Bucket to Greece - Short 2 by Bucket V.D

Author:Bucket, V.D.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

A Mysterious Woman

Standing by the open grave, I reflected that much as I hated to think the worst of Spiros, I was beginning to think that he’d taken advantage of our friendship, luring me to a stranger’s funeral with his precognition that something out of the ordinary may occur. It struck me that the more likely scenario was that Spiros had apparently suckered me in to lend a fourth shoulder to bear the weight of the coffin, knowing hardly anyone else planned to attend. The only silver lining was that at least the casket had been closed before it was hauled atop my shoulder.

As Violet Burke scrubbed at my suit with her damp hanky, determined to cleanse it of any unhygienic grubbiness picked up from the casket, I studied the dismal turnout. The low numbers from the church hadn’t multiplied at the cemetery, the mourners still comprising only Ioanna, Giannis, Yiota and Sampaguita. Since the two pensioners that had come along to the church for the post-burial tot of brandy hadn’t made it to the graveyard, I pondered if they would still be entitled to a free drink.

A sharp nudge in my ribs from my mother drew my attention towards a mysterious woman in a bright yellow and black striped dress that reminded me of Marigold’s black-eyed Susans, her face completely obscured by a dramatic black veil attached to a yellow pill box hat. Despite the nod to funeral black, her outfit was far too vibrant to be classed as suitable mourning weeds. Taking a place at the graveside opposite the other mourners, the unknown woman emitted an enigmatic air, standing erect and aloof.

“Who do you reckon that is, lad?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Violet Burke wasn’t the only one that was curious about the mysterious woman’s identity. Ioanna and Giannis stared across at her, no doubt wondering if there was any connection between the brightly clad woman and the recently deceased. Even Papas Andreas threw a couple of furtive glances her way as he commenced the recitation of the traditional Trisagion, the sound of Sampaguita’s muffled sobs playing as background music.

Tuning out as Andreas prattled on, I noticed the two missing pensioners ambling slowly towards the grave, Kyrios Stavropoulos sneakily purloining a couple of flowers from another tombstone. The mysterious woman didn’t even glance in the direction of the two latecomers. Although it was hard to tell behind her veil, her gaze appeared to be fixed firmly on the now sealed coffin containing Haralambos’ mostly charred remains.

Looking around the graveyard, I had to admit that Marigold’s group dedicated to beautifying the cemetery had done a sterling job, nary a weed in sight. It was a beautiful late morning, the sky too blue for a funeral. A dark green lizard scuttled across the adjacent tombstone, colourful butterflies flitting between stunning purple and white peonies, and the freshly cut flowers laid on the graves. Set behind the church, the graveyard offered a wonderful sea view; even though the inhabitants were not in a

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