It was a perfect box. A neat, not too shiny, wooden box with a black cross on the lid. It felt surprisingly heavy as I lowered it into the square hole the vicar had dug.
The wind blew, gusting at our skirts. High up on a soft hill in the Yorkshire Dales. A walled-field with a dotting of gravestones. There is no stone yet. Just the hole with its new contents, filled-in with the wet clay and the two pieces of turf. The vicar jumping it down. You would have smiled at such irreverence. He was a friend after all. We all said the Lord’s Prayer. Nice.
Walking early I pass a car by the harbour. A couple having sex. The windows steamed up, a pair of ankles. I smile and remember. I take another route to the SPAR. A sign in the window of a municipal building opposite Harley’s – NO VOMITTING, NO URINATING. CCTV YOU ARE BEING WATCHED. In the SPAR Jamie tells me his cat, Wendy has gone, ‘walkabout’. No mean feat he informs me as he lives in a top floor flat. He is unconcerned. She’s probably in the flat below. I will knock on some doors later, he says.
A dog-collared vicar gives me a long look in the Morrisons. I see him later in town. When he walks he takes short, little steps.
All of us at lunch. A big round table. The noise and cluck of women’s voices. Nerves make us a little loud. For all the mess of the past there is good will and love. I was glad to be there among them. My sisters. Amazons all. Yes. Proud. Good women. All trying their best to be true. My loves. My family.