Then Simon took us on a tour of the angels. He showed us a wonderful child-angel near the Terrace Catacombs. I had never seen it before. It wore a little tunic and had short wings, and its head was turned away from us as if it were angry and had just stamped its foot. It is so lovely I almost wished I had chosen it for our grave. But it was not in the book of angels at the mason’s yard. Anyway I am sure Mama and Papa agree that the one I chose for our grave is the best.
Simon took us to other angels close by and then he said he wanted to show us a grave he and his father had just dug. Well. I didn’t want to see it but Maude said she did and I didn’t want her to think I was afraid. So we went and looked down into it, and although it was frightening, I also got the strangest feeling that I wanted to lie down in that hole. Of course I didn’t do such a thing, not in my lovely dress.
Then as we turned to go a horrid man appeared. He had a very red face and bristles on his cheeks, and he smelled of drink. I couldn’t help but scream, even though I knew right away it was Simon’s father as they have the same blue eyes like pieces of sky. He began shouting terrible things at Simon about where had he been and why were we there, and he used the most awful words. Papa would whip us if Ivy May or I were to use such words. And Papa is not a whipping man. That’s how bad they were.
Then the man chased Simon round and round the grave until Simon jumped right into it! Well. I didn’t wait to see more-Maude and I ran like fury all the way down the hill. Maude wondered if we shouldn’t go back and see if Simon was all right but I refused, saying our parents would be worried about us. But really I didn’t want to see that man again, as he frightened me. The naughty boy can take care of himself. I am sure he spends much of his time down graves.
So Maude is my new friend, and I hers-though I do not see why such a plain girl should have a beautiful muff, and a nanny, too, neither of which I have. And a beautiful mother with such a tiny waist and big dark eyes. I could not look at Mama without feeling a little ashamed. It is really so unfair.
Gertrude Waterhouse
Once we heard the news I lay awake all night, worrying about our clothes. Albert could wear his black work suit, with jet cuff-links and a black band for his hat. Mourning has always been easier for men. And Ivy May is too young for her clothes to be a concern.
But Livy and I were to be dressed properly for our queen’s passing. For myself I did not mind so much what I wore, but Livy is so very particular, and difficult if she doesn’t get exactly what she wants. I do hate scenes with her-it is like being led in a dance where I know none of the steps and she all of them, so that I feel tripped up and foolish by the end. And yet she is only five years old! Albert says I am too soft with her, but then he bought her the angel she wanted for the grave when he knows how little money we have for that sort of thing, what with our saving to move house. Still, I can’t fault him for it. It is so important that the grave be a proper reflection of the family’s sentiments to our loved ones. Livy knows that very well, and she was right-the grave did need some attention, especially after that monstrous urn went up next to it.
I rose very early this morning and managed to find a bit of crape I had saved after my aunt’s mourning. I had hidden it away because I was meant to have burned it and knew Livy would be horrified to see it in the house. There was not enough of it to trim both our dresses, so I did hers, with a bit left over for my hat. By the time I had finished sewing, Livy was up, and she was so delighted with the effect of the crape that she didn’t ask where I’d got it from.
What with the little sleep and the waking early I was so tired by the time we reached the cemetery that I almost cried to see the blue silk Kitty Coleman was wearing. It was an affront to the eyes, like a peacock spreading its feathers at a funeral. It made me feel quite shabby and I was embarrassed even to stand next to her, as doing so begged comparisons and reminded me that my figure is not what it once was.
The one comfort I could take-and it is a shameful one that I shall ask God’s forgiveness for-was that her daughter, Maude, is so plain. I felt proud to see Livy look so well next to drab little Maude.
I was of course as civil as I could be, but it was clear that Kitty Coleman was bored with me. And then she made cutting remarks about Livy, and said disrespectful things-not exactly about the Queen, but I couldn’t help feeling that Victoria had in some way been slighted. And she made my poor Albert so tongue-tied he said something completely out of character. I could not bring myself even to ask him afterward what he meant.
Never mind-she and I shall not have to see each other again. In all the years we have owned adjacent graves at the cemetery, this is the first time we’ve met. With luck it won’t happen again, though I shall always worry that we will. I shan’t enjoy the cemetery so much now, I’m afraid.
Albert Waterhouse
Damned good-looking woman. I don’t know what I was thinking, saying what I said, though. Shall make it up to Trudy tomorrow by getting her some of her favorite violet sweeties.
I was glad to meet Richard Coleman, though, urn and all. (What’s done is done, I say to Trudy. It’s up and there’s no use complaining now.) He’s got a rather good position at a bank. They live down the bottom of the hill, and from what he says it could be just the place for us if we do decide to move from Islington. There’s a good local cricket team he could introduce me to as well. Useful chap.
I don’t envy him his wife, pretty as she is. More of a handful than I’d like. Livy is trouble enough.
Simon Field
I stay down the grave awhile after the girls have gone. There don’t seem no reason to come out. Our pa don’t bother to come after me, or stand at the top of the hole and shout. He knows where he can get me when he wants. “This cemetery has a high wall round it,” he always says. “You can climb out but in the end you always come back through the front gate, feetfirst.”
The sky’s pretty from eight feet down. It looks the color of that girl’s fur. Her muff, she called it. The fur was so soft. I wanted to put my face in it the way I saw her do.
I lie back on the ground and watch the sky. Sometime a bird flies across, high above me. Bits of dirt from the sides of the hole crumble and fall on my face. I don’t worry about the hole collapsing. For the deeper graves we use grave boards to shore up the sides, but we don’t bother with little ones like this. This one’s in clay, good and damp so it holds up. It’s happened before, the hole caving in, but mostly in sand, or when the clay’s dried out. Men have got killed down graves. Our pa always tells me to put a hand over my face and stick my other hand up if I’m down a grave and it falls in. Then I’ll have an air hole through the dirt and they can see by my fingers where I am.
Someone comes then and looks into the grave. He’s black against the light, so I can’t see who it is. But I know it’s not our pa-he don’t smell of the bottle.
“What are you doing down there, Simon?” the man says.
Then I know who it is. I jump to my feet and brush the dirt off my back and bum and legs.
“Just resting, sir.”
“You’re not paid to rest.”
“I’m not paid nothing, sir,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Oh? I should think you earn plenty from all you learn here. You’re learning a trade.”
“Learning don’t feed me, sir.”