The Burying Ground

by David Mark

  That was when the screaming started.

  That was when they opened fire.

  Please, Fairfax. Let me stop. I need to rest.

  End of session.

  CORDELIA

  I’ve never really understood people’s reactions in moments of fear. When I was a child and had one of my nightmares I never suffered from any compulsion to run into my mother’s bedroom and snuggle down with her in some warm, perfume-scented cocoon. The notion never occurred. I would just lay there. I’d pant sometimes, until I got my breath back. But I would never pull the covers over my head. I simply waited for the fear to go. Mother would have been little use in a crisis anyways, and there was little chance that she’d be the only inhabitant of her bed. She never lacked company.

  So when I saw the footprints by my bed there was never any question of dashing from the bedroom and running for help. Where would I even go? The nearest house was further up the hill, and I’d barely exchanged three minutes of conversation with the occupants since moving in. The Parkers. They had cows and sheep and some time ago they had asked if they could use a field that belonged to my house as rough pasture for a new breed they had invested in. Were willing to pay. I’d said yes because I could see no merit in saying no, and the money they paid in advance was a handy little extra on top of the monthly allowance my husband wired the post office on the third of each month. I’d managed to save a decent sum. I don’t know whether I’d begun to think of it as my escape money by that point. That would come later.

  It was Mrs Parker who had come to make the enquiry. A small woman of around fifty years old, she wore her smile like a poorly-fitting shoe. She was all teeth and creases. I’d answered the door with Stefan on my hip and she had barely glanced at him. That had set me off immediately. How could she not want to fuss him? How could she not long to wrench him from my arms and cuddle him close; make him giggle with tickles and clucks and pretend to eat his fat little legs like an uncooked loaf?

  She had introduced herself with a handshake. Told me we were neighbours. Told me that her husband had tried to buy the farm and the house after Mrs Winslow died but that he couldn’t match my husband’s offer. Was I supposed to apologize? Was I supposed to feel sorry for her? I didn’t even offer to make tea. Kept my attention on Stefan and played the harmonica on his stubby little fingers. She made her offer and I accepted with little more than a shrug. I didn’t expect cash. But it felt nice to hold some. Felt oddly comforting to have a fist full of clean, warm notes that nobody else knew was mine. She must have read that in my face. Saw that I was for sale. That was the first time her smile reached her eyes.

  I remember sitting up in bed, looking at the boot prints. Whoever had left them must have known they would be seen. No effort had been taken to wipe the floor. I climbed out of bed and followed them back down the stairs. The intruder had ventured into several rooms. They had spent time in the library. I found one large print in the centre of one of the white pillows I had used to build my nest. They had been in the kitchen and pantry. I don’t know if they took anything. I had never counted the tins of food or the jars of jam or the eggs, tomatoes and stale loaves that were delivered, without my asking, to the doorstep each Monday morning. I presumed the food parcels had been arranged by my husband or his benefactor. I had no interest. Told Stefan they were gifts from the faeries at the bottom of the garden.

  I dressed at a leisurely pace. There was much yawning and stretching and considering of myself in the mirror. I dressed as if taking my clothes off; the inversion of a striptease. Had I dressed quickly I would have felt as though I were in a hurry to leave the house and I would have found such a display of panic unforgivable. So I changed my outfit several times. Brushed my teeth for longer than usual. Applied a little make-up for the first time in months. I didn’t do it for anybody else’s benefit. It was all for my own. I wasn’t going to be scared. Wasn’t going to let anybody think they had intimidated me. I wanted anybody watching to see a woman who had been through more pain than they could imagine and who could laugh off a midnight intruder with a carefree toss of their hair.

  It was nearly eleven when I considered myself fit for the day. I lit a fire in the stove and put two thick slices of bread under the grill. Opened a packet of coffee and began the complicated act of brewing a pot. It had been months since I had performed such actions and there was something reassuring about doing a task that had once been so familiar. Stefan used to watch with fascination as I played with the complex chrome and silver percolator that I had received as a wedding present and the opening of which had been the only part of that ghastly day in Hounslow that I had actually enjoyed.

  I revelled in the rich aroma of the ground coffee beans. Gave an audible sigh as I poured the scalding water onto the brown dust and let the water infuse with the rich dark flavour. Pressing down the plunger on the cafetière was the most splendid moment of all; a kind of reverse Excalibur – a returning of the sword to the stone. I drank it black, like we all did at university. Ate my toast with a thick smear of rhubarb and ginger jam. I even switched on the wireless for a little while, though that was one act of defiance too far. Stefan and I used to listen to the wireless. We would dance and clap and sing to the songs. It was too much without him. The pain sat like undigested food in my chest and I switched it off at the plug.

  When I had finished I washed the dishes and left them to drain. I watched the rain as I worked. The deluge had eased off into a fine mist that hung in the air like dust in a colossal cobweb. The sky beyond was the colour of white towels washed with black shirts. The fields and trees, the strip of road, the pebbles lining the drive; the damp air had made them all somehow liquid and as I watched I began to imagine that if I simply stretched out a hand I would be able to swirl the colours into a pattern; smear the landscape into nonsense like damp oil paints.

  I was checking my reflection in the mirror above the kitchen table when I heard the brass knocker on the big front door boom three times. It was such an unusual sound that at first I struggled to place it. My visitors had been few in the time since moving in and even fewer since Stefan went to sleep. For an instant I saw the footprints by my bed. Could my visitor have returned? But if so, would they think to knock? Was it a diversion? Was somebody else sneaking up to the back door while I was preoccupied at the front?

  I opened the door to a man I recognized from the village. He always touched his cap when we passed one another in the street and had once told me Stefan was a ‘fine handsome lad’.

  ‘Mrs Hemlock,’ he said, and as he smiled he showed off a mouth that contained only a bottom set of dentures. His top teeth were entirely missing. ‘I’m Carl Nixon.’

  We took each other in. My hemline was above the knee and there was a good few inches of pink skin on show before it disappeared into my boots. With my red tunic dress and black ribbon holding back my hair, I have no doubt he enjoyed the view of me a lot more than I did of him. He was tall and clad in overalls and wellington boots that looked as though they had been left at the bottom of a cliff where a thousand seabirds nested. He had curly tresses that he parted on completely the wrong side for the natural inclinations of his grey-black hair and his face had that ruddy, weather-beaten hue that always makes me want to advise a large pot of cold cream and a bag of ice.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I asked, and I made the effort to say it with something other than cold disdain in my voice.

  ‘I saw Ray Pellew,’ he said, and I noticed how his bottom lip protruded to accommodate his dentures. It made his accent hard to read. ‘He said you were asking about Fairfax – God rest him – in Samson’s last night. He said I might be able to help.’

  I glanced at his boots. It was impossible to tell if they were the same size as the treads left by my bedside.

  ‘How, exactly?’

  He wiped his hands on the front of his overalls. I realized his clothes and hair were damp but I had little wish to invite him in.

  ‘It was me got Fairfax into the w
riting, like. Told him a few local yarns.’ He looked away as he said it, embarrassed. ‘Ray said you were asking about it …’

  ‘I’m not sure I was asking, exactly,’ I said. ‘It’s just, I saw him shortly before the accident and I thought we might have got on. He seemed a nice man. And I feel bad that he was helping me when he died.’

  Nixon looked at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. Seemed to be trying to work me out like a crossword.

  ‘I feel bad meself. Shall we feel bad together?’

  Pity got the better of me. I invited him in and he stopped on the step to remove his boots. I snatched up a newspaper from the stack by the coat rail and made sure I placed the wet boots down on their surface. I would have a chance to compare the prints later.

  ‘I was in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘There’s coffee.’

  He followed me down the hallway to the kitchen and nodded appreciatively at the aroma of the fresh coffee. He looked at the percolator as if it was a part of a rocket ship. ‘That’s snazzy,’ he said.

  ‘Wedding present,’ I said, gathering a mug and sugar bowl from the pantry.

  ‘You got married down south then,’ he said, as though the present made this much obvious.

  ‘Registry office,’ I said.

  He looked up from his examination of the percolator and endeavoured not to let disapproval show. ‘Not a churchgoer?’

  ‘No.’

  He stayed silent a moment, debating whether or not he would risk his mortal soul if he accepted a cup of coffee from somebody who hadn’t said their vows in front of a vicar. His taste buds got the better of him. He heaped a spoonful of sugar into his mug. Stirred and took an appreciative swallow. ‘Excellent,’ he said, grinning, and for a moment I saw that he had once been a handsome man. He pointed at the kitchen table. ‘May I?’

  I nodded and he sat down. I stayed leaning against the drainer. I poured the last dregs of coffee into my own mug. I heard the clock tick fourteen times before he spoke.

  ‘Fairfax was my friend,’ he said. ‘All my life.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said, and I think I meant it, even as I found myself competitively comparing the level of our bereavements. He’d lost a friend? I’d lost my whole damn heart.

  ‘It was a horrible shock,’ he said, staring into his coffee cup. ‘We’d only just talked the night before. Not that that was unusual – my wife says we’re like a couple of fishwives.’

  I didn’t want to interrupt. I knew he had something he felt he needed to say and even if it didn’t have anything to do with the dead man in the blue suit, the least I could do was listen.

  ‘You’re a Gilsland man?’ I asked, and endeavoured to make it sound like something one should aspire to.

  ‘Born in Baggarah, up the road. I’m Gilsland now.’

  I nodded, as if I understood the geography. I knew from a framed map in a guest bedroom that the local place names were a lesson in the versatility of the English language. Baggarah was just one of the tiny hamlets with names that made Stefan and I laugh. There was Low Row, Greenhead, Runner Foot, Bush Nook and Blenkinsopp, all within a few miles of one another, though I would never have been able to point in which direction any of them lay. I always thought of ‘Baggarah’ and ‘Bugger Off’. I still do.

  Nixon took a deep breath, preparing to dive in. I gave him a smile, and it seemed to help him get his words in order.

  ‘He were born two years before me so I think he were like a big brother in a way. It was him talked me out of signing up in the Great War. I were full of zeal for it. Wanted to serve me country and see the world. Fairfax got wind of me lying about me age. Dragged me back from the recruitment office in Haltwhistle by the scruff of me neck. Gave me the beating of me life. Didn’t practice what he preached though. Signed up himself in ’16.’

  I let my surprise show in my face. ‘He fought in the first war?’

  ‘Never spoke of it, though he dug halfway to Hell in those trenches. Fusilier. Saw things a man shouldn’t see.’

  ‘He came back to Gilsland?’

  Nixon noticed the surprise in my voice. ‘You’re thinking that after seeing the world it would be madness to come back to a little place like this. I understand, love. But think of it t’other way. You’ve survived a war that blew your mates to bits. You’ve seen what human beings can do to one another. Wouldn’t you want to be somewhere safe and comfortable with the people who care about you? Wouldn’t that be more appealing?’

  For all the admirable textbooks on war and sociology that I had read, it was Carl Nixon’s simple words that first made me actually stop and think. He saw it in my face.

  ‘It’s not all bad, is Gilsland, love. I know it must seem confusing to a newcomer but it’s cities that are the odd ones. Real people live in places like this, love. Communities. Streets where people know your name and what you’re up to. Streets where you can share a pint with somebody whose grandad used to play football with your grandad. If that’s to be scorned I’d rather be on the receiving end than dishing it out.’

  I shook my head at that. ‘I’ve never scorned any of you,’ I said. ‘I’m just not part of it. I haven’t said a word of insult about any of you.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a small place. All it takes is a letter you’ve mailed a friend to accidentally rip; to maybe need a replacement envelope … maybe somebody in the post office casts a glance over the contents to make sure nobody’s spilled their tea on your words to a friend. And the next thing everybody knows what you think. Everybody knows you reckon there are more teeth than brain cells in our heads and that our mums and sisters are the same people. Then it can be harder for you to be welcomed.’

  My mouth was wide open. How dare they! How dare they read my private post. How could they hold words written in confidence against me? That would be like holding the contents of somebody’s diary against them.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, teeth clamped and cheeks burning.

  ‘That ain’t what I’m here for,’ said Nixon, patting the air. ‘Owt you may have said don’t matter none anyways. When you lost your little lad – that wiped the slate.’

  I glared at him. ‘That’s all it took, was it? If I’d known I’d have let him die months earlier.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. Look, just listen, yes? I wanted you to know about Fairfax. About his writing.’

  I folded my arms, stewing like strong coffee. I wanted to kick him out. To tell him to get back down the lane to his inbred neighbours and friends. And yet I needed to hear him out. I gave the slightest of nods. He breathed out, relieved.

  ‘Fairfax’s son, Christopher. He died right at the tail end of the war. It half broke Fairfax though he never let it show. Saved his tears for when he’d had a few drinks and even then he resented every single tear that he let spill. Saw each one as a failure. Missed his boy like you would miss a limb, love. It was me got him into writing. We used to talk about how his son would have become this incredible writer. Like a Hemingway – a soldier turned storyteller. He would have been great at that. His death was needless. A tragedy, right at the end of the war. He had no business dying. Life had such big plans for him.’

  I softened my gaze. Told him to carry on.

  ‘Fairfax was a lost soul without his lad. The house he lived in, that were owned by his father before him so there were never no mortgage to pay and he didn’t need much money in his pocket for the things he liked. Worked here and there, doing a bit of farmhand work or as mate for a mason or a plumber or two. Reliable hand and because he were so good at being friendly to folk he were never short of work. But he was empty inside anybody who knew him properly knew that. It was me told him to start writing. Late fifties, this was. We were having a drink and nattering and sharing stories and he came out and said that all this stuff should be in a book. Said if Christopher were alive he’d be writing it. Would show the world what this little pocket of the world was really like. I told him he should do it. Do it in his boy’s honour,
like. We had a toast to that and I don’t think I thought of it again. Next thing we’re in Haltwhistle to buy some spark plugs for a tractor and he comes out of the stationery shop all pleased with himself. He’d bought this beautiful, leather-bound notebook. Honestly, it were so smooth it were like polished wood. Got himself a fountain pen and umpteen pencils. All the stuff, like. Pleased as punch, he was. Said he was going to do it. Would dedicate it to Christopher. Would write about the history of the village but more about its people. Its character. I hadn’t seen him like that in so long I told him it were a grand idea. Get to it, I said. Start with me, if you like.’

  I found myself smiling. I only had one memory of Fairfax and it was of an old man half in and half out of his wellington boots in Felicity’s doorway. I preferred the picture Nixon painted for me. He was grinning. It was nice to think of the moment he had found that smile.

  ‘I spread the word, like,’ said Nixon, smoothing down his shirt front with his big red hands. ‘Had a few words in a few quiet ears and said that Fairfax wanted to get people’s memories down on paper and not to pull his leg too much about it as it meant a lot to him. We’re not always good at sharing our secrets but people did their bit. Started telling him their stories.’