Knife Edge

Knife Edge - chapter 10

There was a crisp coating of frost covering the perfectly tended lawns where each blade of grass was cut to exactly the same length. Set amongst towering elms dressed in frosty white, the gravestones and tombs stretched away into the morning mist like a lost city.

The cortége moved slowly along Pearly Boulevard, the main artery of Sweet Lawns cemetery, finally circling an expansive area of private lawn where a large scoop of dry earth revealed the gaping maw of the grave.

Scott Stockton was among the first to emerge from the convoy of limousines. He paused and bent to offer his arm to his mother. Susie Stockton, now almost eighteen, followed her, taking her brother’s other arm. Soon a black draped, respectful crowd surrounded the graveside. Near Scott and his immediate family stood close relatives, members of the Stockton Industries board, Doctor Harper representing Winfield College. A pale priest stood clutching a bible at the head of the grave.

Scott, together with a small group of men, detached himself from the mourners and walked to the lead limousine. Silently he motioned to the others and they slid the coffin out from the back and onto their shoulders. At this moment, from somewhere came the muted strains of the ‘Last Post’. Slowly and reverently they carried the coffin back to the grave and positioned it over the deep hole.

The priest’s voice grew stronger as he intoned the funeral prayers.

‘And as we gather together in the sight of God to pay our final respects to our departed friend, father, husband, Marshall Frederick Stockton, we are reminded of his great qualities of honesty, the belief in excellence and of his many charitable works and support for the needy and the poor...’

Karen Stockton wept quietly, clutched by a sobbing Susie. Elsewhere in the crowd there were dryer eyes, some as dry as sand and as cold as the frost under their expensive shoes. The priest had reached the final part of the rite.‘...and so we commend the soul of our brother Marshall Frederick Stockton to the boundless love and mercy of God Almighty. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...’

Jack Hemmings glanced at Greg Anderson, Stockton Industries’ senior vice president and a fellow board director. Anderson was grim faced but dry- eyed. Other senior Stockton men were exchanging glances and shuffling their feet on the brittle grass.

As soon as it began, it was over. Or that’s how it seemed. Scott saw his mother and sister back to their car and passed around the crowd accepting handshakes, hugs and condolences. He was now the man. He was head of the Stockton dynasty. He was almost twenty-three years of age.

Hemmings and Anderson walked by Scott’s side towards the rows of limousines then decided to walk to the cemetery entrance. They were followed by a large contingent as the cortége began to pull away slowly to circumnavigate the grounds and arrive at the gates in time to collect the walking mourners.

Greg Anderson put his arm around Scott’s shoulders.

‘Any help you need, Scott. Your father was one of my closest friends. And I am your godfather. You’re in the driving seat now. You mustn’t worry, I’ll keep the ship running until you feel up to taking over.’

‘Thanks, Greg. I’m going to need all the help I can get,’ Scott glanced at Greg. ‘Oh, and I plan to be at the office Monday morning. There’s no sense in wasting time.’

Scott patted Greg on the shoulder and moved off to talk to other mourners. As he did so, two other executives joined Anderson and Hemmings.

‘I’d give a month’s salary to know what’s going on in his head right now,’ said McBride, a portly, blotchy faced man with a drinker’s nose.

‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Hemmings. ‘It’s going to be dangerous.’

‘I can feel the static from here,’ said Alan Westgate, the financial director.