* * * * *

Michael was glad that he had been sent across the Heath to Grannie's
house with a message. It made him feel big and brave. Besides, it would
put off the moment when Mary-Nanna would come for him, to make him ready
for the party. He was not sure that he wanted to go to it.

Michael did not much like going to Grannie's house either. In all the
rooms there was a queer dark-greenness and creepiness. It smelt of
bird-cages and elder bushes and of Grandpapa's funeral. And when you had
seen Auntie Edie's Senegal wax-bills, and the stuffed fish, and the
inside of Auntie Louie's type-writer there was nothing else to see.

His mother said that Grandpapa's funeral was all over, and that the
green creepiness came from the green creepers. But Michael knew it
didn't. She only said things like that to make you feel nice and comfy
when you were going to bed. Michael knew very well that they had put
Grandpapa into the drawing-room and locked the door so that the funeral
men shouldn't get at him and take him away too soon. And Auntie Louie
had kept the key in her pocket.

Funerals meant taking people away.

Old Nanna wouldn't let him talk about it; but Mary-Nanna had told him
that was what funerals meant. All the same, as he went up the flagged
path, he took care not to look through the black panes of the window
where the elder bush was, lest he should see Grandpapa's coffin standing
in the place where the big table used to be, and Grandpapa lying inside
it wrapped in a white sheet.