Pedigree Crush With a Twist of Passion

1960

The day was drizzly and dismal as is right and proper for a funeral.
Some might argue that an infant returning to the Lord demands rays of
brilliant sunlight and the Hallelujah Chorus sung by the angels
themselves. This was a sombre occasion, a ceremony of blackness as only
a catholic funeral knows how.

It was also a day of terrible secrets.

Violet Postlethwaite was still a young girl then, though the strain of
the past week, and the black clothes and veil, had given her the
appearance of a woman fifteen years older. She was called Woods now,
had been for the past five months, but people round those parts take to
change slowly. So to them she was, and pretty much always would be,
little Vi Postlethwaite.

She had very firm opinions about her name. She shuddered visibly if
anyone dared to call her Vi to her face. "My name," she would declare
icily, "Is Violet. Vi-o-let. Three syllables. It is the name I was
given and, had my parents wanted me to be called Vi, I'm sure they
would have seen fit to christen me thus in the sight of God."

It was the way Vi Postlethwaite talked. She had high opinions of
herself. That was what she said about her Christian name. The problems
with Postlethwaite were even worse. She hadn't been married to Donald
Woods long, and, after their honeymoon, they had moved to the small
public house just outside Windermere that Donald's parents ran. Local
dialect was very neatly divided through the middle of Windermere.
Anything Bowness and South was still Cumbrian until Cumbria leaked into
Lancashire, but North of Windermere the Cumbrian dialect really kicked
into its wellies. Violet had been horrified the first time she heard
Postlethwaite contracted to produce the sound Postlethut. She was
heartily glad that she now had the name Woods. Even these yokels would
find it difficult to tamper with that, she told herself.

Violet wasn't thinking about names as she stood beside the damp hole
that the tiny coffin was lowered into. She wept into a fine lace hanky
as she threw a small amount of earth on to the top of the white coffin
lid.

"God bless my darling,"she sniffled before throwing her head back and
wailing, "My baby, my poor baby."

Molly Davis, cleaning lady of the Woods` sobbed even louder than she
had been. "It was a lovely service," she would tell everyone
later.

Georgina and Arthur, Violet's parents were the epitome of dignified
mourning. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their daughter lending
her their support and strength. Donald, her husband had been pushed
out. He stood slightly apart, ashen and looking confused. In his turn,
he dropped a handful of earth into the grave, but only after Monsignor
Burton had urged him to do so. Donald expected the soil to sprinkle
like icing sugar on the top of a sponge cake, but Windermere earth is
predominantly clay and it clumped and fell to the coffin lid like a
stone. It landed with a resounding thump and Donald jumped as though he
had been hit in the chest by a rock.

Georgina's head shot up and she glared at her new son-in-law. Her lips
pursed tightly and her eyes peered like a malevolent crow as she shook
her head in slow exaggerated movements. Again Donald had disappointed.
Donald felt that Georgina blamed him for the mud on her new suede
shoes, for the escalated price of the home cured ham, and for the fact
that it was raining. What she could never blame him for though, was the
death of the baby.

Donald hadn't wanted to get married. He hadn't really wanted to put
Violet in the unfortunate position that they had to get married. If
truth be told he didn't really like her very much. He had been pushed
into taking her out by his enthusiastic parents. Violet herself had
made all the other decisions, he just went along with them because he
found that, where Violet was concerned, that was usually the best way.
What really upset Donald, was standing beside that gave, with those
people, on that day. His own mother, smiled at him. It was one of those
smiles that was meant to encourage, but really it said I'm sorry, I
don't know what to say. Perhaps, what Donald hated the most, was the
fact that his parents were hurting. They didn't deserve this. They were
good people.

Georgina told everyone that the baby had been brought to his burial in
what should have been his christening gown. "Yards of white lace," she
said, mopping her eyes, "adorning his poor tiny little body. What was
the Lord thinking?" she said more than once, "Taking our angel. Our
sweet, precious angel."

Whispers carried from pew to pew wondering why the baby's coffin was
closed, but nobody dared mention it to the family. "Well," said Maisy
Roach, "It wouldn't be right to ask would it?"

No expense had been spared on the funeral. Usually Arthur clung onto
his wallet as Georgina ripped it from his hand with vigour. He just
looked shifty and sad ?and scared.

Willoughby's had 'taken care of' the funeral. The family rode in the
finest of Rolls Royce with curtains up at the windows to shield their
tears from curious eyes. The coffin was brought to the church in a
carriage with a glass mantle. A pair of identical jet stallions with
black plumes on their heads.
pulled the carriage. Mister Willoughby himself walked the funeral
march at the head of the procession, stamping the tempo into the road
with his cane, raindrops reflected in the crystal globe on the top. He
wore a black coat almost to his ankles, a claret cravat and a black top
hat, but mostly he wore dignity and respect. It was what they had paid
for.

Monsignor Burton had run out of prayers, his hands ached from being
spread at chest height. His thin reedy voice had sung his final lament.
His left knee burned with a deep arthritic ache from the damp weather.
"God be with you," he said again. "Go in peace." For the most part the
mourners had dispersed. They had a taste for fine sherry and salmon
sandwiches, but the family didn't seem to know what to do. They stood
looking down on the tiny coffin shaking their heads and searching their
hearts for guilt.

Jack Murthwaite gave an apologetic cough, his hand over his mouth. He
didn't know how best to disturb the family, but time was getting on and
Stinging Nettle was running in the three-o clock at Cheapstow.

"Jack," said Arthur, turning to shake the large man's hand. He found it
impossible to look him in the eye. "Thank you for coming. And please
thank everyone at the lodge for the floral tribute. It is
beautiful."

"It's nothing man, nothing," grunted Murthwaite. Lots of names in the
Lake District end in thwiate, Murthwaite was one of many.. His eyes
examined the same pebble that Arthur seemed to find so interesting.
"Terrible business, terrible. Of course," cough. "We had another whip
round," cough. "For ? um ?Well, there's a small monetary gift for
Violet. It'll be presented at the lodge on Monday. We'll see you there,
yes?" He could hear raindrops bouncing off the coffin. They shook hands
and without another word the president of the Windermere branch of the
Freemasons walked away, wiping the shaken hand on the seam of his suit
trousers as though he may have been contaminated. Like the family, he
wouldn't sleep easy in his bed that night.