"Who told you to dig Mummy's grave now rather than tomorrow?"
"The guvnor. Told us this morning. Our pa tried to argue with him but he just said to get on with it once Ivy May's funeral's done. Said he'd handle the consequences."
I waited for Simon to continue. I could see from his face that there was something he would eventually tell me, laying it out step by step in his own time.
"So I had a little look round. Couldn't see nothing from the work map in the lodge. Then I heard that the chapel here's been booked for tomorrow morning. Now I knows the other graves dug for tomorrow's all got coffins coming from outside. Don't say which the chapel is for."
I shook my head. "Mummy's service is at St. Anne's on Friday afternoon. Daddy told me."
"Then one of the mutes at Ivy May's funeral just now told me they're doing a funeral at the chapel here tomorrow," Simon continued as if I had not spoken. "Has to be your ma. Hers is the only grave ready with nothing to go in."
I stood up--it hurt to hear him talk about Mummy like that, but I did not want him to see how much his words upset me. "Thank you for telling me," I said. "I'll try to find out from Daddy if something has been changed."
Simon nodded. "Just thought you'd want to know," he said awkwardly.
I wondered if Simon knew that Mr. Jackson had asked me about cremation--he seemed to find out about everything else. If he did, though, he didn't say. At Ivy May's grave Mr. Jackson had caught my eye, and to his unspoken question I'd simply shaken my head. He must have guessed by then anyway that Daddy had said no--otherwise he would have heard from us.
Instead I asked Simon about something else--something I was sure he knew. "What happened to Ivy May that day?" I said, looking straight at him. "No one will tell me."
Simon shifted on the marble. For a long time he didn't say anything and I wondered if I would have to repeat myself. Then he cleared his throat. "Someone strangled her."
His answer was so stark that I could feel my own throat tightening. "A man?" I managed to say.
Simon nodded, and I saw from his face that I should not ask more.
We sat for a moment without speaking.
"I'm sorry 'bout your ma," Simon said suddenly. He leaned across and quickly kissed me on the cheek, then jumped off the grave and was gone.
Back at home I ran into Grandmother in the front hall, inspecting a bouquet of flowers that had arrived--lilies tied with green, white, purple, and black ribbons. "Suffragettes!" she was muttering. "Just as well we--" She stopped when she saw me. "Back already from the meal?"
"I haven't been to the Waterhouses' yet," I confessed.
"Not been? Get you over there, then. Pay your respects. That poor child's mother is gray with grief. Such a terrible terrible death. I hope they catch the man who--" She stopped herself.
"I will go," I lied. "I just . . . need to have a word with Mrs. Baker first." I ran downstairs so that I would not have to tell her why I was not going to the funeral meal. I just could not bear to see Mrs. Waterhouse's face sucked dry of life. I could not imagine what it must feel like to lose a child, and to lose her so awfully and mysteriously. I could only compare it to how I felt losing my mother: an aching emptiness, and a precariousness about life now that one of the things I had taken for granted was gone. Mummy may have been absent or remote these past few years, but she had at least been alive. It was as if Mummy had been shielding me from a fire and then was suddenly taken away so that I could feel the scorching flames on my face.
For Mrs. Waterhouse, though, there must be simply a feeling of horror that I could not begin to describe.
Was one worse than the other, as Lavinia seemed to suggest? I did not know. I just knew that I couldn't see Mrs. Waterhouse's dead gaze without feeling an abyss open in myself.
Instead of going to the Waterhouses' funeral meal, I went down to ask Mrs. Baker about ours. Since she was preparing it, she of all people would know if there had been a change in the arrangements.
She was stirring a pot of aspic on the range. "Hello, Miss Maude," she said. "You should eat--you haven't touched your food these last few days."
"I'm not hungry. I--I wanted to ask if everything will be ready for Friday. Grandmother wanted me to find out for her."
Mrs. Baker gave me a funny look. "Course it will." She turned back to the pot. "I just spoke to your grandmother this morning. Nothing's changed in two hours. Beef jelly will set overnight, the ham's to be delivered this afternoon. It should all be ready by the day's end. Mrs. Coleman wanted me to get everything ready early so I can help her with other things tomorrow--she's not happy with the temporary help. Not that I do just anything. I won't work on my knees, no matter what." She glared at the pot. I knew that she missed Jenny, though she would never say.
She clearly thought the funeral Would be on Friday. If Daddy had changed the day, no one knew but him and probably Grandmother. I could not face asking either of them, and I knew they would not tell me anyway.
When I came down to breakfast next morning both Daddy and Grandmother were sitting at the table in their best mourning clothes, untouched cups of coffee in front of them. They had peculiar looks on their faces, but they simply said, "Good morning, Maude," as I sat down to a bowl of congealed porridge. I tried to eat but could not swallow, so I simply pushed at the porridge with my spoon.
The doorbell rang. Daddy and Grandmother jumped. "I'll get it," Grandmother said to the hired char, who was lurking by the sideboard. I frowned at Daddy but he would not look at me--he kept his eyes on the newspaper, though I don't think he was really reading it.
I heard low voices in the front hall and then heavy footsteps on the stairs, as well as creaking. Soon the footsteps sounded overhead, in Mummy's room, and I knew Simon was right.
"Why have you done this, Daddy?"
He still would not look at me. "Finish your porridge, Maude."
"I'm not hungry. Why have you changed the day of the funeral?"
"Go and change into your new dress, Maude." Grandmother spoke from the doorway.
I did not move from my chair. "I want to know why you've done this. I have a right to know."
"You have no rights!" my father roared, banging his hand on the table so that coffee slopped from both cups. "Don't ever let me hear you say that again. You are my daughter and you will do as I say! Now go and change!"
I did not move from my chair.
Daddy glared at me. "Do I have no authority in my own house? Does no one obey me? Has her influence extended so far that my own daughter won't do as I say?"
I did not move from my chair.
Daddy reached over and knocked my porridge bowl to the floor. It smashed at the feet of the terrified maid.
"Richard," Grandmother warned. She turned to me, her face more lined than usual, as if she had not slept well. "Your mother's funeral is to be this morning. We felt it best to have a private service so that it is not taken over by the wrong element. Now, go upstairs and put on your dress. Quickly, now, while I have a word with Mrs. Baker. The carriage will be here soon."
"I didn't want it to be taken over by the suffragettes," Daddy said suddenly. "You saw what happened when she was released from prison--it was turned into a victory celebration. I'm damned if I'm going to let them make a martyr of her. Fallen comrade, they call her. They can go to bloody hell!" He sat back with such a pained look that I could almost forgive him his behavior.
I knew there was nothing I could do, so I ran upstairs. As I passed Mummy's room--which I had avoided all week, leaving anything that needed doing in there to Grandmother--I could hear tapping. They were nailing the coffin shut.
In my room I dressed quickly. Then it came to me that there was one thing I could do. I found paper and pen and scribbled a note, pausing for a moment to recall the address I had seen printed so often on the letters page of the local paper. Then, grabbing my hat and gloves, I raced downstairs again, passing Daddy and Grandmother's surprised faces in the front hall as I continued down to the kitchen.
Mrs. Baker was standing by the table, arms crossed, glaring at the spread of food laid out, a large ham glistening with jelly the center-piece.
"Mrs. Baker," I whispered, "if ever you loved my mother, please find someone to take this immediately. Please, for her sake. As quick as you can, else it will be too late."
Mrs. Baker glanced at the address, then without a word she strode to the back door and wrenched it open. As I was stepping into the carriage with Daddy and Grandmother I saw her stop a boy in the street and give him the note. Whatever she said to him made him run as if he were chasing his hat in the wind.
It was pouring with rain. The undertaker had spread straw in front of our house to muffle the horses' hooves, but it was not necessary--the rain drowned out the sound anyway. A few neighbors had seen the funeral carriages and were standing in their doorways, but most were not expecting to do so until the next day.
No one spoke in the carriage. I stared out the window at the passing houses, and then the long brick-and-iron fence that separated graves from the road. The carriage ahead of us with the glass sides carrying the coffin was splashed with rain. All along the route people took off their hats for a moment as we passed.
At the cemetery Mr. Jackson stepped up to the carriage with a large umbrella and helped down first Grandmother and then me. He nodded at me briefly, and I managed to nod back. Then he led us through the gate to the chapel entrance, where Auntie Sarah was waiting for us. She was twelve years older than Mummy and lived in Lincolnshire. They had not been close. She pecked me on the cheek and shook Daddy's hand. Then we went into the chapel for the service.
I sat in the front pew between Daddy and Auntie Sarah, with Grandmother next to Daddy. At first it was just the four of us and the vicar of St. Anne's, who led the service. But when we began the first hymn, I heard voices behind me joining in to sing "Nearer My God to Thee," and turned to see Mr. Jackson and Simon standing at the back.
Just as we'd finished the second hymn, "Abide With Me" (which of course Mummy had detested), the door banged open. Caroline Black stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, her hat askew, her hair tumbling down. Daddy stiffened. "Damn her," he muttered. Caroline Black took a seat halfway up the aisle and caught my eye. I nodded at her. When I turned back to face the front I could feel Daddy's fury next to me, and I smiled a little and lifted my chin, as Mummy used to do when she was being defiant.
Damn you, I thought. Damn you yourself.
When it was all done--when the coffin had been taken into the cemetery and laid in the grave with the gigantic urn looming over it; when Simon and his father began to fill it in, working steadily in the pouring rain; when I stepped away from my mother to begin the journey home--Caroline Black reached over and took my hand. It was then that I at last began to cry.
Dorothy Baker
The waste of all that food was a crime. She didn't even apologize--just said there had been a change in plans and there would be just four for the funeral meal. And there was me preparing for fifty!
I nearly walked out then and there, but for Miss Maude. In a week she's lost her mum and Jenny--and her best friend, from what the Waterhouses' char says. She doesn't need me leaving too.
Simon Field
What happens today I'll never tell Maude. Probably won't tell no one.
After Kitty Coleman's funeral our pa and Joe and me start filling the grave. The soil's sandy, makes it hard to shovel much in at once, even in the rain. It's always harder digging in the meadow, in the sand. Clay needs more cutting with the spade, but it sticks together so you can handle it easier than sand.
We been real careful with this grave, it being so close to Ivy May's. It's twelve feet deep, so Maude and her pa and gran can fit in when their time comes. We done extra shoring and made sure the wood were tight as we could get it against sand. Sand can be a killer if it ain't handled right.
We're shoveling in the sand awhile, and the grave's half full. It's chucking down rain and we're soaked. Then our pa's cap falls in.
"I'll get it," I says to our pa.
"Nah, son, I'll get it," he says, and jumps right in like he's a boy again. Lands straight on his cap and starts to laugh. "Bull's-eye," he says. "You owe me a pint."
"Where you going to get a pint?" I laugh. "You'll have to walk a long way for it."
Only pub round here that'll serve gravediggers is the Duke of St. Albans the bottom of Swain's Lane, and they won't let our pa in anymore 'cause he got so drunk he tried to kiss the landlady, then wrecked a chair.
Just then there's a crack and the shoring on the side by Ivy May's grave pops out. It does that when the ground round it's shifting. Before our pa can do anything but duck the flying wood, that side of the grave collapses.
It must happen fast, but it don't seem like it. Seem like I got lots of time to watch our pa look up like he's just heard thunder overhead and is waiting for the next flash of lightning. "Oh," I think I hear him say.
Then the dirt is raining down on him, piling round him up to his waist. There seems to be a little pause then but it can't be long'cause Joe and I ain't moved at all yet, ain't said a word, ain't even breathed.
Our pa catches my eye for a second and seems to smile at me. Then a pile of dirt comes down and knocks him over.
"Man in!" I shout as loud as I can through the rain. "Man in!" It's words no one likes to hear in this place.
The dirt is still moving like it's alive but I can't see our pa now. Just like that he's not there. Joe and I scramble round the grave, trying to keep from setting off more dirt. The hole's three quarters full now. We need a big timber or ladder to lay'cross the hole, to give us something stable to work from, but there ain't one around. We had a ladder but someone's borrowed it.