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

next,’ Felicity said. ‘Name, occupation, why you’re here, et cetera.’

‘Joy by name. Joy by nature,’ said the woman called Joy in the hunting tunic.

‘You hide that well, lovey.’ Gladys grinned at Joy.

‘Welcome, Joy, lovely that you could come with all you have on your busy plate,’ Felicity cut in.

With a tendency to think literally, Stella noted that Joy hadn’t touched the cake on her plate. Stella had nibbled at hers; the scary incident on the dark lane had killed her appetite. She hugged Stanley closer, not forgetting that, however sleepy he appeared to be, the cake would be the only thing on his mind.

‘I expect to take away what I came with. Common sense. We will all die and for some of us the end will be sooner than for others.’ Joy jutted a determined chin. ‘No point in beating about the bush.’

Stella came out in a sweat. Going clockwise around the table, after Joy was Clive who was consulting a silver fob watch attached to his waistcoat. Then it would be her turn.

‘…organist at the abbey, I’m the first woman. My male predecessor died.’ Joy nodded. ‘I’m not a feminist, but it was time. My dear father taught me: leave your mark, don’t let sleeping dogs lie. The marvellous Grove organ on the north side of the Choir is my path to immortality, I shall not be forgotten.’ She traced one of the embroidered rabbits with a stubby finger. ‘I want to discuss the last image we want to see as life ebbs from the corporeal form. Mine is da Vinci’s The Last Supper. His Jesus is my father to a T.’

Joy seemed to be one of those people like Lucie who, the more confidential what they had to say was, the louder they said it.

‘My old man was more of a Tommy Trinder,’ Gladys said. ‘The person I want to see as I die is Derek, he was my saviour.’

Joy made a short scornful sound that made Stella want to rescue Gladys.

‘No one man can be a saviour. We have to save ourselves.’ Joy looked disapproving. Stella felt blind panic: she had no idea what she wanted to see. It haunted her that her father’s last view – he died outside the Co-op – was a grubby pavement in a small seaside town. It had been a huge mistake to come.

‘Who would like to speak next?’ A flush was creeping up Felicity’s neck. Stella supposed that her first Death Café wasn’t going to plan and considered stepping in. Jack said Stella had to stop wanting to rescuing people, they must find their own way. She hadn’t rescued Jack.

Stella was considering holding her nose and getting it over with when the door flew open and a blast of wind and rain blew in a tall woman, beanie pulled over her ears, mud-streaked parka coat dripping on the parquet. She flung herself onto a chair between Clive and Gladys and, shrugging out of her parka, bashed at the knees of equally muddy denim overalls as if to clean them. Her face was almost hidden by a khaki snood yet it was easy to tell she was scowling ferociously. All Stella cared about was that now the newcomer would speak before her.

‘You’re late. What is your name and why have you come?’ Felicity said, which, to Stella’s mind, sounded really quite rude.

‘I only remembered once I got home, I had to cycle back,’ came the muffled reply. ‘Andrea.’

‘We’ve only just started.’ Stella came to the rescue.

‘I know.’ Andrea did a ‘duh’ expression as if this was a no-brainer.

‘Yes, ducky, you settle down. I’d take those wet things off or you’ll get a chill in your kidneys.’ Gladys Wren’s concern nearly had Stella crying after all. Her own mother loved her, but expressions of concern came out as terse strictures. Gladys was explaining to Andrea, ‘…we have to say what we hope to get from here.’

‘Get warm and then not get soaked on the way home.’

‘We’ve all made sacrifices to be here.’ Felicity beamed at the group. ‘This is Andrea, everyone. Welcome, Andrea.’

‘Hardly,’ Andrea said.

‘Hi there.’ Stella nodded to her, but Andrea was scowling at Stanley.

‘Didn’t know we could bring dogs.’

‘Have you got a dog?’ Clive leaned unnecessarily close to Andrea.

‘No,’ Andrea said.

It amazed Stella, brought up to be polite by warring parents, how perfect strangers could think nothing of being rude to each other. Although, aside from Andrea and herself, it seemed that everyone else knew each other. Only to be expected in a small town. Stella knew it was contrary but, horrified at making light conversation with the group, she also felt obscure resentment at being an outsider. No question of pairing with Andrea, she appeared to have taken an instant dislike to Stella.

‘I’ll throw in my hat.’ The elderly man cleared his throat loudly. ‘Clive’s me name, footloose and fancy free is me nature.’ He snatched off his wire-framed glasses and puffing on the lenses buffed them vigorously with his stained tie. ‘Joy, if by feminist you mean one who loves women, c’est moi.’

‘That’s not being a feminist, that’s a lesbian, which I doubt you are, Clive. Some women are frightened they’ll be mistaken for gay if they admit to preferring women-only spaces.’ Joy spoke to the fob-watch man as if he were a child. ‘I, for example, am not a lesbian, however I won’t hide bitter disappointment that my expectation that this discussion would exclude men has proved to be false.’

‘I’ll be whatever you like, Joyous.’ Clive waggled his glasses like Eric Morecambe.

‘Is that about death?’ Andrea glared at Joy and Clive. ‘Men die as much as women, why wouldn’t they be here?’

Paying attention to the group’s dynamics – Jack would if he was there – Stella decided Andrea’s animosity was indiscriminate and not aimed at her. But how odd to come since she clearly didn’t want to be there.

So, I’m an—’ Clive was drowned out by Rod Stewart. Stella recognized ‘The First Cut is the Deepest’.

‘That’s mine.