Читать книгу The Tarnished Necklace - Trish Inc. Duffin - Страница 9

The small group arrived at the church. Maria was nervous, recalling yesterday’s conversation, and she hoped Peter wasn’t disappointed again. She had quietly confided in her parents about what had happened and they said they would see what they can do. Her fears proved to be unfounded though. Peter harnessed his horse alongside theirs and headed towards the church. He was very aware that his wife wasn’t beside him, his hands were tightly clenched in his pockets, and his smile was somewhat forced. This was his first major public outing without Chenoa and it wasn’t easy. He felt very alone at that moment and only too aware of the glances and whispers. Every fibre screamed at him to turn around and leave.

An elderly man stood to one side and glanced up at this newcomer. He detected the pensive look on the young man’s face and stepped forward to greet him. His voice was frail with age but his eyes were alert and his grip strong as he shook Peter’s hand. The way people greeted him showed he was held in a lot of respect within the community. “Good morning young man, my name is Murray Wilkinson. Welcome along.”

Peter shook his hand and smiled, introducing himself.

“So, young man, where do you come from?” enquired Murray.

The answer was vague. “Originally England. I bought the property from Jason and Samantha White in the spring.”

Murray nodded. “I know the property, they were good friends of mine.” He then looked sideways and behind Peter. “Jason said a young couple expecting a baby bought the property. I presume this was you. May I meet your wife and child?”

Peter took a ragged breath and shot up a silent prayer. “No, oh God, not now. Help me.” How could he explain this, surrounded by people in such a public setting? He gently took hold of Murray’s arm, “Please sir, come with me,” he muttered and steered him aside. “Ah, sorry sir, I just didn’t want to say this surrounded by everyone.” He paused, looking over the old man’s head for a second, seeking the right words and using that time to gain control over his tightening throat. “My wife died in childbirth in early June.”

Murray was silent for moment as he looked up into the young man’s face. He could imagine the inner struggle he was facing. “I’m sorry son, I didn’t realise. I lost my wife three years ago and still miss her every day. I know how you feel.”

Peter looked at the elderly gentleman and appreciated his openness. “My sympathies sir. How long were you together for?”

Murray looked up with a faraway look on his face. “We were together 51 wonderful years then one morning I woke up to discover she had gone to be with the Lord without me.” He looked into this young man’s face and continued. “Don’t get mad at God son, get close to him.” He patted Peter on the shoulder. “Come on inside and sit with me,” and together they walked in. Murray ensured that people moved over so that Peter could be beside him and the two men settled on the hard wooden pew. The organ wheezed into life as the opening strains of ‘Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing’ was played. This was Peter’s favourite hymn and a sudden flood of peace coursed through him as he stood to sing. His voice rang clear as he sang, rippling up and down through the complex notes with ease. Then came the verse, ‘Jesus! the name that charms our fears, that bids our sorrows cease.’ That line jumped out at him, ‘that bids our sorrows cease.’ Two people glanced his way, taken with the trained baritone voice that they could hear. The organ paused and then another hymn started. Again, a favourite of Peter’s and again his clear voice was heard. Maria was with the choir and despite the drone of the organ and the misguided notes in her left ear she could hear him. She could definitely see him, he was head and shoulders over the others. He seemed happy and a different man from the one who had walked into the church not ten minutes earlier. Then the sermon, based on the Beatitudes. It was a message that was so applicable both to the young man and the elderly man sitting together, fifty years in difference yet sharing something in common. At the end of the service Peter quickly left the building, pausing only to shake Murray’s hand. He unhitched his horse and headed home on his own. He needed to be alone, he needed to be with Chenoa. He needed to keep this cloak of peace that had descended on him. He needed it to remain around his shoulders and comfort his heart. He didn’t want to destroy it with idle chat or laughter.

Within half an hour he was seated beside Chenoa’s grave, telling her of that morning, of Murray, the hymns, the sermon and the sense of peace surrounding him. He realised he could say goodbye to Chenoa and let her rest in peace. He knew that his heart would heal in time and grief would lose its grip. The sun continued its gradual slide across the sky and a soft wind blew around, sending up little dust eddies as it swirled across the yard. Still Peter sat, just resting, hearing his breath and feeling the wind tickle his face and ruffle his hair. He mused over the events of the last year, the fear, the joy, the love and then the sorrow. He then found himself in a kneeling position and simply saying “thank you.” Thank you for all the good moments, thank you for the friends who were there for the bad time, thank you for the small seed of hope that was germinating deep in his heart. Eventually he straightened up, laid his hand on the gravestone and turned his back to her grave. Murray’s words rang in his ears “Don’t get mad at God son, get close to him.” He realised that this wonderful wise old man had offered him the advice that was going to get him through.

That night he slept without waking from troubling nightmares. In the morning when he awoke the bed didn’t seem so empty and the day’s demands didn’t daunt him. For the first time since the burial he started the day without going out to their grave.