the opposite pew and barely took his eyes off her. He had called at the house twice since the night of the accident: the first time to
offer his condolences, and the second when he offered to cover the expenses for the double funeral – a ‘private arrangement’ he had said. On both occasions Lucy had refused to see
him and Donald had spoken to him at the door.
They emerged from the church into bright sunlight and followed the pallbearers to the gravesides. A hundred memories were burning in Lucy’s mind of happier days, moments that had seemed
unimportant at the time, but which now held a poignancy that made them unbearable. Her da tramping into the countryside to pick a bunch of wild flowers for her mam when she’d first got sick;
Ernie spending umpteen evenings whittling a small carved wooden boat for John’s birthday the year before and sitting up with her through one long night when Flora was delirious with a fever .
. .
The clods of earth hit the coffins and she flinched visibly, glad of Jacob’s solid bulk at the side of her. She knew exactly where Tom was standing. He had come up behind them as they had
left the church and caught Donald’s arm. The two men were now side by side some yards away, although a minute or two ago they’d been whispering together. For a brief moment she wondered
what they had been discussing, then she told herself she didn’t care.
Her fingers searched for and found the little silver heart nestled in the hollow of her throat and the token of Jacob’s love warmed her for a moment, even as she wondered how two brothers
could be so different. She found herself wishing she was a man, a big tough man with fists like hammers, so she could batter Tom Crawford into a pulp. She’d said those very words to Donald,
and her brother had had a blue fit. He was scared to death of Tom, she accepted that now. Ernie had been a different kettle of fish from Donald; she hadn’t realized that until the last three
weeks, or appreciated how much she loved him, and her da too, of course. But it was too late to tell them. Were they with her mam now, reunited at last? Oh, she wished this day was over, this
endless, terrible day.
Donald was longing for the same thing, although for different reasons. He had known Tom wouldn’t leave him alone. Deep down he had been sure he was caught like a fish on a hook and sooner
or later Tom would reel him in. Sure enough, Tom had made it clear he was on the payroll a minute ago. Tom had even made out he was doing him a favour when he’d mentioned the job he’d
got arranged the following night, but they’d both known it was a warning that Donald toed the line or else.
Dammit, he didn’t want to end up like his da and Ernie. Donald’s tongue flicked at the film of perspiration on his upper lip, caused more by the man at his side than the hot
sunshine. But what could he do? That night at the docks Maurice Banks had made it clear that no one said no to Tom Crawford. Some of the tales he’d told – he still couldn’t sleep
for thinking of them.
Donald shut his eyes and bowed his head as the vicar began to intone the last prayer for the newly departed, but Donald’s frantic prayers were for himself.
It was just gone ten o’clock in the evening that same day and Jacob was finishing work in the forge. He hadn’t liked leaving Lucy at the churchyard earlier.
He’d have preferred to see her home, but the blacksmith had been generous in giving him time off for a funeral that didn’t involve a family member and he hadn’t wanted to take
advantage of the man’s kindness, particularly as they were busy on an important job. One of the big houses on the edge of Castletown west of Southwick had commissioned a large number of iron
railings, enough to enclose some half-acre of grounds, along with two fancy gates in an intricate design complete with the family crest. He’d promised Mr Williamson he’d stay late the
next few evenings and for the
offer his condolences, and the second when he offered to cover the expenses for the double funeral – a ‘private arrangement’ he had said. On both occasions Lucy had refused to see
him and Donald had spoken to him at the door.
They emerged from the church into bright sunlight and followed the pallbearers to the gravesides. A hundred memories were burning in Lucy’s mind of happier days, moments that had seemed
unimportant at the time, but which now held a poignancy that made them unbearable. Her da tramping into the countryside to pick a bunch of wild flowers for her mam when she’d first got sick;
Ernie spending umpteen evenings whittling a small carved wooden boat for John’s birthday the year before and sitting up with her through one long night when Flora was delirious with a fever .
. .
The clods of earth hit the coffins and she flinched visibly, glad of Jacob’s solid bulk at the side of her. She knew exactly where Tom was standing. He had come up behind them as they had
left the church and caught Donald’s arm. The two men were now side by side some yards away, although a minute or two ago they’d been whispering together. For a brief moment she wondered
what they had been discussing, then she told herself she didn’t care.
Her fingers searched for and found the little silver heart nestled in the hollow of her throat and the token of Jacob’s love warmed her for a moment, even as she wondered how two brothers
could be so different. She found herself wishing she was a man, a big tough man with fists like hammers, so she could batter Tom Crawford into a pulp. She’d said those very words to Donald,
and her brother had had a blue fit. He was scared to death of Tom, she accepted that now. Ernie had been a different kettle of fish from Donald; she hadn’t realized that until the last three
weeks, or appreciated how much she loved him, and her da too, of course. But it was too late to tell them. Were they with her mam now, reunited at last? Oh, she wished this day was over, this
endless, terrible day.
Donald was longing for the same thing, although for different reasons. He had known Tom wouldn’t leave him alone. Deep down he had been sure he was caught like a fish on a hook and sooner
or later Tom would reel him in. Sure enough, Tom had made it clear he was on the payroll a minute ago. Tom had even made out he was doing him a favour when he’d mentioned the job he’d
got arranged the following night, but they’d both known it was a warning that Donald toed the line or else.
Dammit, he didn’t want to end up like his da and Ernie. Donald’s tongue flicked at the film of perspiration on his upper lip, caused more by the man at his side than the hot
sunshine. But what could he do? That night at the docks Maurice Banks had made it clear that no one said no to Tom Crawford. Some of the tales he’d told – he still couldn’t sleep
for thinking of them.
Donald shut his eyes and bowed his head as the vicar began to intone the last prayer for the newly departed, but Donald’s frantic prayers were for himself.
It was just gone ten o’clock in the evening that same day and Jacob was finishing work in the forge. He hadn’t liked leaving Lucy at the churchyard earlier.
He’d have preferred to see her home, but the blacksmith had been generous in giving him time off for a funeral that didn’t involve a family member and he hadn’t wanted to take
advantage of the man’s kindness, particularly as they were busy on an important job. One of the big houses on the edge of Castletown west of Southwick had commissioned a large number of iron
railings, enough to enclose some half-acre of grounds, along with two fancy gates in an intricate design complete with the family crest. He’d promised Mr Williamson he’d stay late the
next few evenings and for the
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