‘Let’s get this thing done before it pours down,’ I said to Effy as we marched down Swain’s Lane.
By the time we’d got back to the cemetery, there was a thin drizzle of rain and a chill wind beginning to blow. We soon found Harry in the office of one of the chapels. He was a lovely old man with white hair, twinkly blue eyes and a crinkled face. Effy filled him in on who we were looking for.
He listened and nodded. ‘I know exactly where she is,’ he said. ‘I was working up that way only yesterday. Give me a minute and I’ll take you there.’ He pulled on a raincoat then handed us two umbrellas. ‘Here, you might be needing these.’
He led us back into the wood and this time, instead of going to the left, we went to the right.
‘It’s like a maze,’ I said as we followed him along several paths past various headstones. ‘How come you don’t get lost?’
‘It doesn’t take long to get to know your way round,’ he replied. ‘And I’ve been working here a good long time.’
‘Was everyone buried here rich?’ asked Tash.
Harry shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. They had a different attitude to burial in Victorian times; even the poorest family would save up to make sure their family got a good send-off and a decent site.’
Harry led us away from the main path and over to an overgrown patch of land near the wall by the main road. The graves in this part were very different to the ostentatious and ornate kind we’d seen in the morning. They were humble, small slabs of square stone, some completely covered in moss, others so worn away that there was no inscription left.
Harry led us to an area under a tree and pointed. ‘I think this is what you wanted to come and look at,’ he said to Effy. ‘I remembered the name because I was doing some clearing here just the other day.’
Like the others nearby, it was a small, simple slab of stone but there, just about legible through the moss, was written the name:
HENRIETTA GLEESON, 1882–1905.
My eyes filled with sudden tears which took me by surprise.
‘Who was she to you?’ asked Harry.
‘Oh, just someone I’ve been told about,’ I said. I didn’t understand my tears. Until a few weeks ago, the name Henrietta Gleeson meant nothing to me.
‘I’ll leave you alone for a while,’ said Harry. He pointed a short distance away ‘I’ll be there when you’re ready.’
Effy, Tash and I stood and gazed down at the grave. I could see by their faces that they were as moved as I was. So there it is, I thought. Another grave amongst so many. Henrietta Gleeson. Just another old-fashioned name. Could she really have been me? Could it be true that I am standing here looking down at the grave of someone I used to be, knowing that the spirit that inhabited that body six foot under is no longer down there, because it’s in me, looking through my eyes at my own burial site! I shivered with cold. My thoughts were disturbing. I was beginning to feel like I didn’t know what was real any more and who I really was. There was so much I didn’t know or understand.
‘You OK, Jo?’ asked Tash.
I brushed away a tear. ‘Yeah, just... I guess it’s sad that,’ I pointed at the headstone, ‘it’s so simple after the ones we saw this morning and then Harry told us even the poorest family made sure that someone had a good send-off. Henrietta’s grave looks so neglected, looks like nobody spent any money on her, whoever she was. Maybe she died poor or alone, forgotten.’
‘Until now,’ said Effy.
‘And so young,’ said Tash. ‘Only twenty-three.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah. Sad.’ I felt myself shiver again but wasn’t sure if it was the rain or the situation. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘I wonder what she was like?’ Effy mused as we went over to Harry. ‘Who went to her funeral? Was Howard there? How did she die?’ An image from my hypnosis session flashed through my mind. The young man bent over the woman in the bed. Could he have been Howard? Could she have been Henrietta? He’d said he’d find her. Could it be possible that she was back as me and Howard was back too, having travelled through time to find her?
As Harry led us back to the courtyard, we were all silent, each of us lost in our thoughts. Seeing Henrietta’s grave had given me an idea for a ritual that made sense to me. Not one of Effy’s witchy kind. Mine would be a private affair.
Effy suddenly stopped. ‘Harry, would you mind if we took another look at a grave we saw this morning? It’s near the circle of Lebanon I wanted to check some dates but couldn’t because our tour guide hurried us on. Would you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said Harry and he steered us back toward the Egyptian avenue. It didn’t take us long to find the grave again and when we got there, we were all taken by surprise. There were fresh flowers on the grave. White lilies. They hadn’t been there this morning.
‘Someone’s tended the grave,’ said Tash.
Effy looked around. ‘But who?’
‘Oh, lots of relatives come and tend the graves,’ said Harry. ‘Saturday’s a popular time and some of the graves are recent, you know–’
‘But not that one,’ I said.
‘No, not that one, but someone comes regularly, every year, to put flowers.’
My mind had gone into a spin. Who’d left the flowers? Was there a living relative? A grandchild? A son or daughter? Ben? Oh my God! Could it have been him?
‘Ben was buying white lilies this morning,’ whispered Effy.
‘Is it a sign?’ asked Tash.
‘No,’ I said. ‘He could have been buying flowers for anyone.’ My brain tried to work out the maths. ‘Effy, write down the dates. We need to work out how old any living relative might be.’
‘Will do,’ said Effy. ‘Do you know what this means? He or she might have known Howard or even Henrietta.’
‘Not possible,’ I said. ‘But whoever it is could be a son, daughter or grandchild of one of the Watts family.’
‘Did this Watts family know your Henrietta then?’ asked Harry.
Tash nodded. ‘She worked for the family,’ she explained.
‘She’ll be back in three weeks,’ said Harry. ‘The lady who leaves the flowers.’
So not Ben, I thought. ‘A she? You know who it is?’ I asked.
Harry nodded. ‘I don’t have a name but we get to know the regulars by face. I remember her because she comes every year to lay flowers three weeks apart and that’s always seemed strange to me.’
‘On her own?’
‘I’ve never seen anyone with her.’
‘How old?’ I asked.
‘Not young,’ Harry replied. ‘She’s an elderly lady’
‘Another clue,’ I said as we headed back for the gates.
Tash nodded. ‘How exciting, and this time we might get answers from the living not the dead!’
Chapter Eighteen
After the cemetery, Tash headed off for the tube leaving Effy and I to make our way back up the village on our own. Effy had a date with Mark, but it wasn’t until later so we decided we’d cruise a few shops. On our way to the high street, we passed the Highgate Literary and Scientific Institute.
‘Hey, isn’t that where the exhibition is?’ I said to Effy. ‘The one with Ben’s photos.’
‘Oh yeah. Let’s see if it’s open,’ said Effy. ‘See if his photos shed any light on what goes in that head of his, and we could ask him who he was buying flowers for today, if he’s there.’
‘You can,’ I said.
The doors were open and there was a board saying admission free so we made our way inside the hall. Like Effy, I felt intrigued to see what Ben’s pictures would be like.
Inside, partitions had been erected in the centre of the hall making three central corridors, each displaying different exhibitors’ photographs. I like looking at exhibitions and neither Effy and I were in a hurry so we slowly went round all the pictures. Some appealed more than others. I liked one girl’s portraits taken of the varied colourful characters around Camden Lock. I felt she’d really cap
tured the diversity of people there – Goths, punks, hippies, tourists, the young and the old.
Effy liked a series of landscapes taken with some kind of colour filter over the lens. It made the scenes look surreal, as if they were taken on another planet.
‘Here are Ben’s,’ said Effy when she came to a corner at the back of the hall and saw his name. I went over to join her. Seasons by Ben Fraser. His photos were also landscapes but in black and white.
‘Hey, these are seriously good,’ said Effy.
I looked at the first few. Shots of local scenes around north London. He’d really captured the changing weather of the different seasons. A bright summer’s day on Primrose Hill. Kites flying in the sky. A small boy eating an ice cream. A bank of daffodils taken on the Heath in spring. A sky exploding with fireworks on Bonfire Night up at Alexandra Palace. A snow scene in winter, sledgers in the foreground wrapped up in hats, scarves and gloves.
Effy was looking at a photograph at the far end. ‘I know this place,’ she said.
I went to join her. The shot was of a landscape, early morning judging by the mist. Everything was white. The location was a playing field with a solitary tree, to the right of which was a pavilion.
‘I know where that is,’ I said suddenly. ‘It’s the playing field at our old school. The changing rooms were in the pavilion, remember?’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right,’ she said. ‘Freezing in there in the winter.’ She moved on to the next picture. I stayed to study the photo. It stirred something in me. As I stared at the image I felt myself transported back, not just to the place or time but to a feeling, one of overwhelming sadness. Then it hit me. I used to go there to be alone just after Dad died. There was a spot behind the pavilion which was out of the wind where no-one could see you. It was my secret place. I hadn’t allowed myself to cry at home. Mum was so sad, devastated at the loss of Dad, and I didn’t want to add to her grief by letting her see my tears although I felt that my world had been torn apart too. I had tried to be brave for her. So much was a blur around that time, so many emotions, so many changes. And then it struck me. Something else about the place. There had been a boy. I’d been there one day and he had appeared out of nowhere. I’d tried to hide my tears in case he asked me what was wrong, but he didn’t say anything, just sat on the wooden decking with me like he understood what I was going through. It was a comfort having him there. After that he came a few more times. Not saying anything. Once he took my hand and held it. His hand had felt so warm.
And then time moved on, it was the end of term, the summer holidays. When I went back to school for the new term, I was all cried out. I didn’t go back to my secret place and I never saw the boy again. He was older than me so must have gone on to senior school. I never thought about him again and had forgotten all about that time until now. It was too painful, I’d put all the memories from then in a box and locked them away.
I became aware that someone was standing behind me. I turned to see that Ben was watching me.
I turned back to look at the photograph then at Ben and suddenly I realised. ‘It was you. You’re the boy from the playing field, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘You remember now.’
‘I do. I can’t believe I forgot. But why? Why did you come and sit with me back then?’ I pointed to the photo.
Ben hesitated. You looked so alone and . . . and . . .’ He shrugged as if he was finding it hard to find the right words. ‘It just felt right,’ he said finally. He looked vulnerable as he said the words, like he’d let me into his private world for a moment, and in that split second, I could see that behind the cool mask of the sullen boy in shades: he was actually a caring, sensitive person. I wondered if someone had hurt him so much that he felt he had to protect himself and not let anyone too close. I was about to ask why he didn’t stay in touch or come back to try to find me after he’d gone on to secondary school when Finn appeared behind him. I felt myself immediately blush. Ben saw the recognition on my face and turned to see who was there. When he turned back, it was as if a curtain had gone down inside of him, his feelings once again hidden from me. As Finn came towards us, I felt myself blush even more and I could see that Ben noticed. He turned to Finn, nodded hi to him and walked away.
As I watched Ben go, I felt that I should have said more – how great his photos were. How much I’d appreciated him being there so many years ago. But the small crowd in the hall had swallowed him up and Finn was standing next to me – looking at Ben’s photos. There was no denying the effect Finn had on me like he radiated some kind of heat that warmed me right down to my toes. I was feeling more and more sure, Finn was The One. Past or present, I didn’t care as long as we had some kind of future.
Chapter Nineteen
The following week flew by in a haze of meetings with teachers, reviewing work and projects and discussing objectives for next year, which would be our final one at school At last, it was Friday and tomorrow was my birthday I couldn’t wait to find out what the girls had planned. They’d been very hush hush about it. All I knew was it was a get-together in the evening, but I wasn’t sure if that meant just us or if they’d invited others. They wouldn’t say but did let on that the evening had a theme and that they had got my costurne sorted. I had mixed feelings about a big celebration if that’s what they’d organised. I loved a party as much as the next person, but couldn’t help but think about the fact I’d probably be on my own there again.
At least Owen was coming back from uni for the weekend, so I’d have him to talk to. He’d already texted me several times to say how much he was looking forward to seeing me so he must be included in whatever the plans were. I was looking forward to seeing him too. I’d been surprised by my reaction to finding out that he may be with someone and had to question whether I might have feelings for him after all. To let him go, might be to let one of the nicest guys in the world slip through my fingers. Maybe we’d got together too early and I just wasn’t ready back then to have met someone as reliable and kind as him. I still felt confused. Was reliable what I wanted now? Not if I was honest. I wanted the feeling I got around Finn. Heat. Bubbles of excitement. Anticipation. Finn and I hadn’t chatted for long when I’d seen him at Ben’s exhibition because he had only dropped in for a short while but there was chemistry there and I was sure he’d felt it too. I could tell by the way he looked into my eyes then down at my mouth and the way he stood close to me with his back turned on everyone else, creating our own private space in the gallery.
As I gathered up my things to leave school, I texted Effy and Tash to let them know I was going home and that I’d see them the next day. They still had work to do in the art room so it was the perfect time to put into practice the ritual idea that I’d had the week before. It was something I wanted to do alone.
I caught the bus home and found a few of Mum’s small gardening tools which I put in my bag. Next I went up to the florist’s in the village where I bought a bunch of white rosebuds before making my way to the cemetery. Luckily Harry was at the front lodge and when I told him what I wanted to do, he let me through and escorted me to Henrietta’s grave.
‘Just give me a shout if you need anything,’ he said as he started back to the lodge. ‘I have lots of tools you can borrow.’
When he’d gone, I set about tidying up the grave. I pulled up the weeds, scrubbed the moss off the stone and dug over the earth. I decided to leave the trail of ivy that had grown up the headstone – the green looked pretty against the pale stone. I placed the roses I’d bought at the top of the grave and stood up. It looked much better, not so sad and neglected. Looking after Henrietta’s grave felt therapeutic, like clearing away cobwebs of the past. Mine and hers. Effy would be proud of me, although knowing her, she’d probably have wanted to light a joss stick and do an Native American dance as well.
I checked to see that no-one was around. All was silent. ‘There you go, Henrietta, whoever you were,’ I said to the headstone. ‘I don’t know exac
tly what you went through, but if it’s true, and you were me once, I want to tell you that you and me, we’re moving on. I’m going to embrace life and take a few chances – especially on love.’
As I stood there in the dappled light, I felt a sensation of peace come over me. I felt Henrietta approved. Or I approved. How I related to Henrietta was so mixed up in my head.
My phone rang, shattering the quiet of the cemetery. I almost jumped out of my skin.
It was Effy. ‘Hey you, where are you?’
‘Oh . . . hi. Just on my way home. You?’
‘I just got to my mum’s agency. You’ll never guess what. Finn was in with his family when I got here. Talking through some possible houses.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, he was with the girl, you know, the one from the Heath and the café.’
My spirits sank. So much for my ritual about moving on, taking a chance on love. Effy was calling to tell me that it was serious with the girl It must be if she was involved in the house-hunting.
‘She’s his sister, Jo. His sister!’
‘Sister? You’re kidding?’
‘No. Her name’s Darcy. She’s really nice. And there’s more. I got her on her own and asked, really casually, if Finn was involved with anyone.’
I knew Effy and casual. Not something she did at all well. ‘You didn’t say I was into him, did you?’
‘No. Course not. No, I was really good. I said Finn must have loads of girls after him seeing as he’s in the band and that. And she said, he does. I said, is he with anyone at the moment? She said, not that she knew about and that Finn tells her everything, although he had mentioned – and this is the best part – that he had met someone recently that he thought might be special. It could be you, Jo!’
My spirits began to soar. ‘That’s fantastic. Thanks, Effy.’
‘You’re welcome. And there’s even more ... oh. Can’t tell you. Um. You’ll find out tomorrow. Listen, got to go. Loads to organise for tomorrow night. Be at mine at six o’clock, OK?’
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