“In England’s green and pleasant land…”

The throaty voices tailed off. The chords of the organ lingered in the church like a bad smell. She’d never liked that hymn. It still grated. Even now that Walter wasn’t standing next to her and drowning the high-pitched quivers of the sopranos.

It was the dramatic chorus, the way Walter sang it as if it really were a pledge to his nation. And those lyrics. Was that what they’d fought for? Was that what they’d died for? A green and pleasant land? Hardly stirring stuff, is it?

Walter had liked it though. And it was his funeral.

Grace could almost see him, standing tall next to her, his chest thrust forward, his face creased with emotion at his anthem. Rousing. That’s what he’d called it. There was no one to bellow the deep bass notes today. Maybe the congregation would have to choose some different hymns now. Maybe she would actually be able to hear the tune.

She sat down. She’d never gotten used to the hard wood of the pews, nor the draught that bit her ankles like the spirit of an excitable pup. But she’d never complained. Walter’s connections with St Paul’s dated back to his days as a choirboy when he had a slick side parting and a robe so long it swept the dust from the choir pews. The affection he’d held for his church had been second only to his war medals.

Grace glanced at the coffin. A union jack was draped over the polished oak like a blanket. Walter would have appreciated that. He’d always wanted glory and honour. He’d probably dreamed of dying like a hero. Years of dust clung to the cloth but the red, blue and white still appeared vivid against the grey church, the glass windows barely appearing stained against the stifled light of the autumn day. The scarlet beret of his parachute regiment rested on top, the medals gleaming almost inappropriately against the sombre setting. Grace looked away. But the image returned again and again. The image of a coffin cloaked in the same bold colours, stirring in the gentle breeze of a spring morning. A coffin housing a young body. A coffin she’d seen years earlier.

Grace tensed every muscle, attempting to squeeze the vivid memory from her mind. She thought of Walter lying there, his hand clutching his chest. She glanced at the hymnbook in her hands, its thin paper curled and yellowed by age, and placed it on the ledge of her pew. Walter had been waiting for this. She could hardly get petty about the choice of hymn.

The vicar had begun his sermon, but she was only conscious of a mumble, low and rambling like a distant engine. Her glasses had slipped from the bridge of her nose. Walter would have told her to push them up. He would have said she looked haughty. Her loose curls were tucked behind her ears. People were surprised she hadn’t worn a hat today. She could tell. But it had been Walter who had insisted she wear one to church. She’d always wanted to ask him in which commandment God specified the dress code. But she never had.

Peter sat next to her, staring intently ahead with his father’s rigid posture. He seemed barely aware of her presence; there wasn’t a warm squeeze of the hand nor an arm around her shoulder. Not even a reassuring gaze. But then, they weren’t that sort of family. Grace observed him from the corner of her eye. He was just like Walter.

A cushion hung from a brass hook beneath the ledge where she rested her hymnbook. The word ‘peace’ was woven into the cover of the cushion, golden thread against green wool. Peace. She wondered whether she would ever feel that. People say time is a healer. People say the pain will pass. But she’d felt emotion grip her every time she looked at the man she married to help her forget. It rose in her now, trembling in the pit of her stomach and squeezing her throat. And here she was, at her husband’s funeral, the pain still pummelling her like hail stones, cold and sharp.

Peace. The great prize he’d laid down his life for. And what had it given her? A green and pleasant land. She thought of the town outside, the grey streets, the advance of industry, of one faceless housing estate after another. A green and pleasant land rapidly being swallowed by acres of concrete. And they actively encourage the invasion of grey dust, brick and tarmac. What had he died for? She’d wrestled with the same questions her whole life.

“And it was then, not long after his return from France, that Walter met Grace.” The vicar’s gaze rested on her, his smile failing to warm the icy grip of the church. “His lifelong partner, mother to his son and cherished companion. A love spanning fifty four years – a blessing of our heavenly Father indeed.”

Love? She’d cared for Walter. She’d wanted him certainly. But did she ever really love him? She looked down at her wedding ring, the ivory skin of her hands now speckled and lined with age. Did she ever feel the gut-wrenching emotion for Walter that she felt as the image of that coffin returned? The image of that face she would never forget? The touch she’d never felt since?

Looking at the union jack, warm tears slid into her eyes. She knew she’d never felt love for the man who rested beneath.

After the service, the mourners made their way to the graveside. The breeze had grown stronger, threatening to blow the heavy bank of cloud to the east. It caught black skirts and wisps of grey hair, the flag almost lifting as the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Grace threw a handful of earth onto the union jack. She said goodbye to her husband. Then she looked up, at the crack of blue sky breaking through the cloud. She had to do it. Finally. Put that young soldier to rest. Find peace.

She looked beyond the town, the swollen grey mass of buildings and chimneys, to the green hills along the horizon. And said goodbye to her lover.