The Unconventional Angel Read Online Free

England school and that was about as far as it went. She knew the Lord’s Prayer and a few hymns, was all.
    However, she gasped as she entered the cathedral. She had obviously seen it on the television at various state occasions and had seen images of Charles and Diana getting married there.
    ‘Was Diana’s funeral here too?’ She was whispering now.
    ‘No, Westminster Abbey.’ Yves tucked his pipe in his pocket.
    Evie giggled. ‘We should go up to the Whispering Gallery.’
    ‘Ssh. Another day.’ Yves’ beard tickled her ear.
    They were ushered to seats right within the choir stalls. Once everyone was settled, it was the loudest silence she had ever experienced. The beauty of this magnificent place of worship overtook her and her eyes filled with tears. Yves reached for her hand and squeezed it. She was in awe of the magnificently painted ceiling, the ornate gold decorations, the architecture, the sheer size of the place.
    But, most of all she was overcome by the sudden feeling of peace that washed over her when the choir began to sing. She took a deep breath and thought of her beautiful mum, as she always did when she ventured into a church. Celia Harris had died when she was just thirty-five, of a sudden brain haemorrhage, and it had been the single most horrific event to date in Evie’s whole life. She was so glad that Celia had had her when she was just seventeen, as it had at least given her eighteen glorious years with her mother. She still missed her every single day. Celia had not only been an amazing person, but also a gifted artist, and Evie knew that if she had been allowed to reach her potential, her paintings would have made it to top London galleries. Such a waste of a beautiful life.
    Evie knew her love of photography must have come from her creative mother. She had never met the man who had fathered her. She was the much-loved result of a dubious one-night stand, Celia had told her, and nothing more glamorous than that. Evie wasn’t angry: she had loved the frankness and eccentricity of her adored mother, and didn’t miss having a father in her life.
    Evie had read somewhere that love and peace are supposed to fill the hole that a bereavement brings. She was yet to experience that, but hoped one day it might come true.
    The last hymn reached its heartwarming crescendo and Yves guided her out of the choir stalls and towards the Nativity Scene, which had been set up on the way out of the cathedral.
    ‘It’s so sweet,’ Evie said quietly.
    She then noticed rows and rows of lit tea-lights. They looked so beautiful and it felt so Christmassy. Without prompting, she put her money in the box for one. Wishing her mum happiness wherever she might be, she lit it, put it amongst the others. Quietly at first, then more loudly on reaching the cold fresh air, she began to sob. Big, fat, snotty sobs on to Yves shoulder.
    He rubbed her back gently. ‘It’s OK, Evie, get it out. You will feel so much better.’
    After about five minutes she stopped and pulled away from him.
    ‘I am so sorry.’
    ‘Never ever apologise for expressing emotion, Evie. And if anyone is not kind enough to comfort or understand you when you do, then they are not worthy of your time or love.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She blew her nose.
    ‘Can I ask who it was?’
    ‘My mum.’
    Yves shut his eyes. ‘I feel your pain and bless you.’ After a moment, he went on: ‘When you asked about Diana’s funeral earlier, I remembered her sister reading the most beautiful piece.’
    ‘Go on, will it make me cry again though?’
    ‘Maybe, but it is so beautiful. I want to share it with you.’
    They walked down the cathedral steps together, an unlikely couple, but Evie didn’t mind what anyone thought. Yves had such a good soul – who cared if he looked a bit of a mess. It really didn’t matter. Without warning he started to recite –
    Time is too slow for those who wait,
    Too swift for those who fear,
    Too long for those who grieve,
    Too