When Philomena Bucket first came to Hopeless, and found a home and place of work in The Squid and Teapot, it had not taken long for her to become familiar with most of the islanders. She found it easy to remember the names of almost all of her customers. There were just two people, however, who caused her confusion, often to the extent that she would address them by the wrong name. Although they always dismissed the error with a laugh, it was something that annoyed her intensely. After all, these were men who bore no resemblance to each other, and whose lives could not have been more different.
Seth Washwell was very much a family man, with seven sons and a loving wife. His stocky frame and salt-and pepper beard gave him the look of a traditional blacksmith, which, indeed, he was, this being a natural offshoot of the iron foundry, which he ran with the help of his sons. Seth Washpool, on the other hand, was slightly built, clean shaven and, being unmarried, the last of his line. He was a quiet man who preferred his own company.
“It’s easy to tell us apart,” proclaimed Seth Washwell. “Just remember that wells are deep and pools tend to be shallow.”
Philomena thought that this was unfair, and secretly suspected that the insular Mr Washpool was anything but shallow.
“If this was a story,” she thought to herself, “such confusion would never happen. Any author with the slightest degree of common sense would make sure that each of his creations had distinct names that no one could mix up.”
None of this mattered anymore, however. Such thoughts were now irrelevant. Seth Washpool was dead.
It was Rhys Cranham who had found him. The Night-Soil Man was making his weekly trip to service the Washpool privy when he spotted Seth’s body lying by the back door. He had not been dead for very long, Rhys decided. There were too many things lurking about by night, and looking for an easy meal, to leave a corpse unmolested for any length of time.
“Poor old Seth grew up in the orphanage,” said Norbert Gannicox. “Washpool wasn’t even his real surname. Nobody knew who his parents were, so for some reason they decided to name him after the guy who put the funfair on the Common, all those years ago. Cosimo Washpool, I think he was called.”
“It’s a pity they hadn’t gone the whole hog and named him Cosimo, as well,” grumbled Philomena. “It would have saved me some embarrassment.”
Realising that it was not really the best time to be bemoaning her own troubles, she decided to change the subject.
“Does anyone know when the funeral takes place?”
“Reverend Davies said that it will be at the weekend,” said Norbert. “Nothing grand. Just a few words and a burial.”
“A simple funeral is all very well,” said Reggie Hawkesbury-Upton, “but don’t you think we should celebrate his life in some way? Dash it all, I barely knew the chap, but as he had no family – no one close, left behind to mourn – surely we can’t allow his passing to go completely unmarked.”
There were general nods of agreement at this. The citizens of Hopeless are never slow to latch on to the opportunity of a celebration, and so a wake was planned. This was to be nothing too elaborate, and very respectful. While the Edison-Bell phonograph might be trotted out, it was not deemed seemly to involve the services of Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine to perform the Can-Can, as was usual at any event on the island these days. Reggie, who was yet to see them perform, allowed the prospect of a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ to ease his disappointment.
Reverend Davies conducted a funeral service that was mercifully brief and, in the misty drizzle of a Saturday afternoon, Seth Washpool was duly deposited in the dark and stony earth of the churchyard. This came as a relief to Philomena, whose childhood memories of wakes recalled that the recently departed would be put on display in a corner of the room, presumably in order that they did not miss out on the ensuing festivities.
The bar of The Squid and Teapot was packed to overflowing. It provided a welcome contrast to the damp gloom of the churchyard. Liquor flowed, tales were told and songs were sung. Inevitably, the phonograph played ‘Molly Malone’, a long-time favourite on the island, although the chorus of ‘Alive, alive-o’ seemed singularly inappropriate, given the circumstances. Just as things seemed to be reaching a conclusion, Reggie rose unsteadily to his feet, his face a little flushed, and he announced that he wished to sing an old army song.
Philomena exchanged uncomfortable glances with Ariadne Middlestreet. She had heard a few ‘Old Army Songs’ before, and they did not always commend themselves to polite company.
“This is a song,” said Reggie, slightly slurring his words, “first heard, I believe, during the Indian Mutiny. That was a little bit before my time.”
He chuckled at this. No one else did, as it meant nothing to them.
Reggie drew up to his full height, raised his glass, and sang in a surprisingly pleasant baritone.
“We meet ‘neath the sounding rafters,
And the walls all around are bare.
As they echo to our laughter,
T’wouldn’t seem that the dead were there.
Who dreads to the dead returning?
Who shrinks from that sable shore?
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the souls will be no more.
So stand to your glasses steady.
Tis all we have left to prize.
Quaff a cup to the dead already.
And one to the next who dies.
Time was when we frowned on others,
We thought we were wiser then;
But now let us all be brothers,
For we never may meet again.
But a truce to this mournful story,
For death is a distant friend.
So here’s to a life of glory,
And a laurel to crown each end.
So stand to your glasses steady.
Tis all we have left to prize.
Quaff a cup to the dead already.
And one to the next who dies.”
With tears rolling down his cheeks, Reggie repeated the chorus and, as one, every single person in the bar arose and raised their glasses to the memory of Seth Washpool – and to the next who dies.
Author’s note. Reggie’s song was, indeed, a version of a ballad first heard during the time of the Indian Mutiny. It was based upon a much longer poem by W.F. Thompson, initially titled ‘Indian Revelry.’ Some sources have attributed the verses to the American-Irish journalist, Bartholomew Dowling. His authorship is most unlikely, however, as he would have been no older than twelve when the poem first appeared.
I am not able to provide you with Reggie singing the song himself, but here is a fine rendition by Mr Martin Wyndham-Read instead:
