Page 1 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

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On a cold day in late March, the morning sun, having no alternative, rose high over the Church of St Edmond. It disappeared behind steel-grey clouds, casting a muted light on everything that lay beneath and, as a thin blanket of mist descended on the Herefordshire village of Markham, a funeral cortege made its sombre journey through the aged tombstones, to stand by an open grave.

The harsh cry of a raven, eyes trained on the newly-turned soil, echoed as it glided down and perched on a monument. No one looked up. As if caught in a sepia photo, the mourners, with bowed heads, stood silently whilst prayers were read and the coffin was lowered into the ground.

Hattie Mulberry peeped from under the wide brim of her black felt hat and eyeballed the raven. It strutted and flapped as its beady eyes met her own and she wondered if the bird’s presence was a sign. For somewhere in her memory, she recalled her beloved Hugo telling her that the raven was a symbol of good luck and not to be feared. After all, his family seat, Raven Hall, had been named after these feathered friends.

‘We commend our brother Hugo to God’s love and mercy.’ The minister spoke softly.‘We now commit his body to the ground.’

A hand slipped into Hattie’s and tightened reassuringly, as the gentle sobs of a woman close by were drowned out by the nervous cough of the man next to her.

‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’

Hattie held a single red rose. She raised it to her lips and, with a kiss, tossed it into the grave. It fluttered softly onto the coffin, the thick leaves a caress on polished wood.

‘In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.’

Hattie stood back, and her friend, Jo Docherty, loosened her hand-hold as she, too, gently threw a rose. Other mourners came forward and followed suit then drifted away from the churchyard. It was a subdued procession that headed to Raven Hall, where refreshments were waiting at a reception in commemoration of Hugo’s life.

‘Are you okay?’Jo asked.

‘Just give me a moment,’ Hattie replied. ‘I’ll be along soon.’

Standing alone in the damp grey churchyard, the tears spilled over Hattie’s freckled face. She choked back a sob and had the urge to bawl and scream, to kick at the mound of dark earth piled on one side.

Soon it would cover her darling Hugo.

His smiling face would never light up her life again. Their few short months together had been some of her happiest and now, in the wake of his death, Hattie wondered what the hell she had to live for. What would she do without him?

‘Take my arm, my dear.’ The elderly minister came alongside. ‘It’s understandable to be upset, Hugo was a good fellow.’ He held out a handkerchief and Hattie dabbed at her eyes. ‘The Mulberrys are a fine family,’ he said, as they stepped onto the path that wound through rows of tombstones, many crumbling and weathered.

Hattie walked slowly. A carpet of the dead, she thought, as they left generations of Mulberrys to their lonely resting place.

‘The Mulberry cider distillery has been the back-bone of this county for decades,’ the minister continued, ‘and I’m sure, with young Geoffrey at the helm, it’s in safe hands for many more.’ He patted Hattie’s hand and guided her through wooden gates and into the village, to walk to Raven Hall.

Hattie thought about the family that the minister spoke of so fondly. Hugo’s nephew, “young” Geoffrey Mulberry, at fifty-two, was, in Hattie’s opinion, an arrogant shite, who couldn’t wait to turf her out of the family pile. With no good reason to stay, Hattie knew that she couldn’t linger. Hugo had made sure that on his death, his wife would have an allowance and, thankfully, she wanted nothing more from the family. Hattie had a house in Cumbria but when she’d married, she’d rented it out and now, with this sudden turn of events, she knew she must make up her mind about her future.

‘At last,’ the minister said, ‘the mist is clearing.’

They’d arrived at Raven Hall and Hattie stared at the imposing Victorian mansion. She’d never liked the place and during her marriage to Hugo they’d spent most of their time on a ship. Hugo wanted to show her as much of the world as possible and cruising was the perfect choice. The happy couple woke to sea stretching endlessly over the horizon, where a mighty sun rose each day.

How she’d loved visiting exotic places as their ship docked in exciting locations and, with Hugo by her side, she’d discovered the capitals of Europe, steeped in ancient history, and enjoyed café culture as they’d people-watched locals and tourists alike. In the far east, the market delights of jasmine, incense and fried curried leaves had enchanted Hattie and the scents still permeated the clothes that she’d bought there. In Australia, they’d discovered the Great Barrier Reef and marvelled at the Coral Sea as they swam with turtles, had hiked through a rain forest and even tried hot-air ballooning. With more than two decades between them, Hattie, who had the energy of a thirty-year-old despite being in her mid-fifties, had been amazed by the stamina of her older partner. How satisfying their life had been, she thought fondly, as she crunched across the gravel to gloomy old Raven Hall, the formidable building that was far removed from the colourful destinations they’d visited during their travelling days.

‘There you are,’ Jo said from the shelter of the doorway, as Hattie approached. She saw the minister shake off his surplice and hand it to a uniformed maid; he’d spotted a tray of sherry on a console table in the hallway and hastened forward to help himself.

Hattie was relieved to see Jo. She reached out and wrapped her arms around her closest friend and the two women hugged. Jo had been indispensable since Hugo died and Hattie wondered how she would have managed without her. Their friendship went back many years, to the day when Hattie had turned up on Jo’s doorstep, hoping for a job at the hotel Jo was about to open. The success of the business over the years that followed was due to their ability to work well together, nurturing and caring for their guests, and they had become a team that overcame many obstacles, both personal and professional.

‘Let me get you a drink.’ Jo reached for a sherry and placed the glass in Hattie’s hand. She took one for herself.

‘We’d better get this over.’ Hattie nodded towards the open doors of the library, where the minister had begun to circulate and people gathered in groups, relieved that the service was behind them. She knocked back her drink and reached for another. ‘I need a couple of bracers before I can face that lot.’

‘You don’t have to face anything if you’re not up to it.’

Hattie knew that Jo was studying her tired face, wondering if she would hold up. But she’d had to be stoic and strong to make the complicated arrangements to accompany her husband’s body back to the UK, where Hugo’s will was read and actioned, and now she must ensure that the funeral was a fitting tribute to the man she’d loved.

Hattie placed her empty glass on a silver tray and reached into her bag for a lipstick. She smoothed red gloss over her lips and stuck her ample chest out while smoothing her cashmere coat over her shapely body. ‘Let’s give the old boy a good send-off,’ she said and, taking Jo’s arm, stepped forward to greet the guests.

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