by Freer, Echo;
Modesty felt her shoulders drop in disappointment. Friend? Was that all? Her eyes were fixed on the cobblestones in the yard. ‘You haven’t blown it,’ she muttered.
Oz smiled. ‘I didn’t mean you were weird. I just meant that the idea...’
‘It’s OK - I’m used to it.’ The sadness in her voice betrayed the truth of the remark. ‘Now, do you want to see the development site?’
Modesty led Oz across the yard. Neither of them spoke as she took him round the back of the stone- built outhouses to a small area of scrubland between her parents’ property and the cemetery perimeter. The silence suited Modesty. Her dashed hopes had formed a lump the size of a walnut in her throat and she welcomed the breathing space in order to regain her composure.
There was a gap in the hedge and Modesty bent down and ducked through. She’d been using this clandestine entrance for almost as long as she could walk, sneaking into the magical world of stone angels, mysterious mausoleums, rose arbours and rhododendron walks. Oz followed and, when he stood up, took a deep breath.
Wide tree-lined avenues fanned out before them. Tombstones of every size and form, from the simplest headstone to the most ornate Gothic statue, spread out along the paths. The trees were fading from gold through copper to bronze and rust, and the last roses of the season were forcing their blousy petals on the crisp autumn morning. The grass beneath their feet was strewn with acorns and conkers, while squirrels scurried about gathering supplies of beechnuts for the winter ahead.
‘Wow!’ Oz said. It was more of a sigh than an exclamation.
Modesty once again felt a sense of pride. ‘I know. I love it here.’
Together they walked through the avenues of monuments and obelisks, past the ornamental pond and the catacomb, until they came to an area of trees and rough grass where there were no gravestones.
‘This is the woodland area for environmentally friendly burials,’ Modesty explained. ‘This is where Beattie wanted to be buried.’
Oz nodded his approval. ‘We’ve chosen a bamboo coffin, you know. Mum wanted a cardboard one because they were cheaper but I thought it would be nice to go for something a bit more special.’
Modesty’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I love those. They’re like giant hampers.’
Oz shot her another look of distaste. ‘I know this is all normal for you, Moddy, but I’m finding this death stuff a bit difficult to get my head round and, to be honest, the thought of Gran being buried in a picnic basket doesn’t help.’
Modesty grimaced. ‘I’m sorry.’ Now it was her turn to think she’d blown it. She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Quits?’
‘Quits,’ he agreed.
They stood in silence, absorbing the atmosphere. After a while they moved on to an area of rough land at the far end of the cemetery. There were some old wooden sheds which had yellow planning notices pinned to the doors.
‘This is it.’ Modesty pointed to a gnarled old tree with a gaping wound at one side where the bough had broken off. The limb had already been sawn into logs by the groundsman and all that was left were a few piles of sawdust and twigs.
They remained in silence for some time until Oz turned to Modesty. ‘What I don’t understand is how anyone can even think of getting planning permission. I thought cemeteries were protected.’
Modesty gave an angry shrug. ‘You’d think.’
‘So how come this one can be developed?’
She pushed her hair from her face and looked at him, passion blazing in her eyes. ‘It turns out that this one has been privately owned since it was built. It’s never been owned by a church or the council or anything like that so it’s never been consecrated.’
‘But what about the graves? I’d have thought they’d have had to get special permission.’
Modesty shook her head. ‘Your gran looked into it. Apparently there was an Act of Parliament passed about ten years ago that allowed the law to be changed so that human remains could be relocated, and another privately owned cemetery could be developed. That doesn’t apply here because - look at it.’ She made a wide sweeping gesture with her arms. ‘There aren’t any graves in this part. It hasn’t been used yet, so there’s nothing to disturb - except the wildlife and the tranquility. But of course, once they’ve got a foothold, it sets a precedent for anyone else who wants to come along and redevelop the rest of the cemetery.’
Oz went across to where there were already many bunches of flowers laid out in remembrance of his grandmother. A surge of anger welled up and he kicked ineffectually at a pile of twigs. ‘It’s just not fair!’
Modesty hovered uncertainly. ‘I know,’ she agreed quietly. She was torn between the urge to go across and comfort him and the belief that he needed to be alone to grieve. ‘Shall I leave you?’ she asked.
He shook his head and dropped to his knees on the damp grass. ‘Gran always used to say that life wasn’t fair and the sooner we understood that, the fairer it would seem, but...’ His words petered into silence. He picked up one of the bouquets and read the card, then another, then another. ‘It’s good to know so many people cared,’ he said, more calmly.
Modesty joined him on the grass under the sweet chestnut tree. She took one of the cards and frowned. ‘Yes,’ she replied, doubtfully.
‘What’s the matter?’
She turned to Oz and read aloud, ‘ “A true warrior who died for the cause”? That doesn’t make sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ he said, defensively.
‘No, no, this isn’t about your gran; it’s about the people who sent these flowers and cards. Listen to this one, “We were always with you in spirit”.’ She looked at him cynically. ‘It would have been a hell of a lot more use to Beattie if they’d been with her in body!’
It was Oz’s turn to look confused. ‘What are you getting at?’
Modesty continued, ‘You know, in the last couple of weeks, your gran and I thought we were the only ones who even cared that this place was going to become “Heron Park - superior one- and two-bedroomed apartments with integral swimming pool and sports complex set in ancient forest land”.’ She sat back on her heels and tried to contain her anger. ‘Sure, when the planning notices first went up and Beattie set up camp in the tree we had loads of support. And I took a petition round and got about a thousand signatures, but gradually people stopped coming to see her and then everyone kept ringing up or writing and asking for their names to be taken off the petition.’ She turned to face Oz, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. ‘It was like a full-scale outbreak of apathy. Do you know, there are only ten signatures left on the petition - and half of those are Disney characters!’ She pointed to the floral tributes and words of support on the cards. ‘And yet look at all these!’
Sensing her anger, Oz reached across and squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘I don’t know how long Mum wants to stay down here, but I’ll do whatever I can. I was part of a protest that diverted a bypass away from some ancient woodland in Yorkshire, you know? Even chained myself to a tree and got arrested,’ he said proudly.
‘Wow!’ Gorgeous looks and a social conscience! She could hardly believe this was the same boy she’d rescued from that thug Mickey Bigg all that time ago. Suddenly, that weird sensation came over her again and she seemed to have lost the link between her brain and her mouth. Try as she might to think of something intelligent and appropriate, the only word that seemed to be forming on her lips was Respect!
Fortunately, she was saved from embarrassing herself by the sight of a middle-aged man approaching, carrying a posy of flowers. As he grew nearer, Modesty recognised him as Ronald Batty, the man who owned the fish and chip shop in the High Street. Mr Batty Senior had died a couple of years earlier and Mortimer de Mise had arranged the funeral. Ronald had been so upset at the proposed development of the cemetery that he had been one of th
e first to sign Beattie’s petition but, not long afterwards, he had phoned Modesty and asked her to strike his name from the form.
When he saw her, Ronald Batty lowered his head and tried to avoid eye contact.
‘Good morning, Mr Batty,’ she called out.
‘Oh, hello, Modesty. I heard about Mrs Appleby. Terrible, terrible. Such a shame.’
Modesty found it difficult to contain her irritation with the man’s hypocrisy. ‘Dreadful,’ she agreed. ‘Have you met her grandson?’
Mr Batty looked uncomfortable and scurried away to place the posy under the tree before skirting round them and heading back out of the cemetery.
‘So what’s all that about?’ Oz asked.
Modesty shook her head. ‘Don’t know - but there’s something very odd going on. You saw how many flowers there were and yet not one single person is willing to go to the council meeting tomorrow night to protest.’
‘I’ll come,’ he offered without hesitation.
Modesty felt a quiver of excitement at the prospect of the two of them attending the council meeting together.
‘And I’ll bring Mum too,’ he added.
She tried to muster some enthusiasm for the thought that her evening à deux had suddenly become à trois, but her voice fell flat. ‘Excellent.’
They walked back to the house in silence but, when they rounded the corner behind the garages, they came face to face with Mortimer de Mise and Midge, unloading the black van of its two occupants.
Her father’s face contorted with thinly disguised outrage. Without taking his eyes off his daughter, he spoke to the young coffin-maker. ‘Take Mr Finlayter to the mortuary, will you, Colin, and I’ll let you know when to come back for Mr King?’
Midge wheeled the trolley with the first of the body-bags across the courtyard and into the back door of the building.
Oz was the first to speak. ‘I’d best be off. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Moddy.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Mortimer de Mise said. ‘You will not see my daughter again. Your grandmother’s funeral is on Friday and I’ve persuaded your mother to have the viewing at the house on Thursday evening, so there will be no need for you to come here again, Oscar. Good day.’
‘But...’ Modesty protested.
Her father’s voice rose in volume but not in warmth. ‘I said, good day!’
‘Mr de Mise...’ Oz began.
‘Have I not made myself clear, Oscar?’
Oz faced Mortimer full on and held his stare without animosity. ‘Yes, quite clear. But...’
‘There are no buts.’
Oz continued unabashed. ‘But,’ he repeated with emphasis, ‘I’ve left my skateboard in your hall, so I’ll need to go through your house, if that’s OK?’
‘Nice one, Dad!’ Modesty snapped. ‘Come through, Oz.’ And she led him back through the ground floor. In the hall, she quickly wrote her mobile number on a slip of paper and stuffed it into Oz’s hand. ‘Text me,’ she whispered.
‘Are you going to be OK?’
She was touched at his concern. ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’ Before she could say more, Mortimer strode in. ‘Just go,’ she said, pushing Oz out of the front door.
‘Modesty!’ her father roared. ‘Upstairs - this minute.’
Once they were in her bedroom on the second floor, Modesty turned mutinously towards her father. ‘You have no right...’
Before she could finish, Mortimer cut in. ‘As your father, I have every right and I will not say this again, young lady. I forbid you to have anything more to do with that family.’
‘On what grounds?’
He hesitated, then lowered his voice. ‘I will not have a daughter of mine associating with that family. They are extremely undesirable.’
‘Wrong again, Dad!’ Modesty muttered under her breath when her father had left. ‘Oz Appleby is extremely desirable!’
She sat down on her bed to ponder her next move. Her father had used her in order to get his own way this morning, so if that was the way he wanted to play things, she was up for that.
Five
Later that afternoon Modesty, having donned the plain black skirt and Indian blouse again, congratulated herself on managing to kill two birds with one stone. She had talked her father into allowing her to sit in on a funeral arrangement that afternoon, thus giving her more work experience, and she hoped this would prove what a dutiful daughter she really was, so that she would be allowed to attend the council meeting with Oz the following night. For now, though, she was content to take her place on a hard-backed chair next to Mortimer in the arranging room.
At the opposite side of the coffee table was a group worthy of a grotesque Victorian salon photograph. At one end of the settee sat a woman whose long legs wrapped around each other, crossing first at the knee and then again at the ankle. She wore black lace tights and scarlet stilettos with orange leather flames leaping from the heels. Slender fingers with nails like talons, impeccably manicured and airbrushed, were linked around her knee. She wore a tiny black leather skirt, topped with an orange fun-fur jacket and more make-up than an Avon rep.
Holding the centre of the settee was a girl who, Modesty reckoned, could not have been much older than she was, yet she found it difficult to try to work out the relationship between the two. The girl seemed to be the very opposite of the woman, wearing flat black lace-up boots and jeans that were two sizes too tight. She had a face like an upset stomach, the only adornments to which were a couple of blackheads and a zit the size of Vesuvius.
On the girl’s left sat a stocky man in a great coat, and behind them, hovering uncertainly, was a lanky boy with a shaved head and an earring in the shape of a skull. Modesty could just make out some sort of tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt collar. He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place him.
Mortimer de Mise was the first to speak. ‘Will you fetch the young gentleman a chair, Modesty, please?’
Before she could oblige, the girl in the middle replied, ‘Neh! ‘E’s orright, ain’t you, Mickey?’
Mickey? Of course - Mickey Bigg! Modesty was suddenly transported back in time to Year 6. She and Oz had been walking home from school through the park when Mickey Bigg (his hair was longer then and he had neither the earring nor the tattoo) had ridden up on his bike. The young thug must have been in Year 9 at the time and he and his friends had surrounded Modesty and Oz.
‘ ‘Ere, you’re Oscar the Toss-ca, ain’t you?’ Mickey Bigg had taunted.
Even though he had been surrounded by boys at least three years his senior, Oz had shown no sign of fear. He had stood his ground, folding his arms across his chest and holding Mickey Bigg’s glare.
‘Leave him alone.’ Modesty had leapt to Oz’s defence.
‘Woooooo! Need to get a girlie to fight your battles, do you, you little Tossca? We’ll see about that.’ Mickey Bigg had grabbed the bag of crisps Oz and Modesty had been sharing.
Modesty, being the more volatile of the two, had been outraged. ‘Give those back!’
‘Or else?’ Mickey Bigg had jeered, passing the bag of crisps around his gang of cronies. Then turning to Oz, he’d continued, ‘Or what - you gonna get your little girlfriend ‘ere to beat us up - Tossca?’
‘I am not his girlfriend!’ the eleven-year-old Modesty had shouted.
Sitting in the arranging room, Modesty flushed at the memory: if someone alluded to her as Oz’s girlfriend now, no way would she protest so vehemently.
Four years ago, however, things had been different. Modesty had long been ostracised by almost everyone at school simply by virtue of her father’s occupation. Her only friend was Cerys and, being a year older than Modesty, Cerys had already gone to the High School. Similarly, Oz had few friends, although that seemed to be more through choice - or, at leas
t, his mother’s choice. Laura Appleby, a single parent who lived with her widowed mother, Beattie, protected her only son as though he needed to be cosseted in reinforced bubble-wrap: no playing out, no friends to tea, no after-school clubs and certainly no going round to other people’s houses.
So Modesty and Oz, a pair of loners, had formed a bond. And being referred to in the boyfriend/ girlfriend category would, in Modesty’s eleven-year- old mind, have sullied their friendship. Lots of people in their class had boyfriends or girlfriends, but what she and Oz had was special.
‘I’m his friend!’ She had stressed the word proudly but, seeing the sneer on Mickey Bigg’s face as he made to dismount from his bike, she’d decided to try to defuse the situation with a lie. ‘And anyway, those are my crisps and my parents are undertakers and my mum puts my packed lunch in the room with all the dead bodies overnight to keep it cold. So if you want to eat them, you can, but the bodies put their spirits into them and that means you’ll probably get haunted tonight.’ She’d tossed her head nonchalantly. ‘Course, I’m used to it but some people go mad with the fear.’
‘Ugh!’ Mickey Bigg had spat out the crisps as though they’d been flavoured with embalming fluid. ‘Aggh! That’s gross!’ He’d emptied the rest of the bag on to the grass. ‘You’re sick, you are!’ He tossed the empty bag at Modesty, and pointed threateningly at Oz. ‘And you’re... you’re... finished! I’ll ‘ave you!’ He was blowing raspberries as he spoke, trying to purge any last traces of the crisps from his mouth. ‘You tell your mum that I know who you are!’
With that, Mickey Bigg and his gang had cycled off.
‘What was all that about?’ Modesty had asked.
Oz had shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
But two weeks later Oz and his mother had moved away and Modesty hadn’t heard from him until the day of Beattie’s death.
Seeing Mickey Bigg again now, Modesty realised that for four years she had held him responsible for Oz’s sudden disappearance. She felt a wave of anger wash over her. No way was she going to fetch a chair for him! Let him stand until his legs ached - it served him right!