Whispers in the Graveyard

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she says firmly. ‘You probably hate your class.’

  What’s it to you?

  She changes gear. ‘I didn’t report the incident yesterday.’

  I shrug. ‘Don’t care if you do.’

  She sighs. ‘No, you probably don’t,’ she says.

  We were crossing the old bridge, the river rushing below, swollen with flood water.

  ‘Look, truthfully, I actually do need some assistance with the programme I’ve got planned for today, and I would like you to help me.’

  ‘Why? Why me?’ This time I stare at her.

  She blinks.

  Now, here comes the lie.

  ‘Very clever with his hands, Solomon is, handy to have about if you want some furniture moved, well, large pieces anyway.’ (He must be good at something, surely.)

  ‘Actually, because I don’t know anyone else in the school,’ she says. ‘Also, I think you’re the type of pupil that teachers don’t want in their class. So, if I ask leave for you to come and not someone else, they’ll probably say yes.’

  Well, that was the truth and a half.

  She grins at me, white teeth and red lips. I give a kind of laugh. Couldn’t help it.

  So, I’m in the assembly hall. And she’s right, she does need help. This is going to be the most amazing parent introduction to the infant school ever. The janny and I have been hauling benches and chairs and tables and boxes of stuff around all morning.

  ‘New notions, never had to do this before,’ he’s grumbling and swearing away. ‘Old Mrs Webber just gave everybody a wee talk and a cup of tea. That’s all that was needed. Still is, if you ask me. And, it’ll all have to go back again afterwards.’

  ‘Nearly finished.’ She’s all smiles and charm. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Grimbley. We could never have managed without you, could we, Solomon?’

  I shrug and look away.

  Don’t get close. Don’t stand so. Stand so, close to me.

  She has noticed me scratching my arm.

  ‘Let me see.’ She draws back the sleeve of my jumper and draws her breath in. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fell out a tree.’

  I don’t like the look of my skin. It’s red and weeping where the branch cut through. She takes me to the medical room and cleans it out with antiseptic cream.

  ‘There,’ she says briskly. ‘That will sort you out.’ She winks at me. ‘I have special healing powers, being the seventh child of a seventh child. Now we’ll go and have some lunch. The parents are arriving at one-thirty.’

  This should be good.

  They arrive and she makes with the intro. First all the boring stuff about emergency contacts, special diets, reading schemes, blah, blah. Some have heard it all before. Second child. Can’t really spare the time away from the office. Hope she hurries up. Got to get back. Waiting for an important fax. One business suit keeps checking his watch.

  Others . . . well, it’s their first, and it’s all new and exciting and they want the very very best for Nigel, who can actually read already, and does have his own Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  And . . . I have this really strange sensation. I’m sitting on the stairs at the side of the stage, and this quiet glow starts inside of me. Sometimes, at home, when he’s been OK for a bit, we get a video for the weekend and he cooks some dinner. Then, just before we sit down I have this feeling same as I’ve got now. Like I know that something interesting is going to happen, something pleasant, and for a space around me, everything is going to be all right. A small peace to swim into, a patch of sun to sit in, a bit of time that excludes the rest.

  When did it start to be this way with me? Are other peoples’ lives the same, with only little hiccups of happiness in among the misery?

  Ms Talmur has finished her preliminaries. ‘Now . . .’ she says. ‘All those parents who will have children in my class next term, I would like you to pay particular attention. This is what I would like you to do.

  ‘Now the fun begins,’ she says under her breath.

  I feel I should warn her. ‘If they try to sit on those chairs at the back they will fall over,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly,’ she says smugly. ‘How often does that happen to an infant? And when it does, people laugh, or clap their hands and tell them to get up quickly. Don’t they?’ She rubs her hands together and gives me a big grin. ‘And that’s just what we are going to do to them.’

  They really didn’t know what to expect, those parents.

  ‘I would like all of you to complete a very simple exercise before leaving the school today. Something that your children will be asked to do every day of their life.’ She points to the tables set behind her. ‘I am going to ask each one of you to come out and put on a school tie,’ she pauses, ‘after having first put on a pair of gloves.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbles one man. I recognise him. He owns the fast-food takeaway on the main street. He’s really overweight, gross. His stomach wobbles as he sits on the ordinary stacking chair. He’s never going to manage the obstacle course we’ve constructed at the other end of the hall.

  She ignores him.

  ‘After which I would like you all to choose a coloured crayon from the box.’ She points to the box which we’ve set on top of a pair of step-ladders and is practically impossible to reach into. ‘Then go to your desk at the back of the hall, and draw me a picture.’

  There are some murmurs of enquiry from her audience. A few of them are shaking their heads. She smiles at them cheerfully. ‘Perhaps I’d better explain why.’

  CHAPTER XIII

  Ms Talmur claps her hands loudly and starts to speak.

  ‘I would like you to humour me for the next half hour or so and take part in this programme which I have designed to help you understand your children better. If anyone feels that they do not wish to do this then I would ask them to leave now. But if you stay, then you must remain for the whole of the session. In fact,’ she gives them all one of her best smiles, ‘I’ll take it as a sign of failure if you tell me that you want to leave.’

  They settle down a bit then, and they all nod. Every one of them.

  ‘Good. What we are going to do now is to imagine that you are the children who make up the new intake into this school. All right?’ She smiles grimly. ‘Most of us have forgotten what it is like to be four or five and exist in a world inhabited by giants.’ She covers her eyes with her fingers. ‘Close your eyes and imagine what it would be like to live with no income, no status, no rights. How it would feel to be small and completely powerless. That is what your children have to contend with each day of their lives. For one short afternoon you are going to re-experience this.’

  They close their eyes. Most of them are smiling.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Ms Talmur. ‘You may open your eyes again, but from now on I have complete control over you, your minds and bodies. My word is law.’

  Her voice has developed a nasty edge. There is a strangely sinister undertone present, a mild, unstated but very real threat implied.

  ‘I want you to come out here, one by one, and put on these gloves.’ Her voice has changed again. She is speaking to them in that irritating, sing-song way that some teachers use when they address small children. She walks along the rows of chairs where they are sitting, patting one or two on the head as she does so.

  ‘All right,’ she pushes her face right up close to the first parent at the end of the line. ‘What’s YOUR name?’

  ‘Mr Gordon,’ he says.

  ‘Your first name, son,’ she says.

  ‘John.’

  ‘JOHN,’ she yells. ‘That’s a LOVELY name. Isn’t it, class?’

  They all agree, a few of them smiling.

  ‘My goodness, we are not very polite boys and girls, are we? We should really say, “Yes, Ms Talmur.” Shall we try that again?’

  ‘Yes, Ms Talmur.’ There is a scattered response.

  ‘All together, please.’

  ‘Yes, Ms Talmur.
’

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ she says sweetly. ‘I said, that’s a LOVELY name, isn’t it, class?’

  ‘Yes, Ms Talmur,’ they all chorused.

  They were enjoying themselves.

  So far.

  ‘Well, John,’ she says loudly, dragging him to his feet. ‘You can be the very first good boy to come out and put your gloves on. Go on.’ She gives him a hard push. ‘Ooops, clumsy you,’ she laughs, as he stumbles slightly.

  ‘Next,’ she smiles a brittle smile.

  ‘Jean Malcolm,’ the next victim speaks up.

  ‘Stand up and tell all the class,’ says Ms Talmur, ‘and do fix your dress, pet.’ She leans over and hauls at this woman’s very smart clothes to straighten out a nonexistent crease.

  ‘Jea–’

  ‘Off you go,’ Ms Talmur interrupts her testily. ‘You’re holding up the line, dear.’

  Out they come, one by one, saying their names and then going forward to put on the assortment of gloves laid out on the tables in front of them. Boxing gloves, ski mitts, outsize rubber gloves with cotton wool stuffed down the fingers and several mismatched gardening and working gloves.

  ‘Now, each of you pick up a tie from the pile and put it on,’ she instructs them.

  ‘Oh, do hurry up, Mary-Anne,’ she says crossly to one lady. ‘And you,’ she turns on someone who is laughing, ‘surely a big boy like you can tie your own tie.’

  The results are hilarious.

  ‘Now, pick a crayon and find your desk and do your very best drawing for me.’

  They fumble about in the crayon box. One parent decided to take an active part. He holds up a broken piece of blue crayon.

  ‘Please, Miss, this is broken,’ he says, ‘and I want a green one.’

  ‘Go and stand in the corner,’ she tells him at once. ‘And face the wall. We don’t like greedy children in this school. I’ll deal with you later.’

  The tables and chairs are at the back of the hall. The janny and I have placed them on top of stacked benches.

  ‘You mean we have to climb up on to that to reach our seats?’ asks the fat man.

  ‘You must put up your hand if you want to speak in class,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to have to tell Mummy and Daddy that you have been a rude little boy, do I?’ she asks him sweetly.

  He puts his hand up. ‘Where do I sit?’ he asks.

  ‘Find your own desks,’ she instructs them.

  I stand up to watch this bit. She has stickered the tables with names. They are written backwards, upside down, letters wrong way round, some just squiggles.

  ‘This is impossible,’ snaps one lady. I recognise her. She is a receptionist at the health clinic, unhelpful and superior.

  ‘Now, Gertrude,’ says Ms Talmur, very patronising, ‘don’t tell me a smart girl like you can’t read her own name?’ She walks away from her before she can answer.

  ‘Look, this is impossible,’ says brown business suit. ‘You have to help us.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Ms Talmur. ‘You need help. Why don’t you ask?’

  ‘Would you help me find my seat, teacher?’ he asks, humouring her.

  She puts her hand behind her ear. ‘And what’s the magic word?’

  ‘Please,’ he grits his teeth.

  ‘Good boy,’ she reaches up and pats his cheek.

  She marches around the room, pausing now and then to tick off someone. She deals out her pack of cards, little humiliations, small put-downs; she uses a whole arsenal of negative remarks.

  And they have no option but to accept them and play with the hand they’re given. Using a gratingly loud pitch, her words and manner are calculated to annoy. Condescending remarks sting like insect bites.

  ‘We ARE a bit of a crosspatch this morning.’

  ‘Who’s a Bad Mood Bear then?’

  ‘Isn’t this fun?’ she whispers as she passes me. And it is.

  She stops beside one man who is still trying to fix his tie. ‘Do you need the lavatory, William?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she insists. ‘You’ve been fiddling about with your clothes for some time now.’

  ‘No,’ he gasps.

  ‘Yes, you have. And if you can’t do yourself up get one of the bigger boys to help you. Off you go,’ she propels him out the door.

  Brown business suit is the first to break. His stool tips over and he lands on his bum on the floor. ‘Your game isn’t very funny,’ he yells, struggling to get up.

  ‘It’s not meant to be funny,’ she says calmly. She stands back and watches him scrambling to his feet. She doesn’t offer assistance. ‘And it is NOT a game.’

  She lifts her head and addresses all of them. ‘These are the circumstances, to a greater or lesser degree, in which your children have to live their lives. When your child behaves badly or is scared, upset, lonely or frightened, you might want to recall what your emotions are at this moment. If they display bad temper, bed-wet or don’t do as well in school as you want or expect them to, then try to remember how you felt today.’

  They shuffle out. I have a feeling that some might complain to the headteacher. She doesn’t seem to be too bothered. She is humming happily away as we gather up the stuff.

  ‘What did you think of that, then, Solomon?’ she asks me.

  I start to reply when the door opens abruptly and Professor Miller hurries in.

  ‘Ms Talmur,’ he says, ‘I’m extremely anxious about Amy. We can’t seem to find her anywhere in the school.’

  CHAPTER XIV

  ‘Perhaps I missed her in the corridor.’ Professor Miller turns round quickly and hurries back to the infant classrooms.

  The student teacher is almost in tears. ‘Amy was sitting right there,’ she points to the desk where I had sat yesterday. ‘I went into the corridor to get her coat and when I came back she was gone. She’s not in the toilets. She’s not in the playground.’ Her voice trembles and she covers her face with her hands.

  ‘Go and tell the Head,’ says Ms Talmur briskly. ‘I’ll get my car and drive along the road out of town and Professor Miller can drive the other way.’

  She turns to me. ‘Solomon. Would you have any idea in which direction a young child might wander off ?’

  ‘I’ll have a look about.’

  Why am I the one who knows where to go? I walk through the playground and across the football field at the back. Through the long grass and into the wood. I can see the cemetery ahead of me, the tombstones outlined against the sky. I begin to run.

  As I climb up onto the broken dyke I see her coming through the gate at the other end. It has taken her longer. She has come by the road and her legs are shorter, but she is hurrying. Trotting very quickly up the main path to the back.

  There is a vile stink in the air, rising from the ground below me. I look down. There is a huge sheet of green tarpaulin covering the fallen tree and the wide crater of the root hole. Rainwater has collected in puddles lying on the dips of the sheeting. Small stagnant pools with scum gathering on their surface.

  She is directly beneath me and would have fallen right in had I not shouted.

  ‘Amy,’ I call loudly.

  She smiles and looks up at once. Almost as though she had expected someone to be there. Waiting for her.

  ‘Solomon?’

  Not me anyway. I could tell by her voice and the expression on her upturned face.

  ‘Your dad’s worried about you.’ I jump down, avoiding the tarpaulin-covered hole.

  ‘Daddy?’ She looks about her as if expecting to see him. I take her hand. She drags on my arm, and glances over her shoulder as I lead her away.

  Her father is getting out of his car as we reach the entrance. ‘You shouldn’t have come down here to see me,’ he says severely. ‘I told you to wait in the school and I would collect you.’

  He picks her up and hugs her close. The little face crumples up.

  ‘But . . . you called on me to come. Hurry up, you said . . . or . . .’ she g
lances about vaguely. ‘Somebody . . . called me . . .’

  ‘Silly girl,’ he says, and kisses her. ‘You’ve imagined that.’

  Ms Talmur drew up in her car, and in the fuss and conversation no one was paying any attention to what Amy was saying.

  Except me.

  ‘Promise you will always wait for me at the school,’ Professor Miller says to her.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Ms Talmur pats Amy’s soft curls. ‘I won’t let her out of my sight.’

  For a moment it was as if I saw them both through the wrong end of a telescope. Something briefly echoes in my head, and I turn without realising it to look at the far end of the graveyard.

  ‘Does this place interest you, Solomon?’ Professor Miller follows my gaze.

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’

  ‘It’s very old,’ he goes on, ‘one of the most fascinating places I have ever worked in.’

  ‘I like the stones, the colours. And the markings . . .’ I hesitate. ‘They tell you things.’

  ‘Don’t they just?’ he agrees at once. ‘Every single one is an individual tribute to the art of the stonemason. Each humble tradesman or worker would have his own emblem to show his craft.’ He laughs. ‘Even a miller had one.’ He walks across to a very old stone. ‘Look, this one has a sheaf of corn and the weighing scales. Not that millers were very popular. It was a widely held belief that they were dishonest, taking more than was their due of the corn they ground.’

  He moves along the path to show me another stone. ‘This person must have belonged to the hammermen. They had the right to use the royal crown as their symbol, though there were lots of different trades which used a hammer.’ He rubs some dust from the stone. ‘That looks like an anvil just below, so it was probably a blacksmith.’

  He stops at the end of the path. ‘The whole place is alive with history . . . apart from this bit.’

  We have walked the full length of the main avenue to the back wall with the wood beyond.

  He points to the ground. At the fallen rowan tree. ‘That was the only thing that grew here and we had to take it out. Now look at it. It has rotted so very quickly that it had to be covered up. We think there are bad drains down below there. The air all around is quite foul.’ He pulls aside the edge of the sheeting.