The funerary procession moved through the park, the autumnal air crisp as a breath mint. Leaves crunched underfoot as the mourners and the pal-bearers paced along the path towards their beloved's final resting place. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, evaporating the dew that lay on the grass and highlighting the mourners condensing breath. They finally came to a halt before the grave-side, and the coffin was reverently set down. One of the grave diggers came forward, approaching the priest, pulling his hat from his head.
“Rev?” he said in a stage whisper. “I need a word, a sec.” The priest looked down at the scrawny fellow.
“What is it, my man?” he asked, imperious.
“It's the 'ole, see?” The man shifted his feet and averted his eyes. The priest cocked and eyebrow. “Early frost's made the ground too blo- Well, i's to 'ard to dig. We only managed four ana 'arf foot. Ent gonna be deep 'nough for the poor bugger, may'erestinpeace.” The priest took the man by the arm and lead him away from the sobs of the women and the stony-faced men, all in their blackest finery.
“Are you telling me you couldn't make the hole deep enough to bury Mr Wilson?”
“Yessir. Like I said, it's the ground, sir. Frost's got in deep 'n' early this year.”
The preist, in his starched white robes, stood in thought a while, before reaching into his cassock and pulling out a silver shilling.
“Mr Roach,” he said, holding the coin up. “We shall inter Mr Wilson regardless. After all, it would be a pity not to give Mrs Wilson her closure.” the priest looked at the grave-digger intently. “Do you agree?”
The man looked from the money to the man. “But sir, the reg'lations state-” The priest waved the coin.
“Do you agree?” he said with more emphasis.
“Yes Rev,” the grave digger said, resigned.
“Very good,” the priest said. “Now let us go inter Mr Wilson.” He added, walking away.