Grandma was proud of her bruises, said she ‘won ’em square’. I should have pressed further, but she insisted that they were her stories and none of my business. Besides, I was busy burying my husband.
All of Little Muttling turned out in the rain. The Deacon’s wife, Prudence Willoughby-Jones, stood beside her husband, solemn under her bright pink umbrella and sporting yellow wellingtons decorated with crimson birds. The Deacon wore a faded yellow mac with the remnants of a British Railways stencil on the breast.
It had been so sudden. A car accident, like his parents. I had done my best with the arrangements, but our funeral director was the dearly departed. I had been forced to send for assistance from Roland Proude of Proude’s Eternal Repose Funerals, at neighbouring Harlowe’s End. My crushing grief ill-equipped me to deal with his tut-tutting over the state of my husband’s business, his persistent offers to buy me out and his lingering hugs of condolence.
The wake was full of sorrowful mutterings and mumblings of “so tragic” and “so young“. I saw Grandma’s face growing dark with rage, so I walked over to her and took her hand to console her. Our grief was shared—I had lost the love of my life, and she had lost her only grandchild.
“Grandma? They’re just trying…”
“Bitch!”
I dropped her hand. “Grandma?”
“Flo Barret. Look at her. Serving those scones.”
I looked around and confirmed that Florence Barret was indeed serving scones, as accused. “Er, yes. Very… evil.”
“She’s put the cream on first! That evil bitch knows the jam always goes on first.”
“Grandma…”
“The queen did it proper—we should do it proper. Bitch.”
I was saved from untangling this ambiguity by a hand on my arm. “Mrs Thornewood?” Grace Ashwood was our lawyer. In truth she was a long-retired lawyer, but she had married a much younger one so that ‘she could keep her hand in, and he could deal with the paperwork’. She nodded at Grandma, “Vera. I must steal away your daughter-in-law before that horrid little man escapes Willy’s clutches.” She nodded over at her husband, who was prattling at Roland Proude while flailing his arms like a windmill. Roland was ducking under the more vigorous gesticulations and looking over at me.
Grandma nodded and stalked off. Presumably tracking the evil Mrs Barret and her sacrilegious scones. I allowed Grace to steer me into the store room.
Grace closed the door behind us. She leaned against it and looked at me. “Hannah, you cannot sell the funeral home to that slimy shite.”
My husband was barely in his grave and these people were already telling me what I could and couldn’t do. This fucking village. I had never understood the love my darling James had for Little Muttling. As for Roland—that slimy shite was my ticket to freedom. I swallowed my guilt like one of Flo’s scones. “I don’t see how my choices are any business of yours.”
“You misunderstand,” Grace raised a placating hand. “There is a clause in the will. James left you the business on condition that you run it for a year. If you do not agree to fulfill these terms, and as both of his parents are deceased, the Thornewood Funeral Home will instead pass to his grandmother, Vera Thornewood.”
***
I stared at the neat stack of invoices on the desk where James would do his accounts. Three years of marriage and I still stuffed my receipts into a shoebox. Now I was supposed to run a funeral home? I’d studied art and music at university – a perfect storm of useless skills for the real world.
God help me if I had to actually bury anyone. I had no wish to ask Proude for assistance again. The man was still pestering me with his incessant calls and unwelcome invitations.
Fortunately, the business accounts did contain money. I tried to reconcile the surprisingly large balance with the number of funerals recorded over the past year, but I couldn’t make the sums work. I considered taking the books to old Michael McGregor, our local accountant, but I was worried that if he found anything irregular the shock might kill him. I wasn’t looking for customers.
Then I found the invoices for painkillers. Lots of invoices. For lots of painkillers. I was fairly certain that by the time our clients reached us they were beyond the need for pain relief. What was going on?
What had my James gotten himself in to?
***
I began watching the village over the next few days. If something untoward was going on, it would manifest itself by—actually I had no idea what I was looking for. But I knew I would recognise it when I saw it.
Instead, I discovered that everyone was so fucking nice to each other. Over the past three years, I had grown sick of hearing the village gossip. But now that I was paying attention… Mrs Peterson and Mrs Jenkins had been feuding since the Rose Garden Dispute of 2020—yet there they were sharing gardening tips and tea. Old man Jenkins clapped Major Wilkinson around the shoulders as though they had not been arguing over fence heights for a year. Everywhere I looked I saw peace and harmony. It was wrong.
Unless, of course, everyone was half-drugged out of their minds on painkillers. Painkillers that until recently had been supplied by a much-loved funeral director.
Then, on Saturday evening I heard a strident note of discord as I was slinking along the shadows trying to avoid all of the nice.
Grandma. Maybe this was part of her precious story.
I followed the voices to an open window of the Women’s Institute hall. I peered inside. Grandma was facing off against none other than Florence Barret, she of the apocryphal Devonshire scones.
Florence was shaking her fist at Grandma. “Vera, everyone knows it’s ‘dark Satanic Mills‘, not ‘dark sardonic hills‘. It’s disrespectful, is what it is. We sing Jerusalem right in this WI.”
Grandma crossed her arms. “Satan has no place in it. We shouldn’t ever be singing his name.”
“Are you off your meds? You think you know better than Blake?”
A hand grasped my shoulder, nearly turning me into a customer of my own business. I spun around to see Prudence, the Deacon’s wife. She moved much more quietly without her wellingtons.
“Now what is a lovely lass doing peering through windows? It’s not proper. Not proper at all. Come along, Hannah. Time for a cup of tea.”
I wilted before that kind but disapproving look and decided to follow her before she grabbed me by the ear and led me off like a naughty schoolgirl. I managed to catch the words ‘home’ and ‘Tuesday’ as we moved from the window.
Was Tuesday the day the drugs were dispatched, the day Grandma would top up her ‘meds’? But who was in charge of distribution now James was gone?
I resolved to find out.
***
On Tuesday morning it belatedly occurred to me that the villagers had been watching me as closely as I had been watching them. Through cataracts and spectacles, admittedly, but they did have me significantly outnumbered.
I tried to act nonchalant as I opened up the funeral home. But after knocking over two vases and a coffin, I went back to acting normal—something I discovered to be much more difficult to do on purpose. As I collected the shattered remnants of yet another vase I realised that the villagers were unlikely to do anything before dark.
I decided to visit James. Much as I loved him, he had landed me in this mess. It was time I told him how angry I was about that. I closed up the home and headed for the cemetery, stopping along the way to buy flowers—peonies, his favourite. Mrs Peterson gave me a sympathetic smile as she handed over my change. I innocently mentioned that I was going to stay out at the cemetery tonight reading to James.
“Yes, dear,” she said.
I nonchalantly tripped over a bucket of roses on the way out.
***
The funeral home was shrouded in darkness when I returned. I was disappointed, but decided to investigate anyway.
The rooms were empty and dark, as was proper. But as I turned to leave I caught the slightest murmur of sound, like the muttering of voices. I followed the sound to an unused storage cupboard behind the offices. Only it wasn’t a cupboard. It was a doorway to a flight of stairs leading downwards. The exit lighting didn’t reach that far, so I used the torch on my phone to guide me down the stairway. It ended at a solid-looking door. The noise was louder, and I could hear—screaming?
I pushed open the door.
Light and sound crashed over me.
Grandma was standing on a large blue mat in the centre of the room. She was dressed in what looked to be a black leather strap. There was much more Grandma than strap.
Facing her was Florence Barret, wearing a red bikini with silver studs, and holding a walking frame.
A crowd of elderly villagers surrounded the pair, many of whom were similarly dressed. Or undressed. It was difficult to tell.
Florence screamed. “I’m gonna bury you. Lucky it’s a short trip, slunt,” and smashed the walker into the side of Grandma’s head. Grandma went down like a sack of spuds, to much protestation from the onlookers.
As I stared, Deacon Nigel Willoughby-Jones stepped forward and raised his hand. “Now Flo, you know the rules.” He held up a battered manual. “All coat-hanger attacks with a walking frame must be prefaced with a clear statement of ‘Now mind your head, dearie’—Walker’s Guide, rule 13b.”
The crowd booed and Flo looked shamefaced, until Grandma kicked her legs out from under her. Grandma pushed herself to her feet and the crowd cheered. Prudence, clad only in a tiny white wrestling singlet, jumped up and down beside the Deacon, screaming “Kick her in the flaps, Vera!”
“Steady on, Pru,” said the Deacon, looking slightly abashed. His words carried into a sudden silence. The spectators had finally noticed me, still frozen in the open doorway. The deacon looked over at me, and Grandma turned to follow his gaze. As one, the spectators looked back at the Deacon.
“Oh, fuck,” said Deacon Nigel Willoughby-Jones.
***
“Growing old—you lose all dignity,” said Grandma, sitting at James’ desk in her black leather strap. “No right to choice. We’re still people, you know.”
Prudence handed around tea and biscuits, still clad in her tiny singlet. Florence and her red bikini guarded the door. Between them all I barely knew where to look. I settled on the Deacon’s kindly face.
He nodded at me. “Your husband was wise beyond his years. He understood that controlled conflict resolution brings peace. At our age, grudges are much too long and bothersome.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “The danger…”
The Deacon frowned. “We are aware. Grace makes us sign legal waivers. We all support the home financially, so we have plenty of first aid to hand. And lots of painkillers. A defibrillator. Even a doctor or two. And rules,” he added, with a sideways glance at Florence. Florence dipped her head.
Grandma chuckled. “Ah, it’s fine Flo. That was a good ‘un, alright.”
Florence came over and gave Grandma a hug. They had tears in their eyes as they kissed each other on the cheek.
Grandma wiped her eyes and looked over at me. “You’ll come to understand, Hannah.”
“And I’ll take care of Roland,” said Prudence. “Biscuit?”
***
Life carries on in our little village, with little news or disturbance to cause undue ripples. The last such incident put Roland Proude in a neck brace for six months, but to my knowledge he has never spoken of it. Nor visited us again.
No, our village of Little Muttling is a peaceful, strong community built on mutual respect and love. We keep to ourselves, and the neighbouring villages do the same.
Occasionally one might observe an elderly villager with a bruise or two, but that’s alright. The thing about bruises is, they tell stories. And in my funeral home, every one of ’em is won square.
————
Robert Bruce once considered a career in high-stakes espionage, but while he scored highly in suspicion, he failed at keeping a straight face. Also stealth. These days he writes about important things, courageously defying all evidence to the contrary. Accusations that writing is merely a ruse to avoid social interaction are met with derision. Sent by email. Occasionally text.
He now reserves suspicion for those who use semicolons.