The Designer(23)

He belched. ‘And you’re determined on staying here?’ He gazed around at the fantastical collection of mourners. ‘With this crazy bunch?’

She felt that she was bleeding from somewhere inside. ‘Yes. I’m running away with the circus.’

‘Who the hell are all these people, anyway?’ Hemingway demanded. He was wearing a khaki shirt, sleeves rolled up in defiance of the cold, a cigarette clamped in his teeth.

‘Friends of Monsieur Dior’s. They all insisted on coming.’

Hemingway swigged from a hip flask and passed it to Amory. ‘In Paris, nobody wants to be a spectator. Everybody’s an actor.’

‘It hasn’t taken you long to get yourself mixed up with the lunatic fringe,’ Amory said. ‘Every freak in Paris is here. Is this your idea of a decent funeral?’

‘Considering that George drank himself to death,’ she replied tartly, ‘I’d say it was rather appropriate.’

Amory turned to look at the vault that was being prepared for George by two elderly bricklayers with trowels and hammers. A damp-looking tunnel had been opened in the wall. The bricklayers were scraping out moss and other debris. ‘This belongs to a Protestant family who’ve agreed to let George be buried with their nearest and dearest. There’s going to be a problem, though,’ Amory slurred.

‘What sort of problem?’

‘You’ll see,’ he replied gloomily. Her determination to separate from him had made him sulky, if not shattered by grief. Perhaps he still thought she was only pretending and would change her mind at the last minute. Dior joined them, immaculate in a dark suit and bowler hat, proffering conventional condolences. She was again struck by the contrast between his middle-class conservatism and the weirdness of his friends. She was glad to have him there, standing beside her in his diffident and fatherly way.

A brisk US Army chaplain, arranged by Amory, now arrived and announced that he was prepared to begin the ceremony. The three dozen or so mourners gathered around expectantly. From behind a mausoleum, the pall-bearers emerged, rather unsteadily carrying George’s coffin. Copper immediately saw what the problem was going to be. The Frightful Bounder had been a large man and the coffin had been made to fit him; but the recess was narrow, intended for a smaller recipient.

‘I don’t think it’s going to fit,’ Dior murmured in her ear.

‘I can see that.’

The chaplain had started the service. The coffin was lifted, with a great deal of grunting and gasping, to the recess, which was rather high up; but it soon got stuck and would not slide in any further.

‘Perhaps if the handles were removed?’ Dior suggested.

The coffin was lowered again. One of the bricklayers produced a screwdriver and the handles were unscrewed, disappearing into a coat pocket. The chaplain waited rather impatiently, glancing at his watch.

Without handles, the coffin was even more difficult to manoeuvre. And once again, it got stuck. Amory cursed under his breath. The coffin was lowered to the ground. The masons began to pry off the wooden rails using their trowels. These produced a loud groaning sound as they came away, as though amplified by the box they were attached to. Everyone winced, except Bérard, who burst out laughing.

‘My God,’ Hemingway snorted. ‘The old bastard really doesn’t want to go.’

Shorn of handles and cornices, the coffin was once again heaved up to the niche. By now the pall-bearers and the masons were all red-faced and sweating, despite the cold. This time, the coffin scraped all the way into the hole. But a new difficulty arose: the box was too long and protruded by several inches. There were sniggers and groans of dismay.

Tight-lipped, one of the masons stepped forward, unasked, and simply knocked off the end of the coffin with his hammer. It fell to the ground, revealing the worn soles of Fritchley-Bound’s shoes. The masons swiftly cemented a concrete slab over the awful hole. The pall-bearers, exhausted, passed around a bottle, swigging deeply.

The army chaplain finished the service, closed his prayer book and departed swiftly, looking glad to be finished. But the bizarre mourning party was in no mood to break up. As she had promised, Suzy began to sing ‘Chant des adieux’, which turned out to be ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with French words. Her voice was strong and resonant. Amory stepped forward and chalked George’s name and dates on the slab. ‘The marble won’t be ready for a few weeks,’ he said. There was appreciative applause when Suzy finished, and the pop of a bottle being opened.

‘I’m leaving for Dijon now,’ Amory told Copper, turning his back on the motley crowd. He led her out of the cold wind into the shelter at the back of the mausoleum. ‘You can have your divorce. Just send me the papers, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘What are you going to do about money?’

‘I’ve got some put by.’

‘It’s not going to last.’ He drew an envelope from the recesses of his greatcoat. ‘Here. Take this.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Take it,’ he growled. ‘If you insist on being a little fool, you’re going to need it.’

‘Don’t call me a fool.’ She was so angry that she almost threw the money back in his face. But sense prevailed, and her annoyance at least helped her to dry her tears. She put the envelope in her bag. He looked wretched.