Angels of Mourning

She took the opening gladly. ‘Don’t I just? My first job was on a really understaffed surgical unit, and it was absolute hell. And the discipline was still so strict, too, with Matron and all. Whereas nowadays …’

I gently mimicked her Yorkshire accent. ‘… nurses today don’t know they’re born, right?’

And smiling she broadened it herself. ‘Aye, lass. Sheer luxury these days. Now, when I were a nurse …’

We chatted on; stepping almost subconsciously back off the ice and onto solid ground. She reminded me of Judith, a Sister I’d worked with in my last job. I’d burned a lot of bridges when I’d moved, but the two of us still kept in touch. I owed her a letter, come to think of it.

Emma decided she’d better circulate, and moved on. I joined Sue in a raid on what remained of the desserts. ‘Okay?’ I asked her quietly as we made our selection, and she gave a quick, grateful nod. Coming back into the lounge with a piece of Black Forest, I joined the nearest conversation. And Jez glanced round with a smile.

‘How about you, Rachel? Would you prefer to be buried or cremated?’

Ouch.

People discuss the oddest things at parties, and that one caught me unprepared. For a moment I was out on the midnight lake again, and sensing the chilly depths beneath the ice. Then back on balance – with soft, firm carpet under my shoes.

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Don’t really mind.’ I forked in a mouthful of gateau, and forced myself to chew. Rich chocolate and cherries – as tasteless on my tongue as cotton wool.

‘Any preferences about the send-off?’ Theresa asked brightly.

I thought about it, still chewing. Swallowed. Then shrugged again.

‘I wouldn’t want it to be all miserable. I mean … it’s not as if it’s the end of things or anything.’

‘And what would you want played?’ Jez wondered. ‘I’d quite like Jerusalem myself. Not that I’m religious or anything; I just like it.’

I thought again. ‘I’d like to have the Hymn of St Patrick, please. Or maybe Be Thou My Vision. I love those two. Old Irish hymns …’

He grinned delightedly, and nudged me in the ribs. ‘Bejesus, Rachel, ’tis the Catholic in ye.’

‘Shush!’ I elbowed him back. ‘No … I went on a trip to Ireland when I was in school, and we went to see Patrick’s shrine, and where he was buried and everything. There were some pilgrims singing his hymn by the graveside, and I found that really moving. Stayed with me for a long time afterwards.’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t knock it, Jez. It’s a beautiful country.’

I’d been twelve, but I still recalled it: standing on the very top of Slieve Patrick Hill with the wind in my hair. Overlooking the sea, with the hills of the Lake District seeming maybe twenty miles off; and nothing behind me but wide green fields, fading back into the haze of the oncoming rain.

That had been a special holiday; a memory I treasured. I still couldn’t marry up that countryside, those friendly people, with the violence and hatred we saw so often on the news. The mismatch just made it seem surreal. But now the killers and haters had met me face to face, like all my fears made flesh and blood.