Tragic
“And so we lay this gentle man to rest. Clothed in the black high collared (lined with red velvet) cloak, that he so loved to wear on cold dark evenings, no matter how many remarks he received from passers-by.”
Lillian Cranwell sniffed noisily as the vicar hurled a clod of earth at the long coffin of John Furniture, deep within the grave. She winced at the hollow thud it made.
“…dust to dust, hallowed be thy name, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen”
Lillian sobbed upon the misshapen hump of Keith Whicker. He had always been an unusually proportioned shoulder to cry on.
“Such beautiful words for such a wonderful man” she called out to the vicar.
“Yeah, thanks. Bye” said the vicar, climbing into his Supercharged Bentley.
In the cloud of exhaust fumes the mourners dispersed, leaving the grave diggers to their sad yet oh so necessary task.
“He was so close, Keith. So close to the pinnacle of his career. Yet he has been cast down like an aged yak from the slippery precipice of blind fate to the granite foothills of eternal doom.” Lillian used to send poems into the Reader’s Digest magazine. They published one once.
Keith Whicker smiled and nodded to Lillian as they left the cemetery. He held her in high regard but did not know what a yak was. He hopped from one short leg to the other as he gesticulated wildly with his long muscular arms.
“But no. If zur John be so close to findin’ ‘is solution, we do be finishin’ it. ‘E be keeping notes Oi’ll be bound. We do follow ‘em, finish ‘em” said Keith. “Like a yak” he added as an afterthought.
Keith Whicker was from Plymouth.
“Can we? Dare we? Can we?” Lillian brightened and looked keenly into Keith’s asymmetric face. “We must,” she cried, “as a tribute to a great man, and as a service to the world in general”
They both danced around laughing, giving loud hoorahs.
Staring at the pair from their car, Furniture’s parents resolved not to let them into the house for refreshments later.
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