Page 1 of Weeping Roses

CHAPTER 1

POLLY

LONDON, ENGLAND

Why does it always rain in England? It seems to, anyway. I stand shivering under my umbrella as I watch the spectacle playing out in front of me.

Death.

I shiver as the cold fingers of mortality remind me it happens to us all in the end and as I stare at the coffin that is being lifted on straps over the freshly dug hole in the ground, I make up my mind to be cremated instead.

The thought of decomposing in the wooden casket makes me shiver with fear at the thought of insects consuming my flesh and invading my lifeless corpse.

I grip my umbrella a little tighter as the lightning strikes high in the sky, causing a few of the onlookers to jump, one woman beside me stifling a scream.

The priest stands on the edge of the grave, his white robes now splattered with God’s earth as he attempts to say a prayer above the noise of the hailstones that are battering against the umbrellas of my fellow mourners.

Hell and damnation, perhaps. Is that where she’s heading? From what I know of my aunt, that could be a distinct possibility.

It strikes me there are no tears at this funeral. If anything, I doubt there is anyone here who knew her well enough to mourn her passing.

I heard of her somewhere deep in my past. I just never realized she was real, not the way my mother spoke of her sister-in-law.

They never got on and we had nothing to do with her and when my parents died, my aunt never even sent flowers.

It makes me question why I’m here at all, but then I remember why.

I inherited everything in her will.

A movement on the edge of the path distracts my attention from the open wound that is my aunt’s final resting place.

Two black cars have pulled up and I can’t see who it is because the windows are blacked out.

I continue to stare at the cars in fascination because it’s as if they are here to pay their last respects.

“The world has lost an angel.”

The woman beside me mutters, and I swear I have never met her before in my life.

“It has.” I lie because I’m unsure if she was, an angel that is, and I wonder if the mysterious car owners knew her.

A lot more than anyone else here, I’m guessing.

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall …

The priest’s monotone voice commits my aunt’s body to the ground and, as we say a collective ‘Amen’, he retreats under his black umbrella.

I step forward. It’s expected. I am the only official family member here. Her legacy if you like. The last man standing and the keeper of all things unfamiliar because I haven’t got a clue how I’m going to deal with the tangle of red tape she has left me with.

I hold the red rose in my hand, the thorns thoughtfully having been clipped and I feel bad that I must toss an object of such beauty to its death before its time.

Is that what happened to my aunt? She was barely fifty when she died because of a freak accident that cost more than her own life. An explosion that came out of nowhere and killed everyone in the house.

I hold the umbrella a little tighter as the rain batters against the fabric and rather than prolong this, I toss the rose on the coffin and grasp a handful of wet sodden earth that lies beside the grave.

As I toss the dirt, it falls on the rose and strangely, that is what brings a tear to my eye. The fragile petals are buried under the dirt, the petals poking through as if imploring to be saved.

I turn away. I don’t need to see any more. My aunt is gone. There is nothing left to say.

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