Henry shook his head in disbelief.
Rita sang loudly and clearly. There had been few hymns she’d found comfort in, but this had been one of them. The hymn finished and Henry and Rita watched enthralled as Imogen’s father rose and walked to the lectern.
‘My father-in-law,’ whispered Henry.
Rita had hoped the man who looked somewhat like Henry might do a reading so she could get a closer look at the man who had fathered Henry. That’s just how Henry will look when older, she thought, distinguished and handsome. She was then jolted back to the realisation that this was Henry’s funeral and that Henry would never become old and distinguished and Rita felt unbearably sad.
‘I’d like to read a piece Henry liked,’ said Henry’s father-in-law.
Henry leant forward in his seat and Rita did likewise.
‘If I should die before the rest of you,’ began John Wiseman.
‘Ah, Joyce Grenfell,’ cried Henry, clapping his hands in delight.
Rita had no idea who Joyce Grenfell was. She made a mental note to ask Henry later.
‘Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone,’ continued John,
‘nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice, but be the usual elves that I have known. Weep if you must: parting is hell.
But life goes on. So sing as well.’
‘Excellent,’ said Henry. Now, that was the ticket, he thought.
The vicar thanked John, and Henry nodded enthusiastically. Rita wondered if she should remind Henry that he wasn’t dead, and they should really be doing something about that. Rita’s stomach was gripped with fear. What would happen to Henry when they put the coffin in the ground? Would he disappear altogether?
‘Oh,’ she uttered before she could stop herself.
‘What is it?’ Henry asked, alarmed at the tone in her voice.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered.
Imogen was rising from her seat and Rita heard Henry take a sharp breath but then Imogen sat down again. Her mother whispered something in her ear and Rita so wished she was sitting nearer and could hear what they were saying. It was only right that Henry knew what was going on. Imogen’s mother then stood and walked to the lectern.
‘My mother-in-law,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t think she ever liked me.’
‘I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t like you,’ said Rita innocently.
Cynthia Wiseman looked out at the congregation. Her eyes met Rita’s and Rita shifted in her seat.
‘I think she can see me,’ said Henry excitedly.
He stood up and waved and Rita thought her heart would stop with the fright of it all, but his mother-in-law simply looked down at the piece of paper in front of her and began to read.
‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself …’
‘What the …?’ said Henry.
‘John 14, 1:4,’ said Rita knowingly.
‘Oh,’ said Henry, exhaling.
Cynthia Wiseman finished the reading and walked back to her seat. Rita heard sobbing from the front of the church and wondered if it was Imogen.
‘Imogen will most likely say something next,’ said Henry, feeling, in an odd way, grateful to be at his own funeral.
The vicar smiled warmly at the front row.
