Beneath the Flowering Flamboyants

Clytie’s home was filled with strangers. Strangers who were singing loudly and totally out of tune. Doh re me fa soh la ti doh! They had consumed too much Bottomsley white rum, and as they drank, they cried. In their drunken stupour, they still knew they were mourning the loss of Una Prescott whose body lay in the room where she had slept for the last ten years. Her sister Ida Franklin sat on a chair close to the bedroom door not saying a word. Bereaved over her sister’s death, she just kept dipping her fingers into her snuff tin and sneezing until her eyes watered and tears rolled down her cheeks. None of the strangers spoke to her because they hardly knew her.

Clytie had laid out a spread for the visitors. There were sardines, corned beef and biscuits, fish cakes and a couple bottles of rum on the table from which they helped themselves. The rest of the family and friends sat around deep in sorrow, but occasionally they would all have a good laugh when one of the mourners who had consumed too much alcohol would fall to floor and be unable to stand again.

Una Prescott looked as if she were asleep as she lay in the mahogany coffin in the drawing room of the home she had shared with her daughter and grandson. All the mourners filed by to pay their last respects, stopping to get a good look at the woman who had changed the lives of so many.

“You go along ‘til I come,” someone would say.

“She look real peaceful,” said another.

“Clytie put her way real good,” still another said.

That meant that Clytie did well in providing a casket fit to bury her mother in. Not just any cheap old box, but something befitting the status of the departed. Nellie, Francois and Clytie had seen to it that the old lady was given a beautiful farewell. Now running short of time, Francois and Nellie decided to go straight to the church instead of going back to Clytie’s home.

Outside the home mourners had gathered for the procession to the church. The villagers from Bottomsley plantation and those from Plum Tree Village had all lined up outside the home, two by two. The women were all dressed in white and walked ahead of the procession; then the men in their heavy suits, quite unsuitable for the hot weather followed. A brass band with trumpets, drummers and tambourine shakers went before the car which took the family to the church. Then the carriage with the limping horse and its driver who was called Bottleneck because of his elongated neck, struggled along with Miss Una’s body. A nail had been inserted between the horse’s shoe and his hoof causing pain, thus giving the impression that the horse too was bowing to show respect to the departed.

It was indeed a sad day. There was a lot of sniffling, moaning and groaning. Francois’ arm fit snugly around his wife’s waist and remained there throughout the service. Alastair and Emily along with Ursy sat behind them. Clytie was helped along by Nora on one side and Judes on the other. Harriett had a firm grip on Ida Franklin who struggled through her grief at the loss of her sister. She seemed to falter and a quick whiff of smelling salts from Harriet’s pocket had her firmly on her feet again.

The service lasted for forty minutes with Francois bestowing a eulogy which brought just about everyone to tears. The casket was then carried out with Jonas at the head, then Alastair and Francois side by side, followed by Toby and Percy and five more men from Bottomsley plantation and Plum Tree Village. Clytie sobbed loudly, such was her grief. Arm in arm with Nellie who was also grief-stricken, they walked behind the casket of Una Prescott. At the graveside they were joined by Emily and Ursy as the priest said the final farewell. Slowly Miss Una’s body was lowered into the earth, just a few feet away from her friend Ella Burnett. After the first handful of earth was thrown onto the casket, Clytie broke down and had to be escorted away from the graveside. A couple of minutes later, Ida too had to be taken away. She had completely lost her composure and was asking to be buried along with her sister. Irreverent as it may seem, it did bring muted laughter from many of the onlookers.

The final shovel of earth was thrown upon the mound, and those who had brought flowers with them, gently placed them on the grave. The old men from the village, still under the influence of alcohol continued singing their out-of-tune dirges. Were it not for the death of a woman like Una Prescott, it could’ve been considered a comedy. In spite of the severity of the situation, Francois found himself glancing around the churchyard in search of the big mahogany tree. Nellie’s problem was resting heavily on his mind.