Читать книгу Draca - Geoffrey Gudgion - Страница 32

Eddie Ahlquist didn ’ t get the fireship funeral Jack said he wanted, but a bog- standard cremation. George went, to represent the boatyard, but got there early because the buses weren ’ t convenient. She had over an hour to kill sitting on a bench outside a crem that had as much soul as a drive-through McDonalds.

Her mum had it right, although George had been young enough to sneer at the time. When her mum knew she was dying, she asked for a woodland burial, and chose a wicker coffin that creaked like a picnic basket when they lifted her. Her new-age girlfriends wore bright, Indian- print dresses, and burned joss sticks and candles in jam jars at the graveside. They ’ d all grown up in the Flower Power hippie era, and somehow never left it. One of them even brought finger cymbals. They wove yellow celandine flowers into her m um ’ s hair before they closed the coffin. Strange how colours stick with you, even though George always remembered her not in yellow but in shades of silver and violet. They glowed like a Mum-shaped photo frame around her memory.

That happened, with people she knew. Colours, that is. Her mum talked about auras, which made George laugh because she made it sound like people walked around all lit up like a Christmas tree. She wished her mum had lived long enough for them to have had a proper conversation about that stuff. It was just that some colours seemed to fit when she thought of people. They told her about them, the way they told her that Eddie was going to die. On her bench outside the crem , George watched Jack Ahlquist arrive, and when she thought about him he had strong reds, moody blues and sad greys. Interesting but dangerous.

Then an older man came who could only be Jack ’ s father and Eddie ’ s son. All of them sandy haired, big boned and strong jawed. Jack ’ s dad shepherded people outside the crematorium, shaking hands, the man in charge. He had the thick neck of someone who pumped iron, and a mouth that was a thin, straight line. When he smiled, the line got wider but didn ’ t curve upwards, it just got bracketed by folds in his cheeks, sharp as the triangles on a navigation buoy.

George stayed on her bench because she didn ’ t know anyone there apart from Jack, and he was busy with family. No one else came from the boatyard, not even Eddie ’ s old sailing cronies. He ’ d lost a lot of friends in recent years, but that was sad.

George could learn a lot from watching people. At first, everyone looked the same. All in black, all with that funeral look as if they wore a passport photograph where their faces should be. She could make out the Ahlquist crowd, all hugs and kisses except Jack, and then there was an older man and two women who stood a bit apart, both more smartly dressed than the rest, and the only women in hats. A husband, wife and daughter, at a guess. The man was a short, lean, military type who stood very square. When people came up to the older woman, she offered her hand palm-down, fingers drooping, as if she expected them to go down on one knee and kiss it. No one stayed with them, and the three kept to themselves as if they knew it was pointless to try to talk.

Jack moved between them and the rest, half belonging to both groups, neither oil nor water, looking stressed. Like all the men he was sweating in his dark suit, with spots of damp staining his shirt across his chest. The younger woman must be his wife, so the military man and the duchess were the in-laws, and the families didn ’ t get on.

Jack waved when he saw George. Nothing too enthusiastic, but enough for her to wander over and say hello. She was ready for the mother-in-law ’ s fingers. If you slide your hand under that kind of regal greeting, then grip and twist, you can turn it into a proper handshake. The d uchess didn ’ t like that. She didn ’ t like George ’ s looks, either. The duchess was tall enough for her eyes to be at the level of George ’ s hair, and George saw her wince. So what? George liked orange. It ’ s a strong colour, and it was only a streak. While Jack fumbled the introductions the woman ’ s eyes dropped so she was looking down her nose at George ’ s skirt, and her mouth pursed into a tight, wrinkly, cat ’ s – arse circle of disapproval. Maybe yellow was a bit bright for a funeral, but there wasn ’ t much call for dark, smart stuff in a boatyard. At least George had put a decent jacket over it, and she bet the duchess couldn ’ t tell that the jacket came from a charity shop.

Jack ’ s wife introduced herself as Charlotte. Very upmarket, with the sort of accent you hear in posh shops. Her handshake was straight, if a bit cool. She was tall, like her mother, and slender and attractive, unlike her mother. Her black straw hat was broad-brimmed so she had to tilt her head to one side to whisper in George ’ s ear.

‘ Thank God for some colour. I think Old Eddie would have loved it. ’

George decided she was going to like Charlotte. She stayed near her as they were ushered inside.