derek always said, when it was my turn, they’d have found a vaccine. He said I got younger by the day. God rest him.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ the Tudor woman said. ‘How terrible would it be if everyone around this table never died.’

‘Lovely contribution, Gladys,’ Felicity said. ‘What will you take with you?’

‘A bit of this lovely cake if Mr Burgess hasn’t scoffed the lot.’ Gladys angled her fork at Clive, the elderly man who had greeted Stella. ‘It’s so light and buttery, did you make it, Felicity?’

‘Shop-bought.’ Felicity made an irrelevant gesture with her hand.

‘I came here…’ Poking about in a plastic crocodile-skin bag, Gladys dug out a well-thumbed Donald Duck notebook and flicked through the pages. ‘For shopping lists, ah, here it is. “To face death in the face.” That sounds silly when you say it out loud.’

‘Death is all around, everywhere you look,’ the Tudor woman said.

‘Now there’s a song.’ Gladys waggled a finger. ‘“Love is All Around”.

‘It was fifteen weeks in 1994 for Wet Wet Wet.’ Stella liked statistics.

‘After Derek’s time or he’d have swept me off my feet.’ Humming the tune, Gladys swayed in her seat and, unprompted by her Donald Duck book, ‘Grief never leaves you, no day goes by when Derek isn’t with me. Ten years is ten minutes.’ And to Felicity, ‘Don’t you worry, lovey, I shan’t cry.’

‘Do any of you have a subject we can air as a group?’ Felicity tapped her paper.

‘While we’re on the subject of death…’ Gladys flicked to the back of the notebook and, flattening the pages, read out in halting tones a sentence written across two pages. Stella was no handwriting expert, yet she didn’t associate the bold scrawl in green ink with Gladys. ‘What. I want to. Know. Is.’ Gladys turned the book diagonal to better read, ‘“Who here wishes someone was dead? I know one who shall remain nameless.”’

Stella was impressed that Gladys had come prepared. She herself had not.

‘I’m sure we all do, but it’s not our purpose tonight. Is there anything apart from cake you hope to take away?’

Stella felt for Felicity, chairing the group was like herding cats.

‘Happiness.’ Gladys heaved her shoulders. ‘Since Derek. Oops, there I go again, he will pop up.’ She hunched into her silver jacket and fell silent.

‘Lovely, Gladys.’ Felicity crossed out what looked to Stella like Gladys’s name. She imagined Felicity thinking one down, three to go. Stella hoped time would run out before Felicity got to her.

‘Joy, you’re