The Deaths of Old Wallop

Part 2

If Viola Barrington Higgins could look down onto the sandstone village of Old Wallop, she would see an awful lot of individuals at her funeral that not only would she never have invited, but also people that she would have happily dragged to the gates of hell beside her.

Viola was not one that had ever understood the convention of these occasions.  Spending thirty minutes waving off loved ones into the fiery pit before spending thrice that time avoiding past acquaintances and eating sandwiches in honour of the dead; complaining about streaks of fat in the ham or an overly-zealous pickling policy.  It didn't seem right.  With each passing year, Viola became increasingly aware of neighbours watching each other whilst smacking their lips at the prospect of the next finger buffet.

Two such former neighbours, both experienced funeral attendees, had adopted perfect positions in the hall with nigh-on military precision.  Sally and Eileen took the seats nearest the food leaving only two seats vacant between one another. No-one would take seats so close to strangers if they could help it.  This was the way in which tier one foodstuffs could be secured; pizza slices, chicken goujons, individual sherry trifles.  Let the proles dine on the cheese and pineapple.  Sally and Eileen began to smile at a job well done when they realised their mistake. They hadn't factored in Joyce.

"I've heard rumour of pakoras," offered the newcomer, her heavy stomach growling beneath a stretched cyan trouser-suit as she sat.

"You've worn the hat again, have you Joyce?" Sally's face furrowed to a fist as she asked.  Joyce was sixty-two.  Nowhere near, nowhere near old enough to just assume immediate reciprocation from the actually elderly.  Old people could speak to one another and expect typical conversation without the social necessity of having first required an introduction, that was the rule, but Joyce wasn't of sufficient age to be in the club.  She'd accosted Eileen at a bus-stop with some claptrap about the weather and now they couldn't seem to shake her off.  She was like a whiff of anti-arthritis cream.  Or Plague.

"It's very...big," said Eileen, entering in a pincer movement.

"I remember you said I shouldn't wear it to funerals, but, you know."

"It's the ostrich feather, I think," said Sally.

"I didn't wear it to Wendy's though, did I?" said Joyce with triumph.

"No, no you didn't," conceded Eileen.

Joyce, her pink face bloated with victory, looked across for any movement on the buffet front.

"That is Wendy's hat though, isn't it?  I mean, you took it from the bags for the charity shop.  We saw you."  Joyce opened her mouth to respond but Sally and Eileen were already on the move; a tall nineteen year old man in a tie was peeling cling film from a plate of mini-sausage rolls, and they hungrily rose together as one.