‘I just thought you should know that Clemmie says her daddy was hit by a plane.’

‘True, in a way.’

‘And that he’s died and gone to heaven.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that anyone can go, even if they’ve had lots of girlfriends. Even if they’re shameful.’

I blinked.

‘Right. Thank you … Miss Hawkins.’

She was already hastening away before I could put her straight. I sighed. Oh, so be it, I thought as I watched her departing back. Let the entire village think he was the local lothario. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Unless it was in the interests of conception, which appealed to Phil’s competitive nature, he regarded sex as … a bit of a chore. A box to be ticked by a workaholic who’d rather be on his Black-Berry. There hadn’t been much since Archie had been born, which, Jennie told me darkly, I should thank my lucky stars about. Dan hadn’t even let her get to her six-week check after Jamie, and when she was up on the ramp having her overhaul, she hadn’t liked to tell the nice young doctor who’d coyly told her she could start giving herself back to her husband, that he’d been helping himself for weeks.

But no, Phil hadn’t been much of a bedroom man; indeed the idea of him putting himself about locally was almost as fanciful as him putting his goodwill about, being a stalwart of this parish, where, thankfully, the vicar was winding up now, his material being quite thin. He cleared his throat and enjoined us to stand and sing the final hymn, number one hundred and seventy two: ‘Jerusalem’. We all got gratefully to our feet.

As questions go I’ve always thought the one about whether our Lord’s feet actually walked in ancient times upon England’s mountains green to be not only rhetorical, but, if pressed, a resounding no. I was still thinking about it as we filed out of church a few moments later. Blake had clearly lobbed it up metaphysically, wryly, not to be taken literally, and yet hundreds of years later it was belted out by congregations across the land and embraced patriotically, the answer a resounding ‘Yes!’ from those who wanted Him to be an Englishman ten foot tall. Would it have amused Blake, I wondered, as I reached the gate on the lane, my eyes narrowed against the low sun which was dazzling, blinding almost, to hear it sung with such fervour? Did it amuse God?

‘Mrs Shilling!’

A voice cut through my reverie, scattering my thoughts. I turned, abstractedly, at the gate.

‘Mrs Shilling?’ There was a note of incredulity to it.

Back at the top of the path, in the grassy, undulating area to the left of the church, otherwise known as the cemetery, the vicar was waiting, prayer book open, cassock flapping, saucer-eyed, surrounded by the rest of the congregation. They appeared to be clustered around a huge gaping hole in the ground which … Shit. I’d forgotten to bury my husband.

Shock, naturally, Jennie and Angie both quickly consoled me, as I hastened to join them, to stand between them; that and nervous exhaustion. I nodded dumbly. Horrified and sweaty-palmed I bent my head, which was indeed very muddled, so that as I was passed some earth to throw onto the coffin and nervously did so, Angie, swathed in black mink, had to touch my arm and murmur: ‘Easy, tiger. Wait till the vicar gets to the earth-to-earth bit. Let’s not hurry this along too much, hm?’ She handed me some more in her suede-gloved hand.

Later, and it seemed like an eternity – so horrible, seeing him lowered in that dreadful box into the ground, so final – I was back at the church gate again with the vicar. I knew it had been part of the plan at some point, I’d just hastened there rather too quickly. One by one the villagers filed past to pay their respects, to say how sorry they were, pressing my hand and murmuring condolences. Yvonne, the post-mistress – whom Phil had once called an interfering busybody to her face when she complained about him leaning his bike against her shop window – said how much she’d miss his sunny smile. Sylvia Jardine at the Old Rectory, who considered herself the local nob and didn’t know Phil from Adam but clearly thought she’d done her homework, said, in a carrying, fruity voice that Philip had been an outstanding bell ringer, a misunderstanding courtesy of this month’s parish magazine, in which someone had complained about Phil ringing his bicycle bell at six in the morning as he waited impatiently for Bob Groves to drive his cattle through the village. Dan, Jennie’s husband, gave me a huge hug and whispered, ‘You’re doing brilliantly, girl,’ which made me well up, and Frankie, in a black minidress and matching nail varnish, who at sixteen had never been to a funeral and had come out of interest – she later confided she didn’t think there’d been nearly enough weeping or black veils – squeezed my hand and said I must be ‘properly pissed’.

Happily many of the condolences were for the children, whom I’d deemed too young to come for the whole service, and who were now with Peggy across the road. Peggy, who’d brought the children briefly and sat at the back, but who’d told me in her throaty drawl, as she dragged on her fourth cigarette of the morning, that she wasn’t a great one for funerals, and anyway, she’d never liked him. I smiled to myself. Just the one voice of truth ringing in our valley. How I loved Peggy.

She wasn’t an obvious role model, being widowed and childless, and cut an eccentric figure in her long flowing coats and beaded scarves, down which she dripped cigarette ash – the only time I’d seen Peggy cook, I’d watched fascinated as two inches of ash had fallen from her cigarette into the Bolognese: and she’d calmly stirred it in, muttering ‘Roughage’ – but she had a certain objective wisdom. Objective, perhaps because of a lack of blood ties with the world, which ensured impartiality. And a glorious irreverence for anything humbug. Those who cared to sit in the snug at the Rose and Crown and play backgammon with her, drink copious amounts of vodka and listen to her quiet, upper-class voice and her throaty laugh could learn a lot. I loved her refreshing take on life. ‘When I am old I shall wear purple’ could have been written for Peggy, although I suspect she’d always worn purple: it was just that these days it was diamanté-studded.

As we all trooped away from the church and across the green for coffee and sandwiches at my house, my father fell in beside me. He linked my arm.

‘Well done, old girl.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

He tactfully left it at that. I might not have rushed to complain to him in the early days of my marriage, but I was close to my dad, and recently he’d known Phil and I had had problems.

‘And I’m sorry you’re missing Tick-a-Tape run.’

This, my father’s horse, or leg of a horse, the one he owned in a syndicate, and for whom he hadn’t missed a race since he bought him. He was running the biggest one of his life today, in a steeplechase at Kempton.

‘Don’t be silly, it’s only a race. There’ll be others. He was my son-in-law, for God’s sake.’

Teetotal, fiercely competitive and allergic to horses: everything Dad was not. We walked on in silence.

‘Got the beers in, love?’ By now we were following the procession up the path, into the house.

‘Well, I thought coffee. And a few bottles of sherry?’

Dad stopped; looked appalled. ‘Right. Well, no worries. I’ll nip to the offy and get a bit more, shall I? Just to be on the safe side. Back in a tick.’

He turned and shot off across the road to his mud-splattered pick-up, bound for Leighton Buzzard, and a tick was all he would be, I thought, since he drove at the speed of light. It was one of the things my mother had despaired of. Mum. What would she be thinking now, I wondered, as I carried on into my house, glancing briefly heavenwards as I crossed the threshold. What would she think of this fractured little family of hers, this widowed husband, this only child, now a widow herself? Mum had never met Phil, her own car, which she drove as thoughtfully and carefully as she lived her life, having been involved in a pile-up on the M4 long before he’d been on the scene. That terrible Boxing Day evening when I was eleven, and she’d felt compelled to go and see Auntie Pam, who was on her own, and then come back to give us cold turkey and beetroot for supper; generally packing too much into one day, splitting herself too many ways. The pilot light in Dad’s life and mine had all but gone out for a long time, but gradually we’d lit the fuse together, with shaky hands. She might recognize Dad, I thought as I turned to watch him go, haring off in an all-too-familiar fashion, one hand tuning the car radio into the racing, but would she recognize me? This hitherto headstrong daughter of hers, who’d sat on her hands in a bad marriage for years? She wouldn’t think me capable. But then, she wasn’t to know the after-effects of her death; wasn’t to know I was a different person. Wasn’t to know I now had a very scared, conventional side, one that didn’t want to be the one left without a mother, or a husband; one that didn’t want to be last. Or perhaps she did know that. Perhaps I’d been like that all along, and maybe she would recognize me, after all.

My tiny sitting room was packed, and some people I swear I’d never seen before in my life, but with Mum still on my mind I greeted them warmly, gratefully, as she would have done, before going to the kitchen, where more familiar faces were busy taking cling film off sandwiches, boiling the kettle. Jennie and Angie turned as I came in; gave me sad little smiles. Perhaps she’d met him, I thought with a start as I went to the fridge. I stopped, in the light of the open door, heart pounding. Perhaps Mum was even now up there shaking hands with Phil, on a cloud somewhere? I felt a hot flush creep up my neck. I hoped not. I could see her lovely generous smile, see her being studiously warm and kind to him, but, underneath, might she be thinking: heavens, who’s this? Whatever happened to Ben?