The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [72]
The village of Wanborough was not more than ten minutes’ drive from the Finis Hotel. I parked outside the GSD temple— once a C of E church—and turned off the engine, the silence of the country a welcome break. In the distance I could hear some farm machinery but it was barely a rhythmical hum; I had never appreciated the peace of the country until I had moved to the city. I opened the gate and entered the well-kept graveyard. I paused for a moment, then ambled at a slow respectful pace past the rows of well-tended graves. I hadn’t visited Anton’s memorial since the day I left for London, but I knew that he wouldn’t have minded. Much that we had appreciated about one another had been left unsaid. In humor, in life and in love, we had understood. When I arrived in Sebastopol to join the 3rd Wessex Tank Light Armored Brigade, Landen and Anton were already good friends. Anton was attached to the brigade as signals captain; Landen was a lieutenant. Anton had introduced us; against strict orders we had fallen in love. I had felt like a schoolgirl, sneaking around the camp for forbidden trysts. In the beginning the Crimea just seemed like a whole barrel of fun.
None of the bodies came home. It was a policy decision. But many had private memorials. Anton’s was near the end of the row, underneath the protective bough of an old yew and sandwiched between two other Crimean memorials. It was well kept up, obviously weeded regularly, and fresh flowers had recently been placed there. I stood by the unsophisticated gray limestone tablet and read the inscription. Simple and neat. His name, rank and the date of the charge. There was another stone not unlike this one sixteen hundred miles away marking his grave on the peninsula. Others hadn’t fared so well. Fourteen of my colleagues on the charge that day were still “unaccounted for.” It was military jargon for “not enough bits to identify.”
Quite suddenly I felt someone slap me on the back of my head. It wasn’t hard but enough to make me jump. I turned to find the GSD priest looking at me with a silly grin on his face.
“Wotcha, Doofus!” he bellowed.
“Hello, Joffy,” I replied, only slightly bemused. “Want me to break your nose again?”
“I’m cloth now, Sis!” he exclaimed. “You can’t go around bashing the clergy!”
I stared at him for a moment.
“Well, if I can’t bash you,” I told him, “what can I do?”
“We at the GSD are very big on hugs, Sis.”
So we hugged, there in front of Anton’s memorial, me and my loopy brother Joffy, whom I had never hugged in my life.
“Any news on Brainbox and the Fatarse?” he asked.
“If you mean Mycroft and Polly, no.”
“Loosen up, Sis. Mycroft is a Brainbox and Polly, well, she does have a fat arse.”
“The answer’s still no. Mind you, she and Mum have put on a bit of weight, haven’t they?”
“A bit? I should say. Tesco’s should open a superstore just for the pair of them.”
“Does the GSD encourage such blatant personal attacks?” I asked.
Joffy shrugged.
“Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t,” he answered. “That’s the beauty of the Global Standard Deity—it’s whatever you want it to be. And besides, you’re family so it doesn’t count.”
I looked around at the well-kept building and graveyard.
“How’s it all going?”
“Pretty well, thanks. Good cross section of religions and even a few Neanderthals, which is quite a coup. Mind you, attendances have almost tripled since I converted the vestry into a casino and introduced naked greasy-pole dancing on Tuesdays.”
“You’re joking!”
“Yes, of course I am, Doofus.”
“You little shit!” I laughed. “I am going to break your nose again!”
“Before you do, do you want a cup of tea?”
I thanked him and we walked toward the vicarage.
“How’s your arm?” he asked.
“It’s okay,” I replied. Then, since I was eager to try to keep up with his irreverence, I added: “I played this joke on the doctor in London. I said to him when he rebuilt the muscles in my arm,