Dry Bones

  He shone the torch into corners and, close by the cold water tank, he saw what he had been searching for: a dry-cleaner’s plastic bag with a hanger hook at the top. He hauled it down the ladder, together with the blankets and the British Warm, and carried it into his bedroom.

  The plastic bag unzipped and he drew out his old morning suit – the black coat with the tails, the striped trousers, the dove-grey waistcoat. Thirteen years since he had last worn it at Marcus’s and Susan’s wedding. This, he thought ruefully, was the moment of truth.

  He tried on the trousers first, then the waistcoat, and, then, the coat, breathing in as he fastened buttons. The miracle was that the suit still fitted him – a little tighter than before, perhaps, but perfectly wearable. He looked at his reflection in the long glass. The man standing there was older, greyer and no wiser. For the life of him, he couldn’t see what Naomi had been on about.

  They were lucky with the weather. The sun shone on the morning of the wedding and went on shining all day. The villagers, dressed up in their finery, converged on the church and filled it to standing room only.

  The Colonel, a yellow rose in his buttonhole, arrived with the bride in a hired Daimler that had been polished to gleaming perfection. All brides were beautiful, he knew, but it seemed to him that Ruth was the most beautiful that he had seen since Laura. At the church, he helped her from the car and she laid her hand on his arm as they went up the path. At the open west door they paused. Ahead, he could see the packed pews, Tom Harvey and his best man standing at the end of the nave aisle. He had done the same himself once, long ago. He could remember exactly how it had been, waiting for Laura, and the heart-stopping moment when he had turned round to see her coming towards him.

  ‘Ready, Ruth?’

  She smiled up at him and nodded. ‘Ready’.

  The organ wheezed into life, coaxed by the valiant Miss Hartshorne at the keys, and the congregation stood to sing the first hymn, Praise my Soul, the King of Heaven, as the Colonel and Ruth walked slowly towards the altar. Smiling faces turned to watch their progress; even the Major managed an approving nod. Among the sea of hats, he caught a glimpse of Great-Aunt Rosalind’s magnificent flower and feather creation, of Mrs Cuthbertson’s pink tulle dustbin lid, and of Miss Butler’s neat navy straw. He knew most of the smiling faces; and they knew him.

  Like his old cat, the Colonel had finally come home.

  Footnote

  Chapter One

  fn1 See Old Soldiers Never Die and Three Silent Things