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.