Jeremy Poldark (29 page)

" We'm going to teel 'im Thursday,"
said Prudie, her hair over her face like a horse's tail, "an' I want for
to give him a rare good berryin'. 'E was always one to like the best, and the
best we shall give un, shan't us, Tina."

'A-a-is,’ said Tina.

"'E was a proper man, was Jud," said
Prudie. "Reckon we had our ups and downs together, Reckon he could be
a-rare ole ornery, monkey upon times, but that didn't count nothin' wi' me. He
was my old man, see, and now 'e's dead an' gone, strick down from be'ind in the
night. Tis 'orrible, „ 'orrble to think on"

“If you'll let me know the time of the funeral,
I'll be at the church," said Ross

"Ned Bottrell's making a box for'm. I
d'want it all done proper, like he was a gent, see. We'm goin' t'ave hymns an
all. Mester Ross”

“Yes?"

"I want for ee to tell me if I'm doin'
right. This forenoon when we'd laid 'im, out decent I went for to empty out his
baccy pouch-one 'e carried along with 'im most times everywhere he went, and
twas a mercy he didn't take it Tuesday - for for when I come to empty of it,
dammne if golden sov'reigns didn't scatter 'bout all over the floor like mice
that's seen a cat. - Fifteen of 'em there was, and me never knowed nothin'
about'n! ; Where he come by 'em gracious knows - in the trade, I reckon - but
what's plaguing me is whether tis right and fitty to spend the gold on 'is
berrying,?"

Ross stared out through the open door. "The
money is yours now, Prudie, to do with as you will. Everything that was his
passes to you; but there's better uses you could put it to than to squander it
on a big funeral. Fifteen pounds is a tidy nest egg and would keep you fed and
clothed for a long while."

Prudie scratched herself. "Jud would've
wanted berryin' respectable. Tes a matter o' being 'respectable, Mest' Ross.
Load me if it ain't. We muss give the ole man a send-off fitty ways. Mustn't us,
Tina?"

"A-a-is," said Tina.

Jud's send-off fitty ways began at two o'clock
the day before the funeral. Prudie had submerged her grief in the preparations,
and a long table made of old boxes had been fastened together in the larger of the
two rooms. More old boxes outside served as chairs and tables for those who
couldn't squeeze in. And there were many such until the heavy rain of nightfall
drove them away.

Prudie as chief mourner had managed to gather
together enough black clothes to make an impressive display.; Her cousin had
leather black stockings, and she'd made a skirt out of a piece of serge bought
at Aunt Mary Rogers's shop. An old black blouse of her own was decorated with
mourning beads and a bit of ragged lace, and Char Nanfan had actually produced
a black veil. Barely recognisable in this array, she sat in a place of honour
at the head of the table unmoving throughout the meal and waited on by Cousin
Tina, Char Nanfan, Mrs. Zacky Martin and a few of the younger end.

The Rev. Mr. Odgers had been invited to the
feast but had discreetly declined; so pride of place next to the bereaved,
widow was given to Paul Daniel, who was jud Paynter's oldest friend. On the
other side was Constable Vage, who was conducting the inquiry into the murder,
and others, present were Zacky Martin, Charlie Kempthorne, Whitehead and Jinny
Scoble, Ned Bottrell, Uncle Ben and Aunt Sarah Tregeagle,.. Jack Cobbledick,
the Curnow brothers, Aunt Betsy Trigg, and some fifteen or twenty assorted
hangers-on.

Soon after two the feast began with a long
draught of brandy all round, and then everyone set to eating and drinking at a great
rate as if there wasn't a minute to be lost. At the outset the splendid widow
ate more genteelly than the rest, taking in nourishment under the heavy veil as
under, a visor. But as the brandy warmed her vitals she threw back, the emblem
of bereavement and tucked in with the rest.

About five the first part of, the feast was
over, and by sunset many of the women began to drift off, having families or
homes to see to, and the number in the room came down to about a score. This
was twice as many as could decently breathe in a cramped space already full of
smoke and steam and tobacco fumes: Jugs of brandy, rum and gin were going round
freely, with hot water and sugar to be added to taste. At this point the hymns
began. Uncle Ben Tregeagle, as doyen of the church choir, was allowed to lead
them, and Joe Permewan scraped an accompaniment like rusty metal on his bass
viol. They sang all the hymns and anthems they knew and some they didn't know,
and then got on to patriotic songs. They sang "God Save the King" four
times and " And Shall Trelawney Die twice, and a few ditties that weren't
too savoury if looked at in the most formal light..

But now no one was feeling formal, least of all
Prudie, who, her nose shining like a hurricane lamp,, allowed herself to be persuaded
to get up and sing a song which had the chorus:

" An'- when he died, he shut his eyes, An'
never saw money no more."

Then Aunt Betsy Triggs got up and did her famous
dance, ending up sitting in Constable Vage's lap. The roar that greeted this
dwindled to a shamefaced silence as everyone came to realise they were
overstepping the traces.

Prudie worked her feet into her tattered carpet
slippers and slowly got up again.

"My dear, dear friends," she said,
"don't take on, on account o' me, I beg you.' Take no heed of my grief.
An' take no heed of the ole man out there that's going to be teeled to-morror.
Tis just a per-personal matter twixt 'im and me.

No reason why ye have got to stay quiet as
menders just on account o' that. Eat, drink an' do what you will, for tis no
affair of his what I do with his money now e's going to his long lie." She
hunched her great shoulders and glowered. " I-facks, tis more'n I can
b'lieve 'ow he did conceal the gold away from me all these many year. Hid it
from his own wife, 'e did. Or as near his wife as makes no concern."

Charlie Kempthorne tittered, but Constable Vage
poked him solemnly in the ribs and shook his head; it was not the place to show
vulgar amusement.

" My blessed life," said Prudie, and hiccupped.
"He was a whited sepulchre, was my old man, if the truth be knownt An' old
cloamin tomcat hollow to the toes. As cuzzle as they come. I'd as lief trust a
beaver. But there twas, that's how tis, an' no, one can deny-it. 'E was my old
man, see."

Paul Daniel grunted. After the merriment
everyone was feeling sentimental and full of, liquor.

" An', he was talker when the drink was in
him. Talk! 'E'd outtalk preacher any day of the week, Sundays including. But I
seen him goin' down'ill for months. Twasn't all murdering lyin' thiefs what
done for him: Twas semi-decay. Tha's what twas.- He'd lived a hard life an' it
told in the end."

She sat down abruptly before she had finished
because her knees gave way. Constable Vage got up. At ordinary times he was a
wheelwright

" Brothers and sisters," he said.
" I aren't one for slackjaw as ye all well know; but it wouldn't do if we
ended this feastin' without a thought or two for our dear brother Jud, newly
departed to the flowery fields and green meads o' paradise. Wicked men 'as struck
him down, but the law will track them out, never doubt." He folded his
hands over, his stomach.

"'Ear, 'ear," said Prudie. .

"So we must not forget the vacant chair at
this table." Vage looked round but could not see even an empty-packing
case. "The vacant chair," he repeated; " And it is only right
an' proper; that we drink a toast to our dear departed brother."

" A-a-is," said, Tina.

To our dear brother," said Prudie, raising
her glass. The toast was drunk.

"May he rest easy," said Joe Permewan.

Amen," said Uncle Ben Tregeagle, shaking
his ringlets.

"Tis a poor life, said Aunt Sarah.
"From the cradle too the grave in two snaps of the fingers. I see it all.
Layin'' out and lyin' in That's me job, but it makes you: think."

Amen," said Uncle Ben.

" I'd sooner be a fish jouster any day,
said Betsy.

"There's many I've found worser to lay out
than Jud," said Sarah. 'E stretched out a good deal of a long man,' but
there warn't so much round the middle as I suspected."

"Amen," said Uncle Ben.

"'Old hard with your. `amen,' old
man," said Prudie. "We aren't in church yet. You can say yer prayers
tomorrow."

Charlie Kempthorne began to giggle. He giggled
and giggled until everyone hushed him for fear he'd wake the guests already
asleep on the floor.

"I aren't partic'lar what I do for the
living," said Betsy. '

But when they ain't living they give me the
shrims. - Even poor Joe I didn' dare touch-an' him me own brother these fifty
year or more." She began to weep gently.

"'Ere, Ned," said Prudie, " do ee
go'n draw the spigot of that next keg of brandy. I'm as thirsty as a cat wi'
nine chets. Tis early yet."

Bottrell winked at her and went into the other
room, which had served as a kitchen to-day. Prudie sat back, her massive arms
folded, surveying the scene, with a' satisfied expression. Everything: had gone
off handsome so far. Most of the remaining guests would sleep here the night,
and tomorrow, pleasurable thought, it would all begin again. The burying was
at noon, so they'd have the coffin out early if it was fine, and placed outside
the door on a bench of chairs and packing cases. All the other mourners would
be back straight after breakfast, and they'd begin singing hymns. One hymn and
then a glass, another hymn and then another glass until about eleven o'clock.
Then the bearers would take up the coffin and carry it a hundred yards or so,
and Ned Bottrell would follow behind with an anker of brandy and they'd have a
hymn and refreshments, another hundred yards and more refreshments, until they
got to the church. They should manage that by twelve o'clock, if they managed
it at all. Prudie remembered that real bumper funeral of Tommy Job's when the
bearers had been stretched out flat with half a mile still to go.

Aunt Sarah Tregeagle said: "When I first
started layin' out, mind,' it used to shrim me up too, so I did used to say, a
little charm over to meself that I'd learned from Grannie Nanpusker, that was a
white witch. Afore ever I laid me 'ands on one that'd gone dead I used to say:
` God save us from mystifications, conjuration, toxifications, incantations,
fumigation, tarnations, devilations and damnations. Amen. Rosemary, tansy,
sweet briar, herb o' grave An' I never come to no 'arm at all."

“My blessed Parliament," said Prudie.

"Amen," echoed Uncle Ben sleepily.

But there was nothing sleepy in the way Ned
Bottrell burst back into the room. He wasn't carrying any brandy, and' his face
was white.

"It's gone ! " he shouted.

"The brandy" said Prudie, lurching to
her feet. "'Ere, who's stolen it? Twas there an hour gone-"

Not all three kegs I" said Constable Vage,
instantly alert.

Why we did oughter have heard them. They
couldn't move three kegs without."

"Nay," said Ned Bottrell, shouting
above the clamour. " Not the drink, the corpse!"

They got it out of him bit by bit, in a rising
clamour of voices. Lured by morbid curiosity and professional pride, he had
carried the lantern from the kitchen and taken a peep in the shed, just, as he
put it, to see if the ole man was comfortable in his nice new box. And there
was the coffin, but the body was gone.

Some of them were as shaken as Ned, but Prudie
took the situation firmly in hand. First she said Ned was as full as a can and
couldn't see straight and the ole man was still there, she'd lay a guinea. But
when Ned invited her to come and see, she said her feet was hurting her and
sent Constable Vage instead. When Vage, clearing his throat a good deal and
patting his stomach, returned to confirm the story, she drained another glass
and stood up.

Tis they body stealers," she said in a
booming voice. "You d'know what tis like! I reckon tis those same thievin'
lyin' murderers that corpsed him on Monday night. Come us on, my sons."

With a great show of resolution a dozen of them,
led now by the widow, pushed through into the lean-to shed and stared down at
Ned Bottrell's box. It looked a good bit of carpentry, and even in this moment
of crisis Ned couldn't refrain from giving it an admiring glance. But it was
quite empty..

Prudie nearly tipped it up by sitting suddenly
on the edge, and bursting into tears.

"There, there, now," said Paul Daniel,
who had been wakened from a sound sleep and dragged in here without a full explanation.
" It edn as if he'd been took sudden. We was all prepared for the
worst."

"He's been took sudden, sure 'nough,' said
Joe Per mewan. " Tis where 'e's been took that's mystifying me."

"We can't 'ave funeral without' someone to
teel," said Betsy Triggs " Twouldn't be decent."

" There, there, now," said Paul
Daniel, stroking Prudie's lank hair. "You must be brave, my dear. We've
all got to come to it sooner or later. Rich an' poor, gentle an' simple, saint
an' sinner. We all must be brave."

"Brave be danged!"' shouted Prudie,
reacting ungratefully.

Go hold yer 'ead! I want to know what they done
wi' my ole man"

There was a brief silence.

We must look," said Constable Vage.
"Maybe he hasn't been took far."

This suggestion seemed better than doing nothing,
so two more lanterns were lit. When they opened the door, it was raining
heavily and was pitch-dark, but after some shufflings and hesitation three
small search parties were organised, while the women went back to the feast to
console Prudie.

Prudie was inconsolable. It was the disgrace,
she said. To have a husband an' then not to have a husband, that was how she
saw it, and she said she'd never live it down. Betsy Triggs was quite right,
you couldn't have a burying without someone to bury. The lying murdering
thieves had not only robbed her of her old man, they'd even taken away the
pleasure of seeing him planted decent. Everyone was coming back tomorrow for a
proper-slap-up funeral, and, there,, was three ankers of brandy not touched
yet, and all those pies and cakes and the preacher engaged, and the hole dug,
and nothing to put in it. It was more than flesh and blood could stand.

Aunt Sarah Tregeagle thought she'd help the time
away with a story of one of her layings out, when a man had died with his knees
up; but no one seemed to want to listen, so in in the end she tailed off and
silence fell. This was nearly as bad, - they found, so Uncle Ben, who had been
excused the search on account of age, turned to Joe Permewan, who had been
excused the search on account of rheumatics, and asked him to play a tune. Joe
said, all right, it was just what he'd thought of suggesting himself, and got
out his bass viol; but he was so fuddled with drink that when he came to play,
the noise he made was even worse than the silence. As Prudie, said, it was just
as if he was drawing the bow over his own guts.

Ben then suggested a singsong, but nobody had the
breath for this, and Prudie began to take offence at Jack Cobbledick's snores
from the corner under the window. It was insult on insult, she said. However,
no amount, of thumping would wake him, so they just went on and on.