by Rachel Green
The inner door opened before she could make a firm decision on their subject. The cryotorium owner, Mrs. Maguire, was younger than Meinwen expected, her shoulder-length hair cut into a neat bob around her soft face, but the lines around her eyes indicated she frowned often. She was dressed in a very professional two-piece suit and was a little taller than Meinwen. Most people were.
“You asked to speak to me?” She approached the antique desk but didn’t sit, merely rested the tips of her fingers on it. She had an economy of movement Meinwen couldn’t hope to replicate in a decade of dance lessons. Not that Meinwen ever danced.
“Mrs. Maguire?” Meinwen waited for the slight not of affirmation. “My name is Meinwen Jones. I run Goddess Provides on Knifesmithsgate?”
“I know of it.” She relaxed, her shoulders dropping an inch. “I’ve not been in, though I’ve seen some of your wares appearing on resting places here and there. Please tell me you’re here to remove all the little glass fairies.”
“No, sorry. They’re quite the cash crop, those things. They go out of the door like flies in a mort…er cow shed?”
“There are no flies here, Mrs. Jones. They wouldn’t dare vex me. So…what can I do for you? Please be brief. It’s a busy day for me.”
“You can call me Meinwen for a start.” Meinwen glanced outside. The morning rain left the ground wet but if the sun wasn’t shining it was at least lighter than it was. “Look, could we talk outside? I want to show you something in the graveyard”
“Such as?”
“An idea I have that could be to our mutual benefit.”
Eden glanced at her watch. “Very well. I can spare you ten minutes if we walk though the Brunel garden.”
“The what?”
“Brunel garden. All the areas of the cemetery, and it is a cemetery rather than a graveyard which implies consecrated ground, are set out in individual memorial gardens. The Brunel garden is laid out around a statue of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the engineer. It appeals to those with deceased family members in the engineering trade.”
“I don’t mind.” Meinwen followed her to the door. “Won’t you need a coat? It’s a bit brass monkeys out there.”
“It’s nothing to the cold I’m used to downstairs.” Eden held the door open while Meinwen came through and followed the drive to the right before cutting off to walk along the grass. “What were you so desperate to show me?”
“It’s over…” Meinwen looked around to get her beatings. “There, the area of undeveloped land with the three birch trees. I do like how you kept as many trees as you could, by the way. Very progressive of you.”
“When I was a child I lived in a relatively new town, Mrs. Jones. My mother died when I was young.” She held a hand up. “I don’t need sympathy, it was a long time ago. Anyway, they buried her in the cemetery and being a new town it was very stark. There were no trees, other than a few freshly planted saplings, and all the headstones were uniform blocks of granite with a brass plaque. My father tried to commission a statue for her grave but the council denied planning permission. From that moment on I decided if ever I had the opportunity, I would allow people to mourn their deceased in whatever manner they desired, including…” She threw a look at Meinwen. “…annoying glass fairies.”
“So you left the trees in?”
“Whenever I could. You must have felt the sense of peace that comes from a well-established cemetery. Look at Highgate, for example. A masterpiece of Victorian design that has actually become a tourist attraction.”
“I know it.” Meinwen faltered. “Well…know of it, anyway. I’ve never actually visited the area. Whenever I go to London I generally spend all my time in the museums.”
“Really? You really should try to go. It’s well worth the effort, I assure you.”
“I should, you’re right. I just never seem to have the time. Too many books to write.”
Eden stopped and spun around. “That’s right. I knew I recognized the name. Funerary Customs of the Chalk Downs, yes?”
“That’s right. I’m surprised you’ve heard of it, though. I think I’ve only sold about thirty copies in the five years since I published it.”
“I’m something of a bibliophile when it comes to funerary texts.” Eden smiled as she turned again. “It comes with the job, I suppose. I ought to ask you to sign my copy.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Well, then.” Eden came to an arch, on either side of which were willow withies placed at forty-five degree angles to the soil. Every other withy was facing the opposite direction. “Here we are at the Brunel garden. Once these willows grow they’ll be woven into a living fence.”
“I’ve seen that done. It’s quite labor intensive.”
“I do employ a full time groundsman. A necessity in this business. You can’t afford the graves to be neglected. It puts people off.” She went under the arch into the memorial garden. In the centre on the garden was a stone plinth with a life-sized bronze figure of Brunel holding a suspension bridge.
“That must have cost a pretty penny.”
“We do accept gifts and bequests.” Eden patted the great man’s arm. “Actually, this one was a bit of a cheat. My father had it outside the station where he worked and when the railways were privatized it found its way to our back garden. When I bought the land here I begged him to let me have it.”
“How could he refuse you anything? You’re his only daughter.”
“Yes. Exactly. You looked me up, then?”
“Of course. I had to know the sort of woman you were before I approached you.”
“And what did you discover?”
“You graduated with a degree in art and a masters in business. You did an apprenticeship with a funeral director in Hackney and set up here thanks to a grant from the council, a business mortgage and the help of your husband, a senior partner at Langley and Green’s. You’re altruistic, agnostic, artistic and a shrewd business woman.”
“You missed out antagonistic.” Eden nodded. “An adequate precis but it tells me nothing of what you want of me.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve only got another five minutes.” She stamped on the ground. “Does this look like an open grave to you?”
“Er…” Meinwen stared at the expanse of lawn. It was close mown with a low wall running around and through the whole garden, dividing it into several sections. Upon the wall, and a six-inch stone plinth at the base, were the plaques of whoever was buried at that point along with flowers and tokens of love including, she was almost ashamed to see, several of the glass fairies from her shop. “It looks like untouched turf to me. Why are there no headstones?”
“Technically it’s a lawn cemetery. It makes it easier on the maintenance to mow right over the graves.” She pulled out her phone. “Now hush a moment.” She dialed a number from memory. “Malcolm? Where are you?”
Meinwen couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation so rather than be obvious about trying to, she examined the bronze statue. It was of fine quality and she wondered who’d made it. She used her mobile to take a picture, intending to do a reverse image search on the internet when she got home.
Eden’s voice lowered in tone and became colder. “What do you mean, the back hoe’s missing? How can it be missing? Where did you leave it?” She glanced across at Meinwen and held her free hand up in the universal ‘what-an-idiot’ gesture.
“Leave it for now. Get over to the Brunel plot. I’ve a funeral in two hours and no grave to put him in.” She listened again, frowning. “How should I know? Get a spade.” She closed the phone and strode past Meinwen. “I’m sorry. I really have to go. Malcolm’s lost the backhoe and I need that grave dug. He’ll never be able to dig it in two hours so I’ll have to see if I can find a couple of lads to help.”
“I know some men.” Meinwen hurried to catch her before they were half way back to the building. “Let me give them a call. If I can sort out your gravedigging problem you can listen to my proposal. Deal?”
She pulled out her phone and dialed her friend Winston, a mechanic who owned a garage on Gaunt Lane. They’d done each other favors several times over the past few years and she hoped it was his turn to do her one.
It rang for a minute before he answered. “Gaunt Garage?”
“Winston? It’s Meinwen. Listen, I need a favor for a friend and I need it right now. Are you still having that extension built on your garage?
“Yeah, sure. It’s coming on fine. The walls are going up tomorrow.”
“Is that mini-digger still there? And the driver?”
“Surely. What’s this about?”
“I need a grave dug at the New Eden Cemetery. There’s a funeral at two and someone’s pinched their digger.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Look, I’ll owe you one.”
“One? You’ll owe me a whole handful. I’ll see what I can do. Be there in half an hour.”
“Thanks, Winston. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah? I’ve been called worse.” He rang off.
Meinwen turned to Eden. “Problem solved. My friend and a couple of builders with a digger are on their way.”
“Brilliant. Thanks.” Eden smiled for the first time since Meinwen met her.
“You should smile more often. It suits you.”
“I smile plenty after parlor hours,” Eden folded her arms across her chest. “Now. A promise is a promise. What did you want to show me?”
Meinwen pulled out her phone and called up the satellite map function. She’d always made do with a basic text-and-speak phone before but when hers had been stolen she’d been given one with all the bells and whistles. Now she wondered how she’d ever managed without it. “It’s this way.” Following a pre-marked dot on the map, Meinwen led Eden to an empty section of the six-acre cemetery. The ground here had been left untouched since the land had been sold to her. There was no soft turf, just hillocks of couch and crab grass. She continued to consult her phone until she was sure they were in the right spot.
“What are we doing here? I’ve no plans to develop this section for years yet.”
“Trust me on this, it’s important.” In the distance Meinwen could see the spire of St. Pity’s church. She turned her back on it and looked for the outcrop of rock where the river Laver fell two hundred and seventy feet to the lowland. Just beyond Dew Point, hidden from this angle by the trees around it, was the Leat stone, an ancient monolith and part of the original circle surrounding what was then a small settlement. She shuffled sideways until she had established herself on a line between the stone and the steeple.
She turned to Mrs. Maguire. “Can you stand here a moment?”
Eden looked at her watch. “Is this going to take long? I’ve got the Peterson funeral at two and I really need that grave dug.”
“Not long. Just bear with me a moment more.” Meinwen pointed to the spot. “Just stand there.”
With Eden in place she performed the same task between the rocky outcrop known as Moot Point to the south-east and the cathedral in Wells. Since the latter was too far to see even without the present cloud cover, she made a good approximation with the satellite map application on her mobile phone. “Here.” She stood in the spot where the two lines intersected.
“What about it?” Eden looked at her watch again.
“This is the spot for a monolith. I did the research and there was one here until eighteen-sixty, when it was broken up for stone to build St. Pity’s.”
Eden looked at the church spire in the distance. “So what do you want me to do about it? Put another one in here?”
“Exactly.” Meinwen stretched out her arms and turned in a full circle. “Can’t you feel the spiritual energy flowing through this spot? It’s a conjunction of two leylines.”
“You’re potty.” Eden straightened her jacket and headed back to the main building. “Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got work to do.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think, Mrs. Maguire.” Meinwen hurried to catch up with her. “The point is, you have to run this cemetery as a going concern and if there’s a monolith here you’ll corner the market in pagan burials.”
“You think?” Eden paused again, looking back at the spot. She held one hand at waist height and rubbed her thumb against the first two fingers and Meinwen realized she used to smoke. “How much would it cost? I presume your megalith would have to be transported from Wales?”
“Probably, but these days you don’t have to employ eighty men with logs to drag them all the way.” Meinwen grinned.
“Just as well.” Eden began to walk back and Meinwen hurried to catch up. “I could write it off against tax, I suppose.”
“You could.” They reached another of the memorial gardens. The graves here had headstones instead of a memorial wall.
“You want to know why I commission art for a cemetery?” Eden stalked past the short row of graves, four of which had headstones and the fifth, still fresh with a mound of sodden clay, with nothing but a wooden cross and a faded bouquet of flowers. She pointed to a marble slab and the tiny, eight-point lettering crowding the surface. “That’s why. Photo etching is destroying a craft that lasted for generations. How many words are on that stone? A thousand? You couldn’t carve a fraction of that by hand.”
She gestured to the rest of the cemetery, the grass sodden and the clouds still pregnant with unshed rain. “I designed the whole place around works of art and extant trees. There are a dozen separate memorial gardens, each clustered around a piece of modern sculpture. Nobody can afford to commission a stonemason any more. I’ve seen memorials etched with QR codes that link to a website commemorating the deceased and stones embedded with video players. The nearest you get to a weeping angel is shit like this.” She nudged a piece of garden-center cast resin, a fairy with, inexplicably, a solar powered tiara and a letter.
Meinwen squatted next to it. “I can see your point. I wonder who the letter is for.” She glanced up at Eden. “May I?”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “Help yourself.”
Meinwen slit open the envelope with her thumb. It was still damp from the morning rain and the ink had run.
She held it up to the light and read aloud. “Dear Gran, Charlie and me miss you very much. Can we have Action Mans for Christmas?”
“See?” Eden shook her head. “This is why I applied to build an ossuary. People don’t teach their kids about death any more.”
Chapter 7
Michelle avoided the trolley with the crushed remains of a potted day lily and shoved a pound coin in the next one. She pushed it through the supermarket doors and stood for a moment inhaling the smell of fresh produce. The ambiance was enhanced by the display of fresh herbs to her left and the heady scent of basil made her think longingly of the Italian Restaurant on Market Street. Prompted to move on by the person behind bumping into her, she trundled down the aisle.
She was looking for lemons and clear honey. She could feel the edges of a cold hovering in her ears and sinuses, and if she wasn’t careful she’d have full-blown sniffles by eight o’clock.
It came from standing about in cemeteries in the rain, she supposed. Lurking was a habit she’d grown more accustomed to the older she got. It was surprising what people let slip when talking to their dearly departed. It made for an astounding amount of information she could relay during her sessions with clients, and it was quite true when she told them the information came ‘from beyond the grave’.
She paused at the boxes of citrus fruit, tempted by the seasonal arrival of easy-peel oranges. She took a net of them. It was citrus, wasn’t it? Citrus was good for colds. She moved to the lemons. Forty pence each or three for a pound. She pulled a paper bag off the hook and took a pounds worth. Just
the job to chase away the winter chills. All she needed now was a big jar of honey, some paracetamol and a bottle of whiskey and she’d be all set.
At the top of the jams, pickles and chutneys aisle, her progress was arrested by a vision. Federico, the waiter from the restaurant, was at the honey section, reading the labels on jars and apparently trying to choose one. This was her chance. She speeded forward, accidentally-on-purpose knocking into his trolley. “Sorry.” She smiled to cover her sudden nervousness. “They’ve got a mind of their own haven’t they, trolleys?” She paused, staring at his perfect olive skin and dazzling eyes. “It’s Federico, isn’t it? From the restaurant? Fancy seeing you in here.”
“That’s right.” He smiled back at her, his white teeth flashing in the overhead fluorescent lights. “You have the advantage of me.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” She laughed and swatted playfully at his arm. “Just kidding. Michelle Havers? I always have the fettuccini with olives?”
“Ah yes.” His relief was apparent. “Mrs. Havers. How good to see you again.”
“Miss.” Michelle pretended to look at the honey. “What’s best here?”
“This one.” Federico tapped a jar marked organic. “Very good honey. Very good taste.”
“But you’re looking at a different one.”
“Ah, yes. That one is heather based, and I have allergies to consider.”
“You’re allergic to heather?”
“No, no. Not me.” Federico treated her to another smile. “My wife.”
“I…didn’t know you were married.” Michelle covered her shock with another smile and looked away, wondering if there was anyone else in the shop she could use to help her out of the awkward situation. Finding no one, she was forced to look at Federico again. “Has she got a cold too?”
“A cold? No.” He laughed. “I make her a honey glaze for prosciutto. Good Italian food, no?”
“I suppose so.” Michelle ignored his recommendation and put her usual brand in her trolley. “Well, I must go. Plenty to do, you know?”
“Yes. Always.” Federico nodded once and moved off, heading toward the deli counter. Michelle stared after him, biting her lip as he moved up the aisle, his bottom jiggling in the tight chinos he wore. She looked back at the shelf and added a jar of the organic heather honey to her trolley. She wondered if he was on the electoral roll or if she could snag his address from the restaurant. She pushed the trolley to the drinks section.
