The Last Summer of the Water Strider Read Online Free PDF Page B

businesslike and inappropriately jocund. My father had briefed him about Evie’s life, but it appeared he had transcribed some of his
notes carelessly, describing Evie as an enthusiastic gardener (we didn’t have a garden, although she had a collection of pot plants) and a pillar of the local operatic society (she
occasionally attended Yiewsley and District Dramatic Society performances). My father sat blankly by my side as the priest delivered platitudes about resting in the hands of God, the shadow of
death, rods and staff, lying in green pastures etc, etc.
    The coffin looked ill-judged, both cheap and gaudy simultaneously. The expensive handles confessed the tackiness of the pine veneer, and I sat, chilly and distracted, despairing over the
statement the casket made about the value of my mother’s life. I could hear whispering during the service, and I imagined that each of congregation was judging the ceremony as lacking in both
taste and sufficient capitalization.
    At one point I heard a latecomer arriving, the timpani of their shoes puncturing the grainy, maudlin background drone of the pre-recorded organ. I looked round and saw Henry, brandishing, like a
processional torch, a bunch of flowers – a bouquet of simple sweet peas. My mother always loved the quiet delicacy of sweet peas more than any other bloom. How had he known that? In his other
hand he carried a dark, bone-and-silver-topped walking cane.
    He was, as before, tanned to perfection, the colour of nutmeg. He wore a pure black two-piece suit, cut close to his rangy frame. It was expensive-looking but slightly shot around the edges at
the collar. His shirt was sparkling blue-white. No tie, open top button, burnished ebony leather shoes that I knew my father would register as hand-made. He looked out of place – although he
seemed perfectly at ease. Other people had turned and were staring at him, wondering how this elegant creature had lost its way and stumbled into this maimed, bargain-basement ceremony. Henry
caught my eye and gave me a carefully modulated smile, pitched somewhere between sympathy and familial affection.
    A few minutes after Henry’s arrival, the box was consigned to the flames. I watched like a wax dummy as the pine and brass monstrosity disappeared, while my father choked out tears. Then,
with the gasp and whine of the sourest-yet organ music, Ray and I took our places at the exit from the chapel and the mourners began to file out. Ray shook their hands one by one as they left and
exchanged a few muttered words. Then we stood outside in the cold among the sparse flowers that decorated a concrete plot allocated for tributes to Evie.
    Henry laid his flowers among the few other scrappy offerings, eclipsing them. Then – to my astonishment – he fell to his knees and kissed the ground. After remaining in this posture
for several seconds, he took a vial of something out of his pocket, uncorked it and sprinkled the contents on the blooms.
    He bowed down again, forehead touching the concrete. Then, he rose gracefully in a single movement. I saw a tiny chip of gravel embedded in his forehead. Ray stared at him. Henry held his arms
out to Ray, as he had on his visit to our flat. This time, Ray somehow seemed to fall forward, and Henry enfolded him. Ray gave way to sobs, Henry supporting his weight, his legs moving apart in
order to keep his balance. The other mourners averted their eyes, as if the time for sobbing had ended when they had left the chapel, and now the protocol of grief was being subverted.
    Eventually Ray peeled himself from the buttress of his brother.
    ‘Thanks for coming, Henry.’
    ‘I’m sorry I was late, Raymond. Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t late really. I was standing just outside. I struggle with religious ceremonies, I’m afraid. Thought
I’d slip in for the final . . . consignment. I hope you’ll forgive me.’
    Ray nodded.
    ‘The casket was perfect,’ he said, as if sensing Ray’s