Rain falls without ceasing. It hisses onto the pathways and gurgles into the gutters. A jet of water shoots from the vicious leer of an ancient stone creature that sits poised at the corner of the roof as if about to leap after the stream of filthy water that flushes from the church leads. The summer flowers below are battered and beaten down by the liquid that splatters across the gardens.
Low rumbles from the south; the deep roll contrasts the incessant hiss of the rain. A flash of blue-white edges the grey clouds momentarily to be followed by further grumbles and moans.
A slow, black beetle creeps from the church door and makes its way across the churchyard, the pallbearers grow damp and the funerary blooms shiver with the impact of raindrops. The vicar's white surplice, becoming translucent, clings to the robes beneath. His hair, so carefully arranged across his brown scalp, flutters for a while before, waterlogged, it slides towards his drooping shoulders. His words, mumbled from a sodden prayer book, are lost in the hiss of rain and the rumble of thunder. A steady stream of drab mourners shamble along, shoulders slumped by sadness and steady rainfall.
It is August and he is dead.
Why does the day weep for him? Was he so good a man that nature must mourn for him and summer shed copious tears in his honour?
The sad procession reaches the place of interment, a deep brown gash in the green turf. The bottom of the grave is under water and raindrops splash into a brown slimy soup. The mourners peer down into the depths as gazing into hell, to find that it does not burn but is cold and clammy. The pallbearers ease their burden towards the grave, wet fingers slipping and grappling, trying hard not to jolt the coffin as if the dead might feel the rough handling and complain of their harsh treatment.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” intones the vicar. Mud to mud, slime to slime are words more suitable, though inappropriate. When the family are invited to throw soil onto the coffin in token of their burial of a loved one, the funeral director has thoughtfully provided a trowel so that they can drop gobs of mud that fall, splat, on the coffin lid without soiling their gloves with the sticky brown goo.
Two men shelter behind a Victorian grave-stone sacred to the memory of someone long forgotten. One of them takes a quick drag from a soggy roll-up and curses the vicar for taking so long. God punishes him by directing streams of cold water down his neck. The other wonders if Rovers will do better this season than they have done for the last two. He leans on his spade and dreams of cup runs and promotion battles.
The vicar's prayer book squelches shut, and he shakes clammy hands with the friends of the dear departed. As they splash away through the muddy grass they notice that the thunder has ceased to roll, and the rain no longer hisses. The light that edges the grey clouds has a golden tinge. The clouds slide away and shards of sunlight shoot out to lighten the world. Suddenly the pavements begin to steam as the sun burns away the moisture.
As sun after rain on the green shoots of spring, the mourners stretch and straighten their shoulders, their faces beam and the tears evaporate. Their hearts lift with the returning light. Life goes on and Gladys makes a lovely bit of cake so let's get off to the wake and have a natter.
Their thoughts are as traditional as the burial service itself. Why does it always rain at funerals?
