As I arrived, the coffin was being withdrawn from the hearse. Four men solemnly carried their lifeless burden through to the church, but I didn't follow. I had no right to intrude on private family grief. Yet I felt it was right that I should be there.
I hung around outside, pretending to search for the grave of some fictitious ancestor of my own. But as I strolled through the overgrown churchyard, I realised that the Partridge funeral was far from private. Dozens of cars were parked nearby, evidence of an extremely well-attended event, and the presence of the media suggested that the deceased must have been quite a note-worthy member of society.
Fifteen minutes later the church doors groaned open. I watched from a safe distance as the coffin was slowly returned to its hearse and driven away. The sombre congregation emerged, but no-one showed signs of going on to witness further proceedings elsewhere. This harrowing part of Miss Partridge's ordeal was evidently over.
The crowds formed into quiet groups outside the church and I mingled freely, the sheer numbers making it unlikely that anyone would challenge me. My attention was drawn to a pompous gentleman who kept glancing at his watch and yawning as if his presence merely a professional courtesy. And as I wandered over to engage him in conversation I noticed a young lady in black who had just stepped out of the church into bright sunlight. She was of medium height, slimly built, and wore a trim hat with a token veil across her face. I guessed at once who she was.
"How's Angela coping," I asked the man.
"Poor girl," he grunted with a clear nod in her direction, "it's clearly hit her hard. Unexpected too, though Sir George was a classic case. Family history of dicky hearts. Not enough exercise, high blood pressure, constant entertaining on a lavish scale, the added rigours of city life and its millions, you know the drill. Now he's paid the ultimate price, poor sod."
"I'd best have a dutiful word," I said as Angela stood alone. I worked my way swiftly through the crowds, went right up to her, and smiled.
I remember most vividly that initial look of concern. She had a delicate face, almost fawn-like bone structure which framed her earnest, hazel eyes - indeed the words "dear little soul" fluttered through my mind. She looked at me searchingly for an instant as if trying to decide whether I was someone who needed to be recognised. I rescued her from uncertainty by saying quietly:
"Hallo again. Are you feeling any better now?"
She gave distracted frown. "Do I know you? You'll have to forgive me, it's been a difficult time."
"Of course," I said, "and I do understand, especially on top of your disturbed night."
"Yes, I was getting myself all worked up about today's ..."
She broke off and stared with an intent half-smile, warm and cordial, yet tainted with shame and embarrassment at meeting me face to face.
"Oh, no! Your name isn't Bird, by any chance? Are you Richard?"
"At your service," I bowed. Clang! Another dumb choice of words. I excused myself by confessing I hadn't had much sleep after she phoned.
Angela's fixed stare mellowed into true compassion.
"Oh, Richard, I am sorry, you've no idea. I felt so stupid, phoning a complete stranger like that. But I am so grateful. Did I really keep you awake all night? You were still worried about me?"
I aim always to be truthful.
"I realised you couldn't phone back," I said. "You didn't know my number, yet I still hoped that somehow you would. So I lay there, willing the phone to ring again. That's what kept me awake. I just wanted to be sure you were okay."
She gave a heart-warming grin. "I am now," she confided, "thanks to you. Richard, a lot of these people are joining me over the road for a buffet lunch. I'd like it very much if you came."
I declined politely, saying I hadn't intended to gate-crash, stressing that I was there merely to lend my moral support. Okay, if I'm to be honest there were other reasons - curiosity being one, and a desire not to lose touch with someone whose voice was certainly a joy to hear again.
"Look," I said, "I'll give you one of my cards in case you ever feel the need again for the Early Bird Befriending Service."
I fumbled for my wallet and produced a business card with my home address and phone number. Angela studied it carefully before placing it in her handbag. After that, feeling I'd accomplished my main mission, I stepped back as if to leave, but she reached out to touch my arm.
"I mean it about the food, Richard. Seriously. Just follow the gathering." She drew closer to reveal a confidence. "Actually, I struck a deal with the hotel opposite, so they'd let us spill over into their car park. But keep that to yourself. It's no more than a token bite for those who have to dash away. The real spread's back at the house. You must come to that, I insist. Then you can meet Betty."
"If you're sure?" I yielded. "I should have been at work today, but I accidentally dozed off at six and didn't wake till ten. That's when I decided to scoot over here."
"I'm very glad you came," she smiled. "But that means you probably skipped breakfast, so join us and welcome. Maybe we can have a longer chat later in the day. I'd like that."
I felt ecstatic. Angela was far prettier than I'd dared to hope, and she had allowed no other guest to monopolise her attention as much as I did. Whether or not I'd truly earned the honour, I felt distinctly proud.
After moving my car to the safety of the hotel car park, I took my place behind fifty other guests as they filed into a luxurious reception area where Angela stood to welcome them. When my turn came to grasp her hand, I felt a special bond, an exciting new relationship that was already taking root.
Among the guests I discovered some top names from the Stock Exchange. Sir George Partridge had evidently been a man of considerable standing in the city, and his laying to rest had been honoured by many prestigious colleagues whose time was considered most valuable.
By a process of distillation, the élite business associates soon began to drift away, leaving behind the residue of Angela's more personal acquaintances. As the party dwindled to its final dozen, I found myself being treated as a minor celebrity, Angela having spread the word to her trusted friends about the moral support I'd given her during the night.
Jokes quickly circulated about a Bird in the hand being worth two on the phone, but I was grateful for the way they helped to lift Angela's sagging spirits.
By one o'clock the remainder were ready to adjourn to the house, and Angela sought me out again to renew her invitation, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
"You must come, Richard, even if you fall asleep on the carpet. You never know, I might need further counselling. I'm going to come down to earth with a bloody big bump later today, and someone has to be there to catch the pieces. I can't heap it all on Betty."
Given an invitation I could hardly refuse, I asked for directions.
"Just follow the others," she said.
This wasn't as easy as Angela may have imagined. As the last stragglers were leaving I heard a couple yell: "See you at the house!" so I ran to my car and followed them like homing pigeons as they made several circuits of Leatherhead before heading off into open country towards a place called Bookham.
Half an hour later I was convinced I'd selected guides who had either changed their minds about supporting Angela, or were none too sure of the way themselves. We twisted and turned for miles, and I became hopelessly disorientated. Several times I tried to wave them down and clarify what was going on, but they seemed intent on pursuing their goal with resolute determination.
At last they pulled in to the kerb, and I was all set to leap out for a heated exchange when the young driver threw me a disarming grin, raised his hands in a gesture of personal triumph, and announced, "We made it!"
The opulent residence of the late Sir George Partridge was a costly double-fronted Tudor-style house, a homage to ultimate personal achievement and financial success. Short of winning the National Lottery, there was no way I could ever have afforded even to rent a modest room in a house like this. The extensive front and side gardens looked immaculate, and were no doubt professionally cared for. Set well to the side, as an integral part of one wing, was a triple garage, while the curved gravel drive offered ample parking space for the visitors' ten cars.
Inside, the guests had congregated in a long drawing-room, four times the size of my entire flat, tastefully adorned with Regency furniture over a luxurious multi-coloured carpet. The walls bore several portraits in oils, some expensive-looking prints and antique maps, while the windows were hung with tasteful velour curtains. Behind the house stretched a back garden the size of a small golf course, its landscape blending imperceptibly into the rolling Surrey hills beyond.
I found Angela now wearing a shapely peach sweater and jeans, standing in the kitchen preparing coffee and snacks for the selected guests who had driven over from the hotel.
"Richard!" she greeted me in delight, as to an old and valued friend. "You're here at last. We decided you must have got lost."
"For a while I thought I was following the wrong car," I explained. "Isn't this a gorgeous house."
"Feel free to explore wherever you like," she said. "That's Betty, by the way, the one who slept soundly through all my miseries last night."
Betty, who was standing by the sink, looked up with suitable remorse. I went over to shake a hand still damp from washing-up.
"Glad someone was able to lend my little friend a helping ear," she quipped. "Bloody effective too, if you want my candid opinion."
I thanked her and asked if I could do anything to be useful.
Angela placed firm hands on my shoulders and gazed at me with an intensity that set my pulses bounding like a kangaroo.
"Yes, Richard, please. Go and socialise, or they'll think this is a boring hen party. Help yourself to a drink, my dear, then chat up anyone else who looks in need of your special brand of comfort."
She beamed an extra dazzle my way before turning to face her domestic duties.
I took a sherry and wandered among clusters of attractive ladies, most of whom looked to be in Angela's age-group. From their conversation and the evident shortage of males, I surmised that Angela's friends were mostly old school chums. There was, I noted, no sign of any special boy-friend. The few men I did see seemed firmly attached to female companions of their own.
I mingled dutifully, conversing on topics from orchids to nuclear warfare, and even found a couple who were prepared to discuss steam engines. I'd just begun telling them about my vast collection of railway videos, when Angela appeared and clapped her hands to make an announcement.
"Please, there is now coffee and a variety of things to nibble in the dining room. Also, while I have everyone's attention, I want to thank each of you for coming today. It's lovely to see you all, even though it's an unhappy occasion that brought you here. I want especially to thank Betty, of course, my faithful friend of long-standing for her long standing out in the kitchen, doing most of the catering. I also want to thank Richard over there who gave up his sleep last night to help me through a rough patch."
A short burst of laughter made her add, "Over the phone, that is, in case anyone has the wrong idea. And finally I want to thank you all just for being my much needed friends. God bless every one of you."
With a buzz of approval we filed through to the dining room where we found dollops of fishy mixture laid out on small cracker biscuits, knobs of cheese with olives, pineapple and cucumber on sticks, cocktail sausages, mountains of dainty triangular sandwiches, and an array of assorted dips. As I finished my modest plateful, Betty sidled up to me with a tray of wine-filled glasses.
"Richard," she confided as if she'd known me for years, "be a love and stroll around with this booze, will you, while I grab something special out of the oven?"
She thrust the heavy tray at me and left me to wander among the guests like a November poppy seller. But it was good, because I felt I belonged. My tray was still amply stocked when Betty reappeared, promising life-long friendship. I was given a large sherry as a reward, and something hot and savoury straight from the oven. Betty certainly knew how to cook.
Several times during the afternoon, either she or Angela would make a point of coming over to ask how I was holding out. And when I enquired how Angela was coping, both would respond in identical fashion with a nod and an intimate smile, as though the three of us shared some special secret. With both girls I felt an equal affinity, an immediate closeness that was quite uncanny, considering I had never met either of them before.
Of course, as many a bachelor knows, the smoothest roads to romance can be strewn with sizeable boulders and may even conceal the unexpected minefield, as I was shortly to discover.
A stately grandfather clock had just chimed five when I heard a ring at the front door followed by cries of feminine delight. Curiosity led me to the hall where I saw Angela enveloped in the arms of a tall and irritatingly handsome man - and looking thoroughly at home there too.
Who the newcomer was or where he'd suddenly sprung from I had no idea, but my resistance was low from lack of sleep, and this pang of disappointment came with a draining sense of rejection and anti-climax. As I plummeted to back earth, I knew it was time to head for home, to bow out of this high-society dream-world where I really didn't belong.
Of course, I couldn't leave without a polite word to my hostess.
"I have to go," I said simply. "Thanks, Angela, for letting me share today with you, it's been great. Perhaps we'll bump into each other again some day, who knows? I'd certainly like that."
"Me too," she acknowledged in a strangely regal voice, as if on her best behaviour. "And thanks again, Richard, for what you did during the night. I really did appreciate that."
If her boy-friend misunderstood this remark, he made no comment. He stood proudly in attendance and echoed Angela's crisp goodbye, as if he had a loyal duty to corroborate all her sentiments.
With the gay party spirit and its luxurious setting behind me, I felt sadly deflated and horribly sober as I slumped into my car and drove home to my humble flat. I badly needed some rest. I also needed peace of mind.
The rest came easily and I slept for fifteen hours. But peace of mind eluded me for days. Was it possible, after only one encounter with Angela Partridge, to have fallen in love? Surely not. Short-term infatuation maybe, but hardly love - I'm not that immature.
So why did I feel so utterly miserable? Throughout the weekend I thought constantly of Angela, a restless fervour which subsided only when the demands of my job claimed my attention the following Monday.
By Friday my life-style had returned almost to normal - yet I knew I wasn't the same. I found myself noticing girls who looked like Angela - and there did suddenly seem to be a great many of them. Women whom I would hardly have considered attractive before now took on a new significance, even those who bore only the vaguest resemblance to Angela, and this seemed all the more ironic as I grew convinced that the seemingly wealthy Miss Partridge had no real personal interest in humble Richard Bird.
Soon the memory of all those other pleasant faces faded to a half-forgotten dream, like steam engines, a wondrous reality destined to pass forever into the grey oblivion of history.
Or so I thought.
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