Bare bottoms in the graveyard.
Refulgent sunshine skimmed over the graveyard behind the Church this morning. It threw long shadows on the grass that was crisp and white with November frost, and the air was hung with the smell of last night’s turf fire that burned in the grave digger’s cottage by the gate. Straggles of white mist were caught in the naked branches of the trees and the only movement came from rabbits.
A hearse purred quietly into the graveyard at eight o’clock followed by the covid-maximum of 25 mourners who were counted in at the gate. It was a new hearse, sleek and gleaming and driven by a nervous boy who was terrified of causing any damage to it as he drove slowly through the narrow, rusty gates.
It was an indecent hour for a funeral, I heard one elderly lady complain. According to her it was as if Arnold’s children were trying to get him buried on the quiet without anyone knowing.
The grave digger and his mate bent over and showed us all their bare bottoms while they lowered the coffin into the grave, then stood at a respectful distance while the family gathered around with their roses and teddy bears and red noses.