MORNING SERIAL
AT the first suggestion that the passage had been concluded he raised his hand once again, less passive this time, and flicked his wrist in the direction of the gravediggers, who applied an urgency I would not have imagined them capable of just fifteen minutes before.
They came at a canter over to the plot and set about lowering Francis into the hole. As this went on, the priest went on too, in Greek, and the older man impatiently stood over the hole with a fistful of dirt.
Another gesture from him, subtler, from behind his shades, and the others of his party likewise picked up dirt to cast down onto the coffin once lowered.
And a strange thing: I too then found myself, from the other side of the hole, picking up some dirt having never done such a thing at any funeral before, even for my own family members.
The music box reached the floor of the grave and the diggers unhooked their tethers and stepped away.
The old Russian stepped forward, muttered some words I couldn’t catch – if they were even in English to be caught – and dropped his dirt.
With all that done, the younger man ushered the girls back in the direction of the car, but the older man stayed back and approached the priest with an outstretched hand.
They shook and the Russian said some words in Greek that had the priest nodding with that sympathetic look on his face.
And then the Russian pulled his shades an inch down the bridge of his nose and looked over the top of them directly at me.
He had powerful blue eyes and it was just for a second, but everything seemed to slow down, drag out, and then he pushed them back up, closed his eyes off to me, and turned without a word to the Bentley.
I am not a reserved man as a rule – anybody back home would tell you that – and although Francis taught me the best home for my personality was the canvas, there were still those who preferred to keep me at arm’s length.
> The Golden Orphans by Gary Raymond is published by Parthian www.parthianbooks.com
CONTINUES TOMORROW