Page 33 of A Face in the Crowd
‘Luce…’
Annie is whispering my name and I turn to her.
‘You’re staring,’ she adds softly.
It’s only then that I realise James has almost completed the list of names. He reads out the final one and then stands solemnly for a moment before bowing his head and returning to his seat. Somehow a minute, perhaps two, has passed without me noticing.
There’s no time to reflect because we’re on our feet once more for another hymn. The man in front again launches himself into the chorus, but, this time, I don’t even pretend to mouth the words. I shouldn’t be here.
The rector talks a little more; Elaine does a reading; there’s another hymn – because everyone likes a good ol’ sing-song at a memorial – and then that’s that for another year. The organ hums as we filter out into the chilled November sun. The grass of the cemetery beyond is covered with a layer of dew that I’d missed before and a breeze has started to skim across the fields beyond, fluttering the evergreens that line the edge of the graveyard.
There’s always an awkward moment after anything like this in which nobody quite knows what to do. People stand and smile awkwardly at one another, or exchange the most mundane of small talk.
Lovely service, wasn’t it?
At least the weather held out.
How was the journey down?
Someone I barely recognise and of whom I’m not sure I’ve ever known the name tells me I look lovely, so I say the same to her. Nobody ever strides up to another person at a funeral or memorial and tells them they could’ve made more of an effort.
It’s as we’re meandering that a woman appears at my side as if she’d materialised there. She’s in a tight black dress with a ridiculously oversized hat. If it wasn’t a dim grey, she could’ve been off to ladies’ day at the races.
‘It’s Lucy, isn’t it?’ she says, extending her hand. We shake, but I’m suddenly aware of my chewed fingernails against her manicured talons. She has glossy dark hair to match her dress and, though there is a glimmer of recognition, I definitely don’t know her name. ‘Gloria,’ she says as a prompt – and it’s only now that I remember her phone call. She wanted to talk about money and I’m suddenly clutching my bag tighter, feeling protective over the envelope within.
Annie is still at my side and glances between us curiously. I get the sense she knows Gloria better than I do.
‘Can we have a word?’ Gloria adds. ‘There’s a pub down the road and they’re putting on a buffet. Perhaps there?’
It feels so British, like this is our national catchphrase. Forget ‘tally-ho, old chap’, it’s ‘they’re putting on a buffet’.
I glance between Gloria and Annie, jammed in the obvious tension between them.
‘Sure,’ I reply, ‘but I don’t have a way back to the station. Annie drove me here and—’
‘Oh, I can give you a lift,’ Gloria says dismissively.
I don’t particularly want to bail on Annie, but Gloria mentioned money and I know I need to hear what she has to say. When I turn to Annie, she’s already set.
‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘We can catch up another time. I’ll text you later or tomorrow.’
There’s yet another moment in which it feels like I’m missing something. Gloria and Annie eye each other for a withering second and then Annie waves goodbye. We do the air-kiss thing that nobody does in real life and then she strides away.
‘So…’ Gloria says conspiratorially, ‘shall we talk money?’
Chapter Nineteen
It is seemingly a well-known fact that nothing pays tribute to victims more than getting lashed in their honour.
The Thirsty Fox is one of those stone-brick postcard pubs that I suspect only exists in Britain. It’s next to a stream and a neat humpback bridge but otherwise surrounded by vast swathes of green. Chuck in a red phone-box next to a black cab and American tourists would be throwing their money at it.
A fire is crackling at the back of the function room and the walls are decked out with landscape prints of various countryside scenes. Almost everyone from the church is here mingling with one another, but I’m off to the side, in a booth by myself, feeling invisible. I’m ready to move on from all this but many aren’t. Who am I to judge?
Considering how little I eat and how much I worry about money, a free buffet should be right up my alley – but I can do little other than pick at the bite-size sausage rolls and triangular cheese and pickle sandwiches.
I’ve been at the pub for twenty minutes, but, almost as soon as Gloria pulled into the car park, her phone rang. She told me she’d catch me up – and that was the last I saw of her. There’s a part of me that wonders if I’ve been dumped and I’m now going to have to actually talk to people before finding my way back to the train station.
I’ve got half a sausage roll in my mouth when Gloria suddenly appears once more, clutching a phone in each hand.
