by Ruth Hogan
This is all true. I haven’t made up a word of it, and I think it might be an original way to start the commentary when conducting my tour through the area of the cemetery where cremation ashes are buried. I’m really working hard on my material now, and I’m sure the injection of a touch of respectful humour wouldn’t go amiss. It is a flat stretch of land over the top of the hill, shaded by ancient evergreens and bordered in places by miniature box hedges. On a hot day like today it provides a verdant sanctuary of sepulchral coolness, and is also the site of the ‘dwarves’ graveyard’. I wouldn’t call it that out loud and certainly not on my tour, but that’s how I think of it in my head. Rows of small headstones are laid out as though each marks the grave of a very small person. This is where I visit Ruby Ivy, Nellie Nora and Elsie Betty, who wore floral-patterned wraparound pinafores over their shelf-like bosoms, rollers under their headscarves, and all the proof of a lifetime’s hard work etched onto their hands and faces. They were incorrigible quidnuncs (word of the day – gossips), and loved a night at the pictures, a glass of stout and their families; and the tea they brewed was strong enough to make you wince. Ruby Ivy swore like a navvy, Nellie Nora smoked roll-ups and Elsie Betty had a third nipple. They were neighbours in life, and remain so in death, and these ladies are my Guatemalan worry dolls.
Original worry dolls are tiny dolls dressed in brightly coloured scraps of woven material, who live in a little bag. Before you go to bed you take them out of their bag and tell them all your troubles, and then place them under your pillow. While you are sleeping, the dolls spend the night addressing your problems like nocturnal agony aunts, then in the morning you wake up with the solutions to all your problems present and correct inside your head. I haven’t got any genuine Guatemalan worry dolls – and even if I had, Haizum would probably eat them – but I find Ruby Ivy, Nellie Nora and Elsie Betty do very nicely. I talked to them about my beloved boy. Admittedly that wasn’t a problem they could solve, but I was at least able to share it with them. They are very good listeners. When Gabriel died, Edward sat and walked in the cemetery with me for hours in total silence, holding my hand and kindly pretending not to notice when I wept. I returned the favour. I knew that Edward was weeping too, and that his grief was almost as great as mine, but we simply couldn’t talk about it. So I told the worry dolls. Sometimes it just helps to say the actual words out loud in a safe place and for me that means where nobody else can hear. Well, nobody still alive, that is. Today, I want to tell them about the duckling.
The air is hot and sticky with no whisper of a breeze, and the distant sky glowers with the promise of a thunderstorm. The silent shade of the dwarves’ graveyard is a welcome relief after trudging up the hill, and I sit down on the cool grass in front of Ruby Ivy’s headstone that is the middle one of the three. My back is facing Doris Priscilla, whose lips are no doubt pursed in sour-faced disapproval. Doris Priscilla lived in the same street as the others, but always considered herself to be somewhat above them. She never swore or wore her rollers in public, never took strong drink except at Christmas (and then only a small sherry), and never hung her underwear on the washing line ‘for all and sundry to gawp at’. She thought smoking was only ‘for men and chimneys’, and never left the house without a brooch pinned to the lapel of her coat and a film of face powder on her turned-up nose. Elsie Betty felt a bit sorry for her and thought she needed to ‘loosen her stays a bit’, but Ruby Ivy said she was a stuck-up old cow and quite possibly a mucky sort on the quiet who didn’t wear any underwear. I never talk to Doris.
After twenty minutes, I’ve got a numb bum and I’ve been bitten on my arm by a midge, but overall I’m feeling a bit better. And I’m considering raising another topic with my worry dolls.
‘Ladies, what do you think about the idea of me possibly giving dating another go?’
The silence invites me to continue. I know that the ladies will be agog.
‘It’s not that I’ve met anyone in particular . . .’
‘And I’m the bleedin’ Queen of Sheba!’ Ruby Ivy was never one to beat about the bush. ‘Who’s the lucky bloke, then?’
Well, it’s not as though they’re going to tell anyone.
‘There’s a man at the pool where I swim . . .’
I can hear Elsie Betty giggling. ‘So, you’ve already seen him without his clothes on, then?’
‘I haven’t even spoken to him yet! But he seems nice, and yes, okay, he’s also rather attractive. But I don’t even know if he’s single.’
‘Well, I suggest you get a bloody move on then, and find out!’ Ruby Ivy again. ‘Because if he is, and he’s as sexy as you say, he won’t stay that way for long!’
‘I didn’t say he was sexy!’
‘Bleedin’ Ada! We weren’t born yesterday, you know!’ Ruby Ivy’s on a roll now. ‘You didn’t need to spell it out – you’re blushing!’
I am. But I think it’s just the heat.
‘And don’t you go blaming the weather. You’ve definitely got the hots for this bloke.’
There’s no fooling Ruby Ivy.
‘Even if I have, and I’m not saying I have, it’s been so long since I went out with anyone. Let’s face it – I’m not much of a catch. Eccentric spinster with large dog, strange friends and an obsession with cemeteries and drowning, who talks to dead people and drives a 2CV.’
‘It’s no good fishing for bleedin’ compliments. There’s nothing wrong with you that a decent frock, a hairbrush and a bit of lipstick won’t fix. Just break him in gently when it comes to the weird stuff. Wait ’til he’s got his feet under your table, or better still, his toothbrush in your bathroom.’
Thanks, Ruby Ivy. Sound advice, but a bit premature.
‘Well I reckon you should give him a go.’ Nellie Nora always was the quietest of the three, but that somehow gave her words more weight. ‘Give him the eye, and flirt with him a bit. See what happens. What have you got to lose?’
Good point. Nothing except my pride.
‘And shift your bloomin’ arse about it while you’ve still got your figure and your own teeth!’ Ruby Ivy always has to have the last word.
I thank the ladies for their help and unfold my legs to stand up. I’ve got pins and needles from sitting so long, and I stamp about a bit until the fuzzy feeling disappears. As I’m leaving the dwarves’ graveyard I say a quick hello to Percy Honey and Madge Jessop. Percy was a quiet, careful man who was very proud of his lawn and kept his garden tools immaculate. His dahlias won prizes. He never knew Madge in his lifetime, but was more than happy to be her neighbour after it. Madge Jessop had red hair, red nails and red lipstick, and she knew how to make a man happy.
I have no clients to see this afternoon, and I’m in no hurry to be anywhere so I take the winding path across the top of the hill towards the Field of Inebriation. From the path I can see the town and the countryside beyond, shimmering in the hazy heat of the afternoon sun. As I reach the highest part of the cemetery, a feeble breeze barely stirs the tall grasses and wild flowers. Here, inaccessible to the men and their mowers, the grass is left to grow as a meadow, and here, amongst the poppies, daisies and buttercups, lying on her back and sleeping peacefully, is Sally. Her hair, long and loose, fans out on the grass beneath her head and she is, unfathomably, wearing a beautiful, green tulle evening dress.
This unexpected sight reminds me of that famous painting that hangs in the Tate – Ophelia with her flowing hair and dress, singing as she drowns against a backdrop of jewel-hued flowers – the very same painting I’m intending to reference as part of my tour commentary to help illustrate the difficulties that were faced by those attempting to introduce cremation in this country in the late nineteenth century. I’m trying to develop my own style, and I’m going for a blend of history and humour. (I have now actually joined the ‘Friends of the Cemetery’, and paid my annual subscription, but I haven’t volunteered for anything yet.)
Ophelia was painted by the very gifted Pre-Raphaelite artist John Everett Mil
lais, and I’m rather surprised it didn’t come back and bite him on the bum. The painting is exquisite, but not at all a suitable subject for a founder member of The Cremation Society of England such as Mr Millais. The Cremation Society of Great Britain was founded in 1874 by Sir Henry Thompson, who was a surgeon. He was also a stickler for hygiene and this was his principal argument in favour of cremation. It would therefore have been entirely inappropriate for Mr Millais to paint such a romanticised picture of a woman drowning. A woman who, in reality, would have quickly turned into a blotchy and bloated corpse and contaminated the water system with a variety of unpleasant bodily exudations. The very sort of pollution that pro-cremationists were seeking to eliminate. Perhaps Mr Millais was forced to release a press statement lamenting the shocking disregard for environmental issues shown in his early works, blaming his youth and an excess of romantic poetry.
As Sally sleeps I fidget awkwardly, torn between staying and walking on. If I stay I might be an unwelcome intrusion, but I am captivated. The breeze drops and the stillness intensifies. The air is thick and heavy, but I can smell the rain coming. The first growl of thunder is barely audible and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I love a good thunderstorm. Sally opens her eyes and looks up at me smiling as though I am exactly the sight she expected to see when she woke up.
‘Fuck off,’ she says cheerfully.
‘It’s going to rain.’ I offer her my hand and help her to her feet.
‘Lovely. Let’s go up there and watch.’
From Sally’s vague gesture, I gather that ‘up there’ appears to be the chapel. She takes my hand and sets off at a brisk pace, clearly fizzing with excitement. It thunders again, much louder this time, vibrating inside my ribs and almost rattling my teeth. When I was a little girl my well-meaning grandmother used to tell me that these heavenly rumblings were only the sound of God moving his furniture about. Frankly, I found the prospect of a giant sideboard crashing down to Earth and squashing me into a pile of blood and bones far more terrifying than a mere meteorological phenomenon. Big fat splashy raindrops begin to splatter down, and Sally claps with delight, sticking her tongue out to catch them. She tilts her head up to feel the cool rivulets running down her face, completely unconcerned that her dress is getting soaked. We pass beneath the canopy of a giant conifer that would serve as a splendid umbrella for both of us to shelter under, but Sally drags me on.
‘Never stand under a bugger during a storm,’ she instructs me seriously as the thunder cracks again and lightning catapults across the sky. I’m pretty sure she means ‘tree’, and once again, this is something I remember hearing from supposedly well-informed adults as a child, but I’m still not convinced. If the tree purportedly attracts lightning and you are standing under it, then I admit that if it is struck and falls, you may be crushed underneath and killed. But you may just be horribly maimed or even escape with minor scrapes and singes. If, on the other hand, you shun the shelter of the tree and stand about in the open, the lightning will surely be attracted to you as a primary target, and a direct hit is more likely to be fatal than a glancing blow from a falling tree. I always felt that if there were no nearby buildings in which to shelter, the best course of action to take would be to run like hell in a zigzagging, lightning-avoiding fashion. After all, a fast-moving target is surely harder to hit? We tumble into the porch of the chapel just as the storm is picking up pace. Sally’s excitement is contagious, and with each clap of thunder and crackle of lightning, we squeal with delight and clutch one another like children watching a firework display. As the storm soars to its crescendo and the sky is ripped by another slash of light, Sally turns to me and winks.
‘It’s the same feeling as love with the right man. It fizzes your head, wobbles your legs and shakes, rattles and rolls your innards!’
As Sally thumps her chest to emphasise her point, I notice for the first time a small but exquisite diamond and opal engagement ring on the third finger of her left hand. It had never occurred to me that Sally might have a man, a lover or perhaps even a fiancé, but before I can ask her about the ring she draws back her shoulders, throws her arms open wide and begins to sing. Thunder and lightning are a perfect accompaniment to her rousing rendition of ‘O Fortuna’ from Carmina Burana, and once again I am astonished and delighted simply being in the company of this extraordinary woman. The rain is running in torrents down the paths from the chapel, and pooling in muddy puddles on the grass for the blackbirds to bathe in once the storm has passed over. Gradually the thunder rumbles away, and the lightning fizzles out like a spent sparkler. Sally’s performance has also ended and she bows deeply in her drenched dress to the sound of my enthusiastic applause. She picks up the old canvas bag she has with her.
‘Time to go and bollock the black birds.’
It’s still raining hard.
‘You’ll drown!’
Sally turns to me and gives me a hug; brief, but a bear hug hard enough to squeeze my breath out. ‘It’s only water!’ she replies.
As I watch her walk away towards the park, it occurs to me that if what she said is true, then I’ve never been with a ‘right’ man. My relationships have, at best, been passing squalls, and the only time my legs have turned to jelly and my innards have pitched and rolled was when I had morning sickness. It might be quite something to be swept away in a thunderstorm of passion. And now I’m thinking about the Olympian again! Sally is a distant figure, wandering unhurried and enjoying the rain, the hem of her dress dragging through the puddles. The hot humid air has been washed away, and the freshly drenched grass and leaves smell bright and clean. By the time she reaches the gate, my Ophelia too is drenched. Drenched, but definitely not drowning.
As for Mr John Everett Millais and his Ophelia, he must have been an undecided sort of chap. When he died in 1896 of throat cancer, he was buried in St Paul’s Cathedral.
Chapter 31
ART
Alice and Mattie
She couldn’t sleep. It was pointless trying. The night stretched ahead of her like the infinite horizon of a desert, bleak and burning. Her skin had grown too small for her; it shrink-wrapped her flesh and bones. She wanted to rip it open before it burst. It was getting tighter and tighter and her flesh was boiling from the inside out. She felt as though she was being microwaved. She crawled out from beneath the bedcovers and as she crossed the room, bent and buckled with exhaustion, she caught sight of herself in the dressing-table mirror. The reflection both fascinated and repulsed her. The woman she saw was a grotesque stranger. At her bedroom window she gazed up at the flawless full moon, hung high in an inky sky glittering with raindrops. She had to go outside. She crept downstairs, every step a torturous effort of will, and eventually staggered out into the garden. Naked on the soaked grass, she raised her arms towards the moon and let the rain fall over her burning body. She felt each drop splash cold and hard on her bare head and, unimpeded by eyebrows or eyelashes, run down her face and into her eyes and mouth. The drugs had given her brain-fizz. A billion thoughts were growing and popping like bubbles inside her head.
Mattie heard the back door open. He jumped out of bed and peered cautiously into the garden from behind the curtain. The sight of his mother, naked and wet and baying at the moon was at once terrifying and heartbreaking. He couldn’t bear to watch and he couldn’t bear for her to know that he had seen her. She looked like Gollum. He threw himself back into bed and dragged the covers over his head.
Alice crumpled onto her knees. Her body was cold and exhausted, but her mind had bolted like a runaway horse. She just wanted to sleep.
Chapter 32
ART
Masha
Today’s pool temperature is 15.2 and I am the only person in the water. I was here as soon as the lido opened, and there are others in the changing rooms, so my solitude won’t last for long, but while it does it’s blissful. The only sounds are my steady breathing and the water slapping against my body. Swimming has become my therapy and I haven’t p
ractised drowning for weeks now. The methodical repetition of movement, limb following limb, is strangely comforting and brings a peace I can’t find anywhere else, even in the cemetery. It is the ultimate irony. Even when the pool is busy, swimming is a solitary exercise. I don’t have to engage with anyone, it’s just me and the water, and after a swim my mind feels clean.
By the time I start my twentieth length, there are a dozen others in the water, but the Olympian is not one of them. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m more than a little disappointed. He is the one person I should like to engage with. My worry dolls would be disappointed that I haven’t spoken to him yet, but when he’s here, there’s always a chance that I might. I’ve even practised in my head a couple of lines I might try, should the opportunity arise. It’s Edward’s fault. He’s seeing Marcus – seeing as in seeing – and he seems so happy. It’s made me think that it might be quite nice to have a man again. To permit the possibility of not growing old alone. It’s only been – what? – four years since my last brief fling, so I hardly think I’m rushing things. My relationship with Gabriel’s father ended as soon as he found out that I was pregnant. He wanted me to have a termination and when I refused, he terminated our relationship. I can’t say I was sorry. By then I had seen what kind of man he really was, and he wasn’t the father I wanted for my child. However, when Gabriel was born curiosity got the better of him and every now and then he made fleeting intrusions into our lives, bearing expensive gifts and empty promises. When Gabriel died, he blamed me. Simply because I was there. Since then I’ve found it hard to trust anyone except my closest friends, and my relationship history has been a barren wasteland punctuated by a paltry scattering of bad (single) dates and one affair that lasted a whole three weeks. Haizum didn’t like him, and, come to think to of it, neither did I. He called Haizum a mutt. It was never going to work. But now I want to feel the thunderstorm inside me that Sally described. I wonder if the Olympian likes dogs.