Eleanor Rigby - A version in prose

The ebullient crowd had dispersed only gradually in varying conveyances and directions from the sedate surroundings of the churchyard. The echoes, inaudible in the presence of the now departed assembly, clunked harshly in the air as the clergyman gathered up the entrapment's of the recently completed nuptials. Electric candles switched off, only a fading early winter sun still provided radiance through the various apertures around the, almost suddenly, cavernous space. The dull clatter created as the larger of the flower arrangements were charily husbanded away, was still to be heard from the corridors leading away from the altar space.

A female figure moved purposefully and almost silently amongst the pews. Frequently stooping and spending some time shuffling awkwardly along as if searching or gathering up a shattered treasure. Emerging into the light of the evening, her carefully arranged coiffure and attire became apparent. Her clothes were arranged with such care that it was difficult to notice the bargain store origin they all shared. The prominent jewelery hanging from her ears and on her fingers had the sparkling sheen of zirconia. It would be a cruelty to suggest she was ugly. If anything was to be called ugly about her, it would be the dolorous peering of her eyes from the almost tastefully painted face, now with the smudged trails of mascara as another warm tear rolled languorously from her eyelid.

To an observer from outside, it would appear little different. The image of Father McKenzie moving sullenly about his preparations for the following days labours at the pulpit. Only the time of the week was not in step with the normal routine that would be expected. The night was unsettled, yet the stormy weather of deep winter was still on the horizon. He closed his book, placed the pencil on the dresser, and having settled his glasses more appositely on the bridge of his nose, sat himself down onto his well worn stool by the fire. He then proceeded to repair some oft darned socks once more.

The memorials in this sequestered section of the churchyard were rudimentary, if present at all. Often the carved and painted timber was splitting and the rot was setting in at the base of many. Scattered flowerpots with blanched and askew fabric flowers lay occasionally at the feet of these menial memorials. Beyond the grass being mowed, few other signs of human care were evident in this damp, low lying point in the yard. He nodded casually as the two groundsmen removed the straps from below the casket and whipped them up. Their tools gathered up for the time they dashed over the mound of earth beside the pit. The sudden flurry of damp earth drumming heavily upon the casket lid. There was no reaction.

The bowed head of the priest came up rather quickly as he folded the handwritten notes he held in his hand and placed them between the pages of his Bible. He then stooped with the care of the infirm and flicked a handful of soil dutifully atop of the already partially covered coffin. His bible clamped firmly under his armpit, he headed wearily back to the Presbytery. All the while rubbing and wiping his hands lethargically as the clinging clay resisted easy removal. He cast a glance to the clouding heavens and muttered a prayer that the weather held for the next couple of days at least.

This has been another Bramble of the SurGreen kind...