After the Funeral

By Wendy Markel

Thirty years Barry worked with Mary. He’d miss her cheerful chatter.

There would be refreshments at the pub, the celebrant had said. Barry waited, letting the family go ahead. He appreciated the strong Yorkshire tea and sandwiches, but the conversation dismayed him.

“I’m expecting twenty-five grand,” the pink-hoodied youngster said, grinning. “It just needs a clean-up.”

So rude. Mary kept her place pristine.

And everyone was laughing.

“You’re a disgrace, after her money. You have no respect.”

The Porsche owners’ club members exchanged glances as Barry stalked out.

Music was coming from the snug. Coincidence, Barry thought. ‘James Last,’ Mary’s favourite.