Tom realised that he had never noticed it, being too taken up, or amused by, or angry with, or wondering at, what she was saying. He sat staring at her, at this woman who he knew really so extraordinarily and intimately, while so few people here were aware that he knew her at all, and then stopped looking and simply listened. And as he listened the day came back, the day when Ned had held, literally, his son’s life in his surgeon’s hands, how calm he had been and how patient, as the ugly war was waged before him, and how incredibly privileged they had been, Alice and he – and in that instant the last of the ice between them melted and a frail recovery began as he looked at Alice and smiled, and took her hand in his as they listened, in the utter stillness of the great church:
‘. . . Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
. . .
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.’
Diana paused there, clearly almost broken: but then she took a deep breath and said, with a quick, bright smile,
‘How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!’
Watching her, as she stayed in the pulpit for a moment, gazing out over the congregation, Leo felt surprisingly moved: not for Ned, who he had scarcely known, but for the cruelty of life, that it must end like this, in death and sorrow; and for this remarkable woman whom he had loved, albeit briefly, and whom he had so wantonly thrown away. It had been madness, he thought, and must be set to rights: and wondered if that was even possible. And suddenly, and almost miraculously, just as she placed her hand on the rail to come down the steps, she saw him, their eyes met and all the bitterness and anger between them was gone, flown from the church, shamed by this greater, deeper emotion; and he smiled at her, and very, very briefly, she smiled back at him and he knew that it was, after all, going to be all right.
Music followed: ‘Pie Jesu’ from Fauré’s Requiem, the soprano voice flying, soaring; Tom felt deeply moved, his eyes filled with tears, staring at the now empty space that had held Diana; he wanted to go to her, to thank her, for what he scarcely knew.
And then Jillie, looking very pale, very frail, went up to the pulpit, looked over the church in silence. Then began, looking up.
‘ “Remember Me”,’ she read, her voice surprisingly strong, ‘by Christina Rossetti. Ned’s favourite female poet.’
It was all Julius could do, staring at her, listening to her, to sit still, and at the end, not to applaud.
‘Better by far you should forget and smile,
Than that you should remember and be sad.’
‘But,’ she added, with her calm, sweet expression, ‘I think we shall be able both to remember Ned and smile.’ Then she returned to her seat and her composure left her, and she buried her head in her hands and wept.
Mozart then, the ‘Benedictus’ from the Requiem, enough for Jillie, and for Alice, suffering with her, to recover composure; and then William Curtis mounted the pulpit to give the eulogy.
He said he must begin with an apology, for he felt there were others, closer to Ned, with more right to speak of him, but he had admired him hugely, and when he had been asked, thought, ‘I simply want to do it.’
He spoke of Ned’s academic achievements, of his courage in the war, of his post-war student days at St Bartholomew’s, where perhaps, for the only time in his life the words ‘Could have done better’ could have applied to Ned, and who could blame him, released from the horrors of war, and finding himself free?
‘He spent much of his time, first learning, then playing, jazz piano, and those of us fortunate enough to have heard him will know that it was not time wasted.’
He spoke of Ned’s early days as a junior doctor, his ability to carry on working for days on end with scarcely any sleep, ‘learned, I suspect, during those years at sea’, his unstinting giving of himself, his passionate longing to do good. He spoke of his pioneering work with children in hospital: his vision of a child frightened and in pain, able to be with the person it needed most, the mother, and his battle to accomplish that against considerable and extraordinary odds. ‘As some of you know, he was about to join my own medical team. I cannot tell you for how many reasons I grieve that that will not be so.’
He spoke of Ned’s love of music. ‘I can only pray he will approve of today’s offering. How we longed to have him with us to help us choose, but in his absence, we have done our poor best.’ He looked at the coffin and smiled and said, ‘Be tolerant of us, Ned, please,’ and the whole church smiled, some laughed even.
He spoke of Ned’s love of good food and wine, of the guarantee of the very best of both in his company, of his own talent for cooking and in unexpected ways. ‘I tell you, if you have not tasted Ned Welles’s marmalade, you have not lived.’
And then, finally, he moved on to his nature, his self:
‘People always say what a lovely man he was, not just those closest to him, but his acquaintances, neighbours, colleagues, patients, and it was true; in all the time I have known Ned, I have never known him speak maliciously, behave shoddily. He was always courteous, gentle, tolerant of weakness, understanding of fear.’
And then he said, ‘We have another speaker today, one who knew Ned very well indeed, one of his patients, a remarkable young person, Miss Susan Mills. Come and join me, Susan, and tell everyone what you wanted to say about Mr Welles.’
Susan, undaunted by the size of the church, the fact that it was packed from wall to wall, that she had heard more wonderful words and music than she had ever done in her short life, scrambled past her mother, marched to the pulpit, climbed the steps, coughed a few times and then beamed round the church.
‘Mr Welles was a very special doctor. I called him Dr Make-me-Welles. He was always kind, he always had time to listen to us, sometimes he read us stories, and he never minded if any of us children was noisy, or cried, or wetted our beds.’ Laughter at that, but gentle, tolerant laughter. ‘He didn’t just make us better, he made us feel better.’ She looked down towards the coffin. ‘I would just like to say, thank you, Mr Welles, for all you did for all of us. We shall miss you very much.’
At which moment, the sun shone suddenly and determinedly through the stained-glass window above the altar; and Jillie and Persephone looked at one another and smiled, and embraced, and Jillie whispered, ‘Phew! He liked it,’ and Persephone whispered back, ‘And, maybe, there is a God.’
And William Curtis climbed down the steps back to his seat.
‘We will now have the anthem,’ said Christian Greenwell, into the silence, ‘and make no apologies for more Fauré. Ned loved Fauré, and he would not mind – I hope – “In Paradisum”, from the Requiem.’
And so, Edward Welles, MD, FRCS, was borne to whatever heaven he might have wished, and they sang a last hymn, and then he was lifted by the pallbearers, for the start of his journey towards his earthly resting place, a graveyard in Cornwall, found by Persephone and near the sea.