‘So death has taken away Alexander Petrovsky,’ said Tabidze in conclusion. ‘Everybody here must be distressed by the knowledge that he or she will never see him again. That’s all.’
He came to the salute once more. His trumpeter, fluffing occasionally, sounded the meagre, sentimental dirge that served as Lights Out. The guard of honour rested on their arms, heads bowed. The firing-party discharged their old-style carbines across the grave and the English attendants started shovelling the earth back in.
On the other side, in the front row of mourners, stood the small black-clad figure of Elizabeth Cuy, one of the couple of dozen conspirators who had conspired to little or no purpose and had been released after questioning. She was crying bitterly, or rather with great intensity. She was thinking of herself as she wept, of herself as the girl who had had a hopeless passion for a young man who had now died. When she did think of Alexander it was of someone who had treated her with some unkindness and not a great deal of notice, and perhaps some of her tears were those of one who lays down a burden. Agatha Tabidze was next to her, and she too was crying, but then she always cried at funerals, even ones that commemorated people she had not particularly cared for. Tatiana Petrovsky, on the other side, was the only person present who was shedding genuine tears, being likewise the only person in the world who would have grieved for Alexander whatever he had been like. She was grieving for Nina too, also taken from her and yet still living, and so already beginning to occupy a larger place in her thoughts. Her surviving son, Basil, off the aeroplane from Manchuria only that morning, had her hand in his but was not weeping. Sergei Petrovsky was not weeping either. Nor was he grieving; he was entirely taken up with the bad time his conscience was giving him.
8 Troop was filing off at a slow pace, Polly next to Ulmanis at their head, her saddle and bridle hung with black. The guard of honour marched out into the road and the crowd began to disperse. It was a chilly day with, in the past few minutes, small gusts of rain. Kitty Wright had reached the gate of the churchyard when a young Russian officer approached her.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said; ‘may I speak with you?’
‘All right, but it’ll probably be easier if we use Russian.’
‘Thank you. Aren’t you Kitty? Alexander’s girl? I’m called Dmitri. This must be a sad day for you.’
‘Yes, it is.’ A sad day it was; not an unpleasant day or a difficult day, but a sad one.
‘I liked him. I didn’t know him well, but I thought he was a good fellow. Are you coming up to the house for a drink? We’re all invited.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes you are; I’m inviting you. Nobody’ll mind. Things are getting easier all the time.’
‘All right,’ said Kitty again. ‘It’ll be funny to see it. He never brought me here, but he talked about it. I wonder if it’ll be as I imagine.’
They waited for more people to leave, then slowly made their way against the flow towards the side of the church. As they passed the grave, now completely filled in, the turfs back in place, something she had heard that night at the theatre came half-way into Kitty’s memory, something about somebody dying and being turned into stars and put in the sky. With more concentration than she had ever summoned before, she tried to remember the precise words, just some of them, just one phrase, but she was not used to efforts of that kind. She tried again; she nearly got it. No. It was gone.