Magnus (2/2)

     ‘Is that so?’ said Mrs Morrison. ‘The roses in the churchyard are coming into bloom.’ She coughed again.

     ‘My husband’s brother cares for them,’ said Mrs MacLean. ‘He keeps them free of greenfly.’

     ‘They were at their best for our wedding, just before the war,’ said Mrs Morrison, fanning herself with a lace handkerchief, staring past the cathedral, down to the harbour.

     ‘They flourished even more during the war, for our wedding, when Ernie had shore leave,’ said Mrs MacLean. ‘Enough for pocketfuls of posies.’

     ‘I wish there were as many roses this year. Your husband’s brother must be behind in his work.’

     ‘He has a lot of work to do,’ said Mrs MacLean, haughtily. ‘He tends the gravestones too.’ She seemed genuinely surprised by a sneeze that erupted from her suddenly. ‘He is busier than ever, with this world outbreak of influenza. Atishoo!’ 

     ‘Bless you,’ said Mrs Morrison. ‘The most important work is really in the carving of the stones, you know. It’s about creating a monument that will last beyond the lifetime of the deceased and even his children, a legacy, you know. What wooden artefact lasts as long?’

     ‘The trees were there for long enough,’ said Mrs MacLean simply.

     ‘Yes. Quite,’ said Mrs Morrison, disdainfully. ‘But the stones in the churchyard there are older than the trees, and will still be there when they’re chopped up for coffin wood. It’s the very names on the gravestones that will last.’

     ‘My husband’s family, as I was saying, are very well established here,’ said Mrs MacLean, reaching up and adjusting a hairpin beneath her hat. ‘There is a story that when the chief of the clan died in the Covenanting Wars in the 1640s, all his sons piled in to protect him.’ Mrs Morrison did not appear to be listening.

     ‘I think it looks like rain,’ she said, still looking out to sea.

     Mrs MacLean continued her foray into history. ‘They cried “Another for Hector!”’ she said, looking into the past.  

     Mrs Morrison shrugged. ‘Better than “Another for the greenfly”, I suppose.’

     ‘Hector was the name of the chief. That’s tradition. That’s culture for you.’

     Mrs Morrison was unmoved. ‘Would you like a scone, Mrs MacLean?’ passing her one.

     ‘Very well,’ said Mrs MacLean, biting into it. ‘Not quite the right texture,’ was her verdict. ‘Texture is everything.’

     Mrs Morrison was not to be outdone. ‘I am sure my husband’s beautiful stones would agree. What a pity your dress is not in keeping with your… resolution,’ she said.

     Mrs MacLean finished her scone, appearing to choke in indignation. ‘I beg your pardon? My dress is nothing short of seemly.’

     ‘That is what I meant,’ said Mrs Morrison tartly. ‘The seams are coming apart.’

     ‘That is a falsehood!’ said Mrs MacLean in some indignation, getting up. ‘I have had enough of your conversation. I-‘ She broke off to cough again. ‘It really is unseasonably cold. We should be neighbours in this community. If only-‘ She coughed again and again, shook and fell down on the tartan rug. She did not get up again.

     Mrs Morrison went over to her, in some concern. ‘Mrs MacLean? Are you all right? My husband will know what to do. Stones are so reliable. That is why we are the pillars of the community. Upright and immovable. We-‘ She broke off and sneezed again, once, twice, three times, then clutched at her throat, also falling down, next to the other woman, their gloved hands within touching distance, and did not rise again.