he had been one of the most ardent, would cool off dramatically when they heard.
Martin Bancroft had often been told he had a lovely voice. He let it break and wiped his eyes as without passion he read:
‘Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast …
Nothing but well and fair,
And what must quiet us in a death so noble.’
The captains of industry next admired Romy’s splendid bosom, which heaved as she spoke of Sampson only being in the next room.
‘Not bloody far enough,’ muttered Alan.
Outside, it was a lovely day. The sun streaming through the stained glass windows cast rakish scarlet and emerald streaks on the congregation’s hair and a blue rinse on little Drummond’s blond curls. Hardly able to see over the lectern, he charmingly listed the things he loved about Sampson: ‘Grampy loved tomatoes and The Simpsons. Grampy was always pinching my chips.’
Poppy then sang a song and refused to leave the lectern until the congregation, led by her mother, applauded loudly.
Trixie, who’d been texting throughout the service, got up to read from Robert Louis Stevenson and nearly gave Uncle Martin a coronary with the shortness of her skirt. How could anyone, reflected the captains of industry, have flesh that was so firm yet meltingly soft at the same time?
‘Under the wide and starry sky,’
she began meditatively,
‘Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you ’grave for me:
Here he lies where he long’d to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.’
Closing the book, she smiled round at the congregation. ‘Grampy also liked short skirts,’ she drawled, mocking her little cousin Drummond. Next moment her mobile rang and she got the giggles again. ‘That’ll be Grampy, asking when we’re going to get stuck into the Bolly. He loathed hanging around.’
Laughter rocked the church, as an apoplectic Martin leapt to his feet to take up his position on the chancel steps beside Sampson’s photograph.
‘I want you all to know,’ he boomed, ‘this week I’ve travelled the road to Damascus. As a result I’m giving up the City and going to devote my life to fundraising – kicking off by launching the Sampson Bancroft Memorial Fund to aid research into Howitt’s.’ More sobs and clapping. ‘I know many of you wanted to send flowers. I hope instead you’ll make donations to find a cure for this hideous recently identified condition. Sampson, you’ll agree, was a man who made a difference. I want to make a difference too.’
‘And a fucking fortune,’ murmured his brother-in-law.
‘Now who’s going to kick-start me?’ asked Martin.
Shade Murchieson, a show-off, carefully laid a wodge of £50 notes on the silver collection plate, putting everyone else on the spot.
Prayers followed, because the vicar was determined to have his innings. The church would also need a new roof after it had been taken off by Dame Hermione.
Then Martin was on his feet again: ‘Just to prove Dad was a fun person and never square,’ and the organ and the trumpeter, who also wanted his innings, launched into ‘Cherry Pink And Apple Blossom White’, which Sampson had once sung to Etta. The audience went laughing and bopping into the sunshine, through the daffodils in the churchyard to the huge grave into which Sampson’s body was lowered.
Clutching Martin’s hand, half fainting, Blanche chucked a bunch of crimson-flecked geraniums into the grave. They were immediately covered in earth.
7
Back at Bluebell Hill, guests spilled out on to the lawn to admire the view and Etta’s exquisite sweeps of pink and purple cyclamen, sky-blue scillas and white daffodils, deep blue grape hyacinths mingling with a crowd of pale purple crocuses and crimson polyanthus. Everyone was speculating how many mil the house would go for while agreeing it looked ‘a little tired’, like poor Etta.
Inside, a distressed, trapped Bartlett had been sick everywhere, giving Etta a feeling of normality as she rushed round wiping it up, realizing with stunned horror that she’d never be bathing or washing Sampson’s huge body again.
‘Have a drink, Granny.’ Trixie handed her a brimming glass of champagne. ‘You were so brave not to cry.’
‘My problem is I’m too sensitive,’ sighed Blanche, emerging from the downstairs loo where she’d been repairing her face. She must buttonhole Martin and see that the £50,000 a year that Sampson had promised her would hold good.
‘I’m too caring as well,’ agreed Romy, removing her hat and shaking her hair free and