aisle like models on the catwalk, they didn’t seem to mind having to sit very close to each other as they squeezed into Harvey-Holden’s pew.
‘What a revolting pain,’ exploded Dora, but she was too sad to ring the press.
Bringing up the rear of the procession were the bishop and Niall, his blond pallor set off by his black robes. Woody felt so proud he wanted to reach out and touch Niall’s hand as he passed. They had both been torn apart by the death of Mrs Wilkinson.
Pocock put a reassuring arm round Miss Painswick’s shoulders. There was an empty seat between Trixie and Alan, who whispered across to her, ‘I don’t think Granny’s going to make it.’
‘I’m going to sit with Eddie then,’ said Trixie, nipping back to the seat beside him.
Debbie Cunliffe was sobbing openly.
‘Pull yourself together, woman,’ hissed the Major, wiping his eyes.
Ione’s face was expressionless. Travis-Locks didn’t weep in public but she was comforted when Alban’s hand crept into hers.
Corinna and Seth were checking their make-up and mouthing the pieces they had to read.
Then came the heartbreakingly lovely sound of a lone piper playing ‘Amazing Grace’ as the lone figure of Tommy came slowly up the aisle, holding Mrs Wilkinson’s bridle with its willow-green browband, with Chisolm trotting listlessly beside her.
‘They’ve both lost so much weight,’ muttered Trixie.
‘Tommy’s really pretty now,’ murmured Eddie, wincing as he remembered Snog-a-Trog.
After ‘Now thank we all our God,’ which raised the vaulted roof, Niall walked down the chancel steps.
‘We have a video of Mrs Wilkinson in her finest and most precious moments and several readings from people who loved her,’ he told the congregation, in a commendably steady voice, ‘but first let us have two minutes’ silence to remember our little pet.’
A minute and a half passed – like an eternity. Then suddenly over the muffled sobs, there was a clip clop, clip clop, clip clop on the flagstones outside, followed by a shrill whinny. Chisolm, roused out of her torpor, bleated back in bewilderment and hope. Then a hauntingly beautiful man’s voice could be heard singing:
‘Gaily the troubadour touched his guitar,
When he was hast’ning home from the war.
Singing from Palestine hither I come;
Lady love, lady love, welcome me home.’
‘Rafiq,’ gasped Tommy.
People were looking at each other incredulously, tears drying and then falling on their faces. ‘Could it be?’
Then cautiously a white face came round the great studded oak door, angled to the right so she could see with her left eye, and Mrs Wilkinson entered the cathedral with Rafiq on her back. His face was as hostile and haughty as a young kestrel. He was wearing only black jeans and a torn grey shirt, pale rider, pale horse. Into the cathedral they came and up the aisle.
There was a stunned silence, broken only as people rose to their feet, screaming and yelling with joy, climbing on to pews and chairs, throwing their hats into the air, leaning out of choir stall and gallery, blowing joyous blasts on trumpets and hunting horns and giving Mrs Wilkinson the greatest standing ovation of her career.
As this was nothing that Mrs Wilkinson wasn’t used to, she carried on, ears pricked, looking from side to side, graciously acknowledging the pandemonium, whickering at friends and the children who broke into the aisle to pat her again and again.
Next moment, Chisolm had shoved through their legs, dancing and bleating and joyfully rubbing noses with her dear, dear friend.
Only Harvey-Holden, his face far whiter than Mrs Wilkinson’s, was hysterically writhing with rage.
‘Arrest that man,’ he screamed.
‘No,’ roared Valent’s voice over the loudspeaker, ‘arrest that man.’
Mrs Wilkinson quivered with terror, her dark rolling eye showing so much white that it seemed for a second she would bolt out of the cathedral. Harvey-Holden’s eyes were also darting from side to side, desperate to escape. But as the great cathedral door slammed shut, police poured in from all sides, two of the largest flanking Harvey-Holden.
‘Silence, please be quiet,’ shouted Valent, who’d followed Rafiq into the church and bounded up the steps of the pulpit. ‘Let Rafiq speak.’
Tommy leapt forward, seizing a trembling Mrs Wilkinson’s reins. Smiling down at her, Rafiq patted Mrs Wilkinson and turned coolly to Harvey-Holden. The cathedral was so well miked up, his every word could be heard.
‘I know, Mr Harvey-Holden, that it was you who set fire to your own yard. You burn your own horses to death to hide that they were dying of starvation and so you claim insurance.’