We'll Share A Double Funeral

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With a sigh of contentment, Sheriff Ross settled his bulky body into the big armchair before the TV set.

“That was a fine dinner, Mary,” he said, “and you’re a fine cook.”

“Well, as long as you are satisfied,” his wife said as she began to stack the dishes. “My ma was a better cook, but I reckon I’m not so bad.” She paused to listen to the rain hammering down on the roof of the bungalow. “What a night!”

Ross, around fifty three, big, balding, with a pleasant suntanned face, nodded agreement.

“About the worst we have had for months.” He reached for his pipe, looking affectionately at his wife, whom he had married some thirty years ago.

Regarding her, he remembered her as a young girl, bright eyed with long dark hair. Now, thirty years on, Mary had filled out, but she still had magic for him.

He had often told himself how lucky he had been to have had her as a partner and companion for over thirty years.

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