He stood at the roadside – he came as a man – he looked like a man – O yes I knew him well. From the depth of the Marsh he came – he stood, he listened – and he smiled. Come now let us tread gentle into his thoughts as he surveys his domain. He's here to offer succor to the needy and bring hope where dejection stalks the byways of our life - to guide us towards the Light of the Evening Star amongst the great Standing Stones of our true Faith. Come listen to the voices of the confused and the afflicted seeking their salvation. Listen carefully now…as deep from the Marsh a curlew called.

'Please listen God, without death, where is my living?'

Jones our village undertaker, an alcoholic by choice and Christian by default, was praying. In itself it was not unusual Jones prayed automatically, second nature some would say. He prayed for fine weather for funeral days and for damp misty days to boost trade. On this day he was desperate.

'Dear God,' he entreated, 'I am in earnest, I have to drink like everyone else. Dick Dinam Arms is threatening to close the slate on me, and worse, my Doctor says I've caught something foreign called – 'Delirium Tremens' – so I need a little drink to get better. You've overdone the sun this year - it's not good for the trade you know.' Tears came to his eyes as he remembered the great 'flu' epidemic the year before. To remind God of the good times, he continued.

'Last year they were queuing up for my service - now anyone from any denomination will do, I'm not biased. Call them all into your service up there, but try and space them out a bit, please.

'Prayer is of no use to you Mr Jones.'

Startled, he turned around, he had not heard anyone approach, yet here was a perfect stranger - who appeared as if by magic, and who addressed him by name. The stranger was well dressed too; Jones always noticed how people dressed. It was a good indication how much to charge for his services, should it arise.

'No good you say, and why not if I may ask? And I a good Christian man, I'll have you know.'

Indeed you are Mr Jones none better, it is the theology I was questioning, could we discuss it over a drink?' The stranger took out a bottle of Napoleon from his bag. 'We specialise in helping business people in time of difficulty, you know?'

'We? Ah! ...Yes of course,' He had no idea what this stranger was on about but the sight of the bottle cleared his mind – a little.

'Holy water Mr Jones?' He held the brandy bottle up to the sunlight, the amber liquid glistened, and Jones' conversion was instant.

Overcome by the sight of the bottle Jones smiled at his two Welsh cobs, they had been newly dyed black that morning, just in case, and were restless from the inactivity.

'Steady on Arion,' he muttered addressing his favourite, 'after a hot Summer I hoped something would turn up and it looks as if it has. I'd welcome 'Himself' from 'Down there', if it helped the business, right now.'

'Shall we drink to a happy business relationship Mr Jones? Mind you, I'm only here in an advisory capacity you understand. Inside knowledge you might say,' he held out his hand and Jones shook it with gusto.

Jones whispered to his horses, 'any moment now boys someone is going do us a favour, I feel it in my bank book.'

Jones looked at his hearse which he been polishing before his devotions, it was his pride and joy –no undertaker could match it. Its frame was of black lacquered wood trimmed with silver. The glass side panels were decorated with etchings of angels blowing trumpets surrounded by rays of sunshine coming down from Heaven through thick dark clouds. On the door, the likeness of the goddess Libitina had been etched, even though Anglesey had wall to wall Calvinism, it paid to be cautious. Spiritually uplifted, he stood bareheaded, his head elevated towards his Patron, his right hand placed on his heart while the other pointed to his hearse, he said, 'We are ready Lord.'

At long last the debilitating drought came to a sudden end with the demise of a deacon from Soar.

God was good.

'Respect for God's sake, that is the foundation of our life here, got to have respect,' the Minister said. The Reverent Davies, a weasel of a Dyfed man, with gravitas etched on his face, was agitated.

'How this will look in the Anglesey Herald, I dread to think? I shall be the laughing stock of the Island's quarterly meeting of Ministers. Then there's the collection to consider. Who will honour the plate if we are not respectable? Bloody man,' he snarled, twiddling his gold watch chain, and then hurriedly looked around to see if his lapse from grace had been overheard. Satisfied that his respectability was still intact he went indoors for the funeral tea, served on this memorable occasion with the deceased lying in state in the parlour.

Jones had driven his hearse up to the house. Pulling hard on the reigns, he brought Arion and Arioch to a halt. More by luck than judgement the hearse's business end came to stop alongside the front door. High up on the hearse's driving seat Jones looked about him, and with a satisfied smirk, he resigned himself to wait. Appropriately dressed for the occasion, he wore a silk top hat with a wide silk band, the ends draped over the back of his black frock coat like two shiny black pigtails. Smiling at the mourners, he waved his whip, and said.

'This is ceremonial, boys.' The overall effect was sombre and respectable.

Friends and neighbours who had been unable to get inside the house, listened bareheaded as the Minister rambled on and on. A hymn was sung, Jones joined in, it helped to pass the time. Following a long prayer by the Minister - and by prior arrangement, neighbours known to have little regard for the truth and chosen for that reason, came forward and gave the customary eulogies.

It was half past three, and there was still no sign of abatement in the proceedings. He was bored. Muttering to himself Jones said, 'Bloody Methodists, give me a Baptist funeral any day, they have less to ask forgiveness for. I couldn't manage with this hold-up in a busy season, upset my schedule it would.'

Arion pricked up his years and moved his weight from one leg to another. The horses were getting restless.

'Steady on boys,' he called, 'won't be long now, I hope.' He took out a flask of Napoleon, unscrewed the silver top and drank heavily from its contents. He burped. He groaned as he heard a voice he recognised.

Old Hughes, the shop, levering himself into a long eulogy, was not going to miss an opportunity, such as this, with a captive audience. He spoke highly of the dead, while cleverly making bleak references to his own possible resurrection in the coming Council elections,

'I had the deceased wholehearted approval.' he dribbled, 'he was going to vote for me. Now he is with God.' With his thin anxious smile he scanned the mourners as he counted their votes.

'And voteless.' Jones muttered.

Time dragged on. Jones looked at the darkening sky,

'O God,' he thought, 'It's going to rain.' Taking out his flask he took another long drink.

Then the rain came; Jones panicked. Some of the less grief stricken mourners standing by the hearse, who were only there for the funeral tea, turned and gaped.

'Look! There's respect for you.' exclaimed one, pointing at the road immediately beneath the horses, 'even Jones' horses pass black water at funerals.' They gazed in amazement,

'It's a miracle.' said one.

'It's a sign from God,' said another.

Jones drained his flask. His despair deepened as the deluge descended from the heavens. His mind wandered, as the pleasant memories of his life passed before his eyes, like drowning men are said to see before they go. Professional unto the last, he smiled as he recalled the Western he had seen at the local picture house. He had taken a keen interest as it showed the town Marshal riding on a hearse like his, but not deluxe of course, to Boot Hill.

'Damned funny name for a cemetery,' he muttered. With his mind firmly set in a saloon bar in some remote Texas town, Jones laughed aloud as he remembered that last ride to Boot hill. The mourners were horrified. It wasn't respectable to laugh.

Holding on to the reins Jones stood up, his eyes shone.

'Eyes like demons he had, frightened us he did.' a mourner later recalled.

'That's it,' Jones screamed, 'Bugger the corpse. Stand clear for the Boot Hill Special.' He whipped his startled team; his Welsh cobs, soaking wet and now restored to their natural colour stampeded towards the cemetery.

'Gallup you bloody cripples,' he shouted as they raced along.

A mile past the cemetery outside Dinam Arms, his spiritual home, they found Jones slumped in the driving seat while Arion and Arioch grazed contentedly by the road side.