by Emma Davies
‘Excuse me for a minute, Dad.’
Freya had done a circuit of the graveyard as soon as she had entered it this morning, but there had been no-one else there, and she had wandered among the graves looking for more evidence of the wreath-maker’s work. It was a large cemetery, with a newer area off to the right of the church, where Freya’s dad was buried, and with the original, older graves dotted around the rear of the church and along a low boundary wall to the left. At the far end of the wall however, an arch led through into a separate much older space where there were larger memorials and family plots; even a small crypt for one of the most notable village families. It was obvious that some of these plots were still being well cared for, and even though Freya had not seen any other wreaths, it set her thinking.
Since her arrival she had seen no-one else enter the churchyard, even though her view of the gate from her father’s grave was uninterrupted. Now she wondered whether anyone would come into the grounds from the footpath through the fields that ran alongside this older area. There was still an old stile at one end and, although it was now partially hidden in the yew hedge, it was possible that people still used it. After all, robins were known for being friendly little birds, especially if the person they were keeping company was digging…
She followed the tiny bird as it darted to and fro between two of the larger memorials, and immediately she could see the source of the robin’s excitement. Between two of the graves a triangular flower bed had been freshly dug and planted with winter flowering pansies. A small fork and trowel lay close by, along with a green canvas bag. Of their owner she could see no trace, but as Freya grew closer, a gentle voice floated up from behind one of the headstones.
‘Hello, little one,’ it said.
Freya smiled, knowing instantly who the voice was talking to. It was exactly how she addressed robins herself whenever they perched close by. Judging by the tilt of their heads, they always seemed to know they were being spoken to, and she loved the gleam in their intelligent black eyes.
She moved forward a little hesitantly. Freya didn’t hold with whispers and tiptoes in the graveyard; to her the place was as much about the living as the dead, but she did respect other people’s need for privacy. She didn’t want to blunder into someone’s precious time with a relative, but neither did she want to creep up on them without announcing her presence. Of course, the person behind the gravestone might well not be the one she was looking for, and then a rather awkward conversation would ensue.
Freya sauntered past the flower bed, stopping to look at it in admiration before moving beyond the grave and on towards the memorials as if she wanted to study their inscriptions. As she turned, she was now able to see the figure who had previously been hidden from view. Her back was towards her but Freya instantly recognised the woman she had seen here before. She was tending the grave, arranging the stems of some bright orange and purple dahlias in a vase, and at her side lay the most beautiful foliage wreath.
Freya cleared her throat but there was no response. Instead the woman began to speak herself.
‘There you are now, Mrs Roberts. Didn’t I tell you he would bring you your favourite flowers next time? The most beautiful colours they are too. A deep burnt orange and purple the exact same colour as a red cabbage.’ She paused for a moment to adjust a stem. ‘He’s definitely a keeper,’ she said. ‘Any man who goes to the trouble of finding you your favourite flowers is worth hanging on to I reckon. What do you say?’
The flowers were certainly beautiful, and Freya smiled at the words. They were just the sort of daft thing she would say to her dad. The voice continued.
‘And you look absolutely beautiful, Ethel, doesn’t she Ted? That must be the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen. Brings out the colour of your eyes too. Speaking of which…’ She reached down to lift up the wreath from beside her. ‘I made this for you. After all it’s not every day you get to celebrate an anniversary is it? I hope you like it.’
Freya couldn’t help herself. ‘I think it’s perfect,’ she said, realising too late that she had intruded into a private conversation. She expected to receive a withering glare but the woman moved only to lay the wreath in front of the headstone.
‘Now you two have the most magical day, won’t you?’ she said, as she began to rise. ‘And remember… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’
The smile was still on her lips as she stood and turned, dying the instant she saw Freya. A hand rose to her chest.
‘Oh my God, you made me jump!’
Her sudden surprise jolted Freya too, and she put out a hand towards the woman as if to steady them both. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said swiftly. ‘Really. I didn’t mean to.’
The young woman gave a wary smile. ‘It’s okay, no permanent harm done.’ She regarded Freya curiously with narrowed eyes. ‘Were you talking to me just now? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’
‘Well I was very rude, butting into your conversation like that, so it’s as well you didn’t.’
The woman looked confused. ‘My conversation? Oh, with Mr & Mrs Roberts.’ She swung around to face the grave once more. ‘Bless them. It’s their wedding anniversary today – eighty-six years, would you believe it?’ She gave Freya a quick smile. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I don’t know them at all; theirs is just one of the graves I’m paid to look after, so for all I know they hated one another’s guts, but I like to dream, you know…’
There it was again, thought Freya, the wistful sadness that she had glimpsed on her face before, in those huge brown eyes.
‘I think it’s lovely, the way you talk to them. I do the same with my dad whenever I visit. One of these days I swear he’ll tell me to shut up, but for now I just chatter away. That way I feel like he’s still with me somehow, if that makes any sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve seen you I think, haven’t I? On the other side of the church,’ she said shyly.
Freya nodded. ‘My dad died in April last year,’ she replied, dropping her head. ‘Although some days it feels like it was yesterday.’
Silence stretched out for a moment before Freya looked back up again to find the woman staring at her. She smiled. ‘I’m Freya by the way.’
There was a slightly puzzled frown. ‘Freya?’ she repeated, looking for an answering nod. ‘Okay. Well, I’m Laura.’
The two woman looked warily at one another, Freya feeling a little embarrassed until she remembered what she had wanted in the first place. She coughed a little self-consciously.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is it you who makes the beautiful wreaths I’ve seen? The one just there, and another over by the lych gate; I noticed it yesterday.’
‘Oh, the garlands?’ Laura blushed. ‘The hedgerows are bursting with such lovely stuff at the moment, it seems a shame not to share it.’ She looked around her. ‘It’s nice to use flowers and plants on the graves, but the garlands are a little bit different.’
‘I think they’re absolutely beautiful,’ said Freya. ‘In fact, they’re the nicest I’ve ever seen.’
‘Thank you,’ blushed Laura again, tipping her head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘I enjoy making them, that’s all.’
Freya could feel her excitement of yesterday beginning to return. ‘Do you make other things as well, arrangements I mean, or is it just the garlands?’
She was dismayed to see Laura’s face close up a little.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I just fiddle with things, when I see something that I like, but they’re just for me… or for my friends here.’ She indicated the grave behind her.
It was a funny choice of words, thought Freya, noting that Laura’s hands were now clasped around her elbows as if she was cold. She decided to back off a little.
‘I make wreaths too, at Christmas time,’ Freya said. ‘But they’re far more traditional than yours. I can’t always find the things I want, or enough of them at any rate. I sell them you see, at the Mistletoe Fair in
Tenbury Wells, but they have to be pretty uniform so I need plenty of raw materials. I’ve used fruits and berries in the past, crab apples too, but I don’t really have the time to seek them all out any more.’
‘You have the orchard, don’t you?’ cut in Laura. ‘Out on the Witley road.’
Her question surprised Freya. ‘Yes,’ she began tentatively, ‘Appleyard. Do you know it?’ she asked.
Laura bit her lip. ‘I know of it,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s a place about three fields over where you can find crab apples, or huge orange haws. They’re usually still about, even at Christmas.’
Freya smiled. ‘Maybe you could tell me more one day.’ She gave a quick glance at her watch. ‘I have to get going in a minute but I expect I’ll see you here another time.’
‘I’m here most days,’ replied Laura quietly. ‘Except at the weekend. I never come then it’s too… busy,’ she said. She crossed to pick up her bag and tools. ‘I should be off as well.’
Freya had to say something now or she had the feeling that the right time would never present itself. She gave a nervous smile.
‘Laura, I hope you don’t mind me saying… well asking really, but I didn’t come here by chance this morning; I came to see you.’ She continued quickly at the sight of Laura’s horrified face. ‘Only because I meant what I said - I do absolutely love your garlands, but also because I’ve been looking for someone who could make things like this for a while now. I’m getting married soon, and these would be perfect for the wedding. They’d tell our story so beautifully…’ She trailed off, unsure how to frame her question without it sounding too scary. In the end she decided to simply spit it out. ‘Would you consider helping me with our wedding flowers…? It’s in three weeks.’
Laura’s expression was unchanged.
‘Look, you don’t have to give me an answer now. It’s a lot to ask and I know I’m a bit of a bull in a china shop sometimes, but will you think about it at least? I’d pay you of course, and we could talk about it…’
Laura held her look for a moment and Freya could see the turmoil reflected in her face. She was glancing about her as if checking she had everything she had brought with her, swapping the bag into her other hand.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Laura. ‘But I’m not very good with people since…’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I’ll think it about it,’ she repeated, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Thank you.’ And she turned to go.
Freya watched her making her way to the stile and back to the fields. ‘It was nice to meet you,’ she called after Laura’s retreating back; but there was no reply.
It wasn’t until she had said goodbye to her dad and collected her stool that the penny dropped. It suddenly came to her why Laura hadn’t appeared to hear her at times, why she wore a slightly intense expression whenever Freya was speaking, how she studied her face, and how her replies were not as quick as they might have been. She was lip-reading. Laura was deaf.
Freya thought of the last conversation she’d had with her future brother-in-law. Now what were the chances of that?
Chapter 5
Stephen had apples to harvest, he shouldn’t still be sitting in his kitchen, but unaccountably he couldn’t move from his laptop. He had never felt this way before, but now that he did he was revelling in the experience. He was also beginning to realise that if this was how he felt, then this ‘thing’, which he had hitherto believed to be a made up, or certainly overrated emotion, must be true. It suddenly made him understand people a whole lot better.
Take his brother for example. Sam had been head-over-heels in love with Freya since the minute they clapped eyes on one another at primary school. Of course, back then, Sam hadn’t recognised what love was; he and Freya were simply good friends until his hormones kicked in, and Freya’s too for that matter. Stephen had watched them over the years, from his vantage point of superior age, and thought them soppy and foolish with their plans and declarations. It hadn’t stopped him feeling jealous though, of the affection that Sam received, and of the easy relationship he shared with a woman instead of the furtive fumblings that Stephen managed. And because he couldn’t understand it, because he could never have it, he set out to take what was not rightfully his.
He had wooed Freya and seduced her with make-believe affection and lies; promises he never intended to keep. Everything bigger and better than his brother could ever hope to give her. She had fallen for it too, right up to the point where they were about to walk down the aisle, Sam long since fallen by the wayside. But something had made Freya stop, and when she stopped, she started running.
It had taken a very long time, right up until a year ago in fact for Stephen to be forgiven, and for Freya and Sam to finally get back to where they were always meant to be: together. Stephen had begun to acknowledge a different way of living since then. He’d had a great many lessons to learn, but slowly he was beginning to understand that things happened to other people not because they were favoured, or lucky, but because they worked for them. He realised, in fact, just how much of a prat he’d been in his life, giving in to jealousy and sullen, petty anger when he should have been forging his own future. For much of it, his had been a wasted life, but Stephen was determined to do better from now on, and two days ago he had come across the most perfect, and most beautiful incentive.
It wasn’t a very promising start, Stephen would be the first to admit, but really, if you looked at it from a slightly different point of view, he had saved the woman’s life. Perhaps, in time, she would see it that way too, and they would laugh about how they had both behaved badly, saying things they hadn’t meant, jumping to the wrong conclusions. There was no possibility that Stephen could have known she was deaf, but now that he did, he was determined to make up for it. He just needed a way to impress her somehow. That and hope that fate would allow them to meet up again and she would stay in the same room with him for long enough to make it count.
He opened a new internet tab on his laptop and typed ‘British Sign Language courses’ into the search engine. So far that morning he had watched about thirty YouTube clips, searching for some simple words or phrases that might be relatively easy to learn. Even just ‘hello’ or ‘thank you’ would be a start, anything that might let her know that he wasn’t a hot-headed idiot all the time…
‘I should never have gone,’ said Freya, as she and Sam sipped a welcome cup of tea. They’d been hard at it since early morning, but several hours’ work had resulted in an enormous pile of perfect apples, ready for pressing. The afternoon, if they were lucky, would see the bright crisp juice, bottled and ready to be collected.
‘It was a rotten thing to come out with when I didn’t even know the girl. She must have been petrified having me throw that at her.’
Sam looked at Freya over the rim of his mug. ‘And did she seem petrified?’
‘Not exactly, but she didn’t seem that happy either. She was obviously really shy, and now I know why. I’d never have asked her if I’d known.’
‘Why would her being deaf make any difference?’
‘Well because … imagine how she must feel?’
‘Chuffed to know how much you liked her work?’
Freya gave an exasperated tut. ‘Honestly, Sam. I was obviously making her very uncomfortable. I mean, she spends her days talking to dead people for God’s sake, probably so that she doesn’t have to hold embarrassing conversations with complete strangers who don’t know a thing about her, and yet make wild suggestions at the drop of a hat.’
Sam merely smiled. ‘Or,’ he said pointedly, ‘she could be very lonely but unsure about how to make things any different. It must be quite isolating being deaf; think about that for a minute. And now here you are, the first person in ages who’s taken any notice of her, and not only that but showered her with compliments, and made her what could be a very exciting offer. Have you thought of it that way?’
He took hold of her hand. ‘I’m wondering who’s the more embarrassed here
, Freya; are you sure it’s Laura? Don’t treat her any differently just because she’s deaf, that’s possibly the real reason she shies away from people; because she’s so fed up with people treating her that way.’
Freya sighed. ‘How did you get to be so wise, Sam Henderson?’
‘Probably because I’m getting married to you, Freya Sherbourne. Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation? To convince you of something you already know is true. Don’t give up on her, Freya, maybe she needs you more than you know.’
‘But she didn’t come to the churchyard today.’
‘Perhaps she was busy. You could always try again tomorrow.’
Freya flashed him a huge smile before leaning over and kissing him deeply. ‘I love you,’ she said.
Two miles away Laura was having the exact same argument with herself, and with Boris when he could be bothered to listen. The dog’s head was resting on the table as he sat beside it, his eyes swivelling to the left and then the right as he watched Laura pacing back and forth across the kitchen.
‘I should be thrilled that someone likes my garlands so much and, more than that, she’s even offered me paid work – for a wedding of all things! Do you know what this could mean for me, Boris? Money. Money to help me get other things off the ground instead of sitting in my kitchen wasting my life away like the sad, lonely widow I am.’
She stopped pacing for a moment to look the dog squarely in the eye.
‘I shouldn’t even be having this conversation with you. I mean, it’s obvious what the answer is. I should run after her as fast as I can and bite her arm off. But instead I’m having a deep and meaningful conversation with my dog because I’m scared, and pathetic, and frightened that as soon as I’m among people again they’ll start saying all those horrible things about me that put me here in the first place.’
The memories of that time leapt out at her, unbidden. It was a time and place that Laura never wanted to go back to, but even as her eyes began to smart with the pain of it all, a part of her knew that she had to go back to start going forwards again.