Aunt Dimity Down Under (24 page)

“. . . home to us,” said Louise. “We hope you’ll forgive us, Lori, but we would like . . .”

“. . . to be alone with our great-grandniece for a while,” said Ruth. “Would you please ask Nell . . .”

“. . . to bring up soup and sandwiches?” said Louise. “And perhaps some . . .”

“. . . seed cake,” said Ruth. “The poor child needs . . .”

“. . . feeding up,” said Louise.

I left the Pym sisters to dote on Bree, to plan for her future, to learn as much as they could about a girl they already loved. I left them basking in the auntly pleasures that had for so long been denied them, and as I closed the bedroom door, I caught a glimpse of their identical lips curving into identical smiles.

It was the last time I ever saw those smiles.

R
uth Violet Pym and Louise Rose Pym died the day after I returned from New Zealand. They passed away on a golden October evening, in the house that had always been their home, with the vicar, Nell, and Kit watching over them, and their great-grandniece holding their hands.

St. George’s Church wasn’t big enough to hold everyone who attended the funeral. Mourners came from miles around, filling the church and the churchyard and spilling into the lane. Though heavy gray clouds blocked the sun, those who’d brought umbrellas weren’t forced to use them. The autumn rain showed its respect for the occasion by taking the day off.

Theodore Bunting, the vicar of St. George’s, had prepared for a larger than usual service by attaching loudspeakers to the bell tower, but since the only speakers he could afford made him sound like a mouse with a head cold, I was glad to be seated indoors.

The villagers had, of course, arrived in plenty of time to claim their regular spots, though a few had been displaced by the pall-bearers, who sat upright and somber in the front pew. My family sat in the front pew as well, in part because Bill was a pallbearer, but mostly because Bree had asked us to sit with her. Will and Rob were torn between peering speculatively at the matching coffins and staring openly at Bree’s nose ring, but for once they kept their comments to themselves. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the blessing of self-control.

Bree, who was the subject of much speculation in the village as well as many curious glances in the church, sat on my right, at the end of our pew, near the center aisle. She had, unbeknownst to me, spent some of our snow day in Queenstown purchasing black suede ankle boots, a black miniskirt, and a clinging black sweater that concealed her tattoos but didn’t quite cover her tummy. Her youthful take on funeral attire set her apart from the rest of the mourners, as did her piercings, which, as Holly had observed, were on permanent display. When whispers began to swirl through the church, her expression became increasingly pugnacious, but she, like my boys, exercised praiseworthy self-restraint and said nothing.

The two coffins that rested side by side before the altar were indistinguishable, save for the mounds of flowers that covered them. I had an especially soft spot for the children’s bouquets, if only because there were so many of them. It seemed fitting that the honorary aunts should thus be honored.

The whispering stopped when the vicar ascended the pulpit to read New Testament verses the Pyms had selected. When he invited Miss Aubrey Aroha Pym to say a few words, Bree stood without hesitation and marched over to plant herself boldly between the coffins.

“You don’t know me and I don’t know you,” she began in a strong, clear voice. “I look strange and I sound strange and I come from a faraway place, but you’d better get used to me, because I’m not going anywhere. I promised my great-grandaunts that I’d stand in for them at a wedding in the spring, so you’re stuck with me until then and maybe for a lot longer.

“Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise weren’t bothered by my looks or by my accent, and they didn’t care where I came from,” she continued. “I didn’t know them for much more than a day, but sometimes that’s all it takes to see into a person’s heart. Their hearts were pure gold. I don’t know whether I believe in God and I don’t have much use for religion—sorry, Vicar—but if heaven exists, I know they’re up there. And if there’s such a thing as a guardian angel, then I have two of the best.

“Oh, and before I forget,” she added, “if you want the jams and the cordials and the calf’s foot jelly and the other things my great-grandaunts put by for you, you’d better come to the house to pick them up because I don’t have a car and I don’t know where any of you live.” She brushed her hands lightly over the coffins’ topmost blossoms and concluded gruffly, “Your turn, Vicar.”

The whispers began again at an elevated volume as Bree returned to her pew but ceased when Theodore Bunting cleared his throat, drew himself up to his full and considerable height, and regarded his flock through narrowed eyes.

“Many people who live to a ripe old age die alone,” he told us, “not through any fault of their own, but because they have outlived their friends and their family. Ruth and Louise Pym, however, never lost the knack of making new friends, and they treated each new friend as member of their family.” His stern gaze came to rest on Peggy Taxman as he stated portentously, “We would do well to follow their example.”

Peggy, who had been scowling disapprovingly at Bree’s choppy haircut, must have felt the vicar’s eyes on her because she looked up at him suddenly, turned beet-red, and buried her face in her hymnal.

The vicar, having made his point, went on. “There are those here among us today who may be angry with God for depriving us of such good and kindly souls. To them Ruth and Louise would undoubtedly say, ‘Don’t be silly. It’s high time the dear Lord took us to His bosom, and we’re quite ready to join Him, thank you very much.’ They lived long and meaningful lives and they left this earth well prepared to meet their Maker. I believe steadfastly that they are at this very moment planting flowers round the gates of Heaven and greeting each new arrival with a cup of tea.”

The vicar paused to spread a sheet of lined paper atop his notes.

“In closing, I will read a message Ruth and Louise asked me to convey to each and every one of you.” He smoothed the sheet of paper, then read aloud, “ ‘Dear friends and neighbors. If you fail to show our great-grandniece the same loving kindness you have always shown us, we will smite you.’ ”

There was a moment of absolute silence followed rapidly by a variety of sounds. Bill and I had to bite our lips to keep from laughing out loud, but Peggy Taxman huffed indignantly, Sally Pyne tittered, and Mr. Barlow burst into a hearty guffaw. While a wave of poorly suppressed laughter rolled through the church, Rob and Will asked what “smite” meant and Bree demonstrated by giving her own knee a resounding smack.

“Let us rise,” intoned the vicar. “Please turn to Hymn 457: ‘For the Fruits of His Creation.’ We will honor Ruth Pym and Louise Pym not merely by singing their favorite hymn, but by inscribing its words on our hearts. Let us learn from the example set by our sisters in Christ to be grateful for God’s gifts, to do His will by helping our neighbors, and to recognize the good in all men.”

Voices filled the church, rang out over the village, and rebounded from the surrounding hillsides as the congregation sang the old harvest hymn, reaching a crescendo in the final verse:

I closed the hymnal and gazed at Bree, wondering if she’d caught the allusion the Pyms had surely known was there. Love had found them in the nick of time, I thought, filling their hearts for a few shining hours and allowing them to truly rest in peace. Thanks be to God.

 

 

“Everyone stayed for the burial,” I said. “The churchyard was so packed that Mr. Barlow had to string Day-glo flags around the graves to keep people from falling into them.”

Night had come and the rain had resumed. Bill, the boys, and Willis, Sr., were upstairs and asleep. Although I was dazed by a debilitating bout of jet lag, I couldn’t rest until I’d told Aunt Dimity about the Pym sisters’ funeral. I hadn’t forgotten that they’d been her oldest friends on earth.

I sat in the tall leather armchair before the hearth in the study, with the blue journal propped open on my knees. Reginald, flanked by the pair of adorable kiwis I’d bought in Queenstown for Will and Rob, seemed content to be back in his special niche in the bookshelves, but a dreamy gleam in his eyes told me that a part of him was still roving the Land of the Long White Cloud. I smiled at him, then looked down at the familiar handwriting that had appeared on the journal’s blank page.

“Villagers only at the luncheon,” I reported, “and they couldn’t complain about the food, because they’d prepared it. Bree made the most of her resources and served the casseroles and the soups well-wishers had dropped off when her great-grandaunts first fell ill. Horace Malvern’s cheeses went over big.”

“Will and Rob are positively gaga over Bree,” I said. “They cornered her at the luncheon to ask little-boy questions about her nose ring and she came straight out and told them that the hole was too small to allow for . . . leakage. You should have seen Peggy Taxman’s face when the boys explained it to her. I could feel Ruth and Louise smiling down on their successors.”

“Reminiscent,” I replied, after a moment’s thought. “Everyone recalled something the Pyms had done for them, whether it was teaching them to make marmalade or embroidering their child’s christening gown. And there isn’t a gardener within fifty miles of Finch who hasn’t grown plants from cuttings the Pyms passed on to them. Mr. Barlow came out with the gem of the day, though.”

“He said, and I quote: ‘It’s a good thing they packed it in before the ground froze. It’s hard graft, digging up frozen dirt. But they were always considerate that way.’ ”

“Nell told me that they passed away peacefully,” I said.

“I’d like to think so.” I paused to listen as a gust of rain flung itself against the diamond-paned window above the old oak desk, then said, “Bree’s more upset than she’ll admit.”

I touched my greenstone pendant and smiled.

“I’ll be a good native guide,” I promised. “I learned from a master.”

“The villagers certainly did,” I said. “They were a lot more cheerful than I expected them to be. I thought the funeral would cast a pall over Finch.”

“A May wedding,” I said, “to allow a decent interval for mourning.”

T
he hedgerows were covered with supple young leaves that hid dozens of newly made nests. Bumblebees hovered over fresh clumps of clover in lush pastures dotted with lambs. The first crop of silage was ready for mowing, the rape fields were ablaze with gaudy yellow blossoms, and there wasn’t a cloud in the soft blue sky as I drove Willis, Sr., to St. George’s Church on a beautiful morning in May.

My father-in-law and I were alone in the car because Bill, as best man at the wedding, had left early for Anscombe Manor to lend his support to the groom. Will and Rob had gone ahead with him to prepare their ponies for the wedding procession. They and the other members of their prize-winning junior gymkhana team would escort the orange-blossom-bedecked white carriage in which the bride and her father would make the short journey from the manor house to the church.

“Lori,” Willis, Sr., said suddenly, “I have made a decision.”

“It’s too late to change your tie again, William,” I said, “and I don’t know why you’d want to. We agreed—after
much
trial and error—that the pearl-gray one was perfect.”

“My decision is unrelated to sartorial matters,” he informed me loftily.

“Good,” I said, with grim determination. “Because we’re not turning around.”

“I have decided to buy Fairworth House,” he said.

I hit the brakes to keep from swerving into a hedge. The maneuver put no one’s life at risk because our lane was the exact opposite of a major highway and Willis, Sr., had braced himself for a reaction he’d apparently anticipated. When the car came to a full stop, I rounded on him and babbled incoherently for several seconds.

“When did you . . . ? Why haven’t you . . . ? You . . . buy . . .
what
? ”