Tracy Chevalier

by Falling Angel

  Jenny almost dropped Mrs. Coleman’s coat on the floor from giggling—she knew all too well the palaver that had gone on over the pictures, for it had been she who’d helped me switch the paintings each time.

  I did have one victory over Mrs. Coleman early on, and it has seen me through many a grinding afternoon with her when afterward I have had to lie down with a dose of Beecham’s. Mrs. Baker was my triumph. I chose her as our cook because of her name—the frivolity of the reason was irresistible. And I could not help it—I told Mrs. Coleman as well.

  When she heard she spat out her tea, appalled. “Chosen for her name? Don’t be ridiculous! What way is that to run a household?”

  To my immense satisfaction, Mrs. Baker—a small, self-contained woman who reminds me of a bundle of twigs—has turned out to be a gem, a thrifty, able cook who instinctively understands certain things so that I do not need to spell them out. When I tell her Mrs. Coleman is coming for lunch, for example, she serves bouillon rather than mulligatawny, a poached egg rather than an omelette. Yes, she is a gem.

  Jenny has been more of a trial, but I like her better than I do Mrs. Baker, who has a way of looking at everyone sideways and so appearing constantly suspicious. Jenny has a big mouth and wide cheeks—a face made for laughing. She is always going about her work with a smirk on her face, as if she is about to burst with some great joke. And she does too—I can hear her laugh all the way up from the kitchen. I try not to think it but I can’t help wondering if the laughter is ever directed at me. I am sure it is.

  Mrs. Coleman says she is not to be trusted, of course. I suspect she may be right. There is something restless about Jenny that suggests one day she will crash, and we will all suffer the consequences. But I am determined to keep her on, if only to annoy Mrs. Coleman.

  And she has been good for Maude—she is a warm girl. (Mrs. Baker is cold like pewter.) Since Maude’s nanny left and I am meant to be looking after her, Jenny has become indispensable in keeping an eye on her. She often takes her to the cemetery—a whim of Lavinia’s that Maude has unfortunately adopted and which I did not nip in the bud as I ought to have done. Jenny doesn’t complain much—I suspect she welcomes the chance for a rest. She always leaves for the cemetery in high spirits.

  Maude said the Waterhouses would like to come along to see the columbarium, too, which was just as well. I suspected that Gertrude Waterhouse is, if not the class of woman Mrs. Coleman would have had her son marry (not that I was either), then at least more compatible with her. They could talk about their mutual adoration of the late queen, if nothing else.

  The columbarium is housed in one of the vaults in the Circle of Lebanon, where a sort of channel has been dug round a big Lebanon cedar and lined with a double row of family vaults. To get to it one walks up the Egyptian Avenue, a gloomy row of vaults overhung with rhododendrons, the entrance done in the Egyptian style, with elaborate columns decorated with lotus flowers. The whole thing is rather theatrical—I am sure it was very stylish back in the 1840s, but now it makes me want to laugh. The tree is lovely, at least, its branches crooked and almost horizontally spread, like an umbrella of blue-green needles. With the blue sky behind it like today it can make the heart soar.

  Perhaps I should have prepared the girls more for what they were about to see. Maude is quite phlegmatic and robust, and Ivy May, the younger Waterhouse girl with the big hazel eyes, keeps her thoughts to herself. But Lavinia is the kind of girl who will find any excuse to fall into a faint, which she promptly did the moment she peered through the iron grillwork into the columbarium. Not that there is much to see, realty—it is a small, high vault lined with cubicles of about one foot by eighteen inches. They are all empty except for two quite high up which have been covered over with stone plaques, and another with an urn sitting in it, with no plaque as of yet. Given that there are urns everywhere on graves here, it is hard to see what Lavinia made such a fuss about.

  It was secretly gratifying, too, I must confess, for up until that moment Gertrude Waterhouse and Mrs. Coleman had been getting on very well. I would never say I was jealous, but it did make me feel rather inadequate. However, when Gertrude had to attend to her prone daughter, waving smelling salts under her nose while Ivy May fanned her with a handkerchief, Mrs. Coleman grew more disapproving. “What’s wrong with the girl?” she barked.

  “She’s a bit sensitive, I’m afraid,” poor Gertrude replied. “She’s not meant to see such sights.”

  Mrs. Coleman humphed. Her humphs are often more damaging than her words.

  While we waited for Lavinia to revive, Maude asked me why it was called a columbarium.

  “That’s Latin for dovecote, where birds live.”

  “But birds don’t live there.”

  “No. The little cubbyholes are for urns.”

  “But why do they keep urns there?”

  “Most people when they die are buried in coffins. But some people choose to be burned. The urns hold their ashes and this is where you can put them.”

  “Burned?” Maude looked a bit shocked.

  “Cremated is the word, actually,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with it. In a way it’s less frightening than being buried. Much quicker, at least. It’s becoming a little more popular now. Perhaps I’d like to be cremated.” I threw out the last comment rather flippantly, as I had never really considered it before. But now, staring at the urn in one of the cubbyholes, it began to appeal—though I should not want my ashes placed in an urn. Rather they be scattered somewhere, to help the flowers grow.

  “Rubbish!” Mrs. Coleman interrupted. “And it’s entirely inappropriate for a girl of Maude’s age to be told about such things.” Having said that, however, she couldn’t resist continuing. “Besides, it’s unChristian and illegal. I wonder if it is even legal to build such a thing”—she waved at the columbarium—“if it encourages criminal activity.”

  As she was speaking a man came trotting down the steps next to the columbarium that led from the upper to the lower level of the circle. He stopped abruptly when he heard her. “Pardon me, madam,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Coleman, “I couldn’t help overhearing your comment. Indeed, cremation is not illegal. It has never been illegal in England—it’s simply been disapproved of by society, and so it has not been carried out. But there have been crematoria for many years—the first was built at Woking in 1885.”

  “Who are you?” Mrs. Coleman demanded. “And what business is it of yours what I say?”

  “Pardon me, madam,” the man repeated with another bow. “I am Mr. Jackson, the superintendent of the cemetery. I simply wished to set you straight on the facts of cremation because I wanted to reassure you that there is nothing illegal about the columbarium. The Cremation Act passed two years ago regulates the procedures and practice throughout all of Britain. The cemetery is simply responding to the public’s demand, and reflecting public opinion on the matter.”

  “You are certainly not reflecting my opinion on the matter, young man,” Mrs. Coleman huffed, “and I am a grave owner here—have been for almost fifty years.”

  I smiled at her idea of a young man—he looked to be forty at least, with gray hairs in his rather bushy moustache. He was quite tall, and wore a dark suit with a bowler hat. If he had not introduced himself I would have thought he was a mourner. I had probably seen him before, but could not remember him.

  “I am not saying that cremation should never be practiced,” Mrs. Coleman went on. “For non-Christians it can be an option. The Hindu and the Jew. Atheists and suicides. Those sorts who don’t care about their souls. But I am truly shocked to see such a thing sited on consecrated ground. It should have been placed in the Dissenters’ section, where the ground is not blessed. Here it is an offense to Christianity.”

  “Those whose remains lie in the columbarium were certainly Christian, madam,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “But what about reassembly? How can the body and soul be reunited on the Day of Resurrection if the body has been …” Mr
s. Coleman did not complete her sentence, but waved a hand at the cubicles.

  “Burnt to a crisp,” Maude finished for her. I stifled a giggle.

  Rather than wilting under her onslaught, Mr. Jackson seemed to grow from it. He stood quite calmly, hands clasped behind his back, as if he were discussing a mathematical equation rather than a sticky question of theology. Maude and I, and the Waterhouses—Lavinia having recovered by this time—all stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

  “Surely there is no difference between the decomposed remains of a buried body and the ashes of a burnt one,” he said.

  “There is all the difference!” Mrs. Coleman sputtered. “But this is a most distasteful argument, especially in front of our girls here, one of whom has just recovered from a fit.”

  Mr. Jackson looked around as if he were just seeing the rest of us. “My apologies, ladies.” He bowed (again). “I did not mean to offend.” But then he did not leave the argument, as Mrs. Coleman clearly wanted him to. “I would simply say that God is capable of all things, and nothing we do with our remains will stop Him if He wishes to reunite our souls with our bodies.”

  There was a little silence then, punctuated by a tiny gasp from Gertrude Waterhouse. The implication behind his words—that with her argument Mrs. Coleman might be doubting the power of God Himself—was not lost on her. Nor on Mrs. Coleman, who, for the first time since I have known her, seemed at a loss for words. It was not a long moment, of course, but it was an immensely satisfying one.

  “Young man,” Mrs. Coleman said finally, “if God wanted us to burn our dead He would have said so in the Bible. Come, Maude,” she said, turning her back on him, “it is time we paid a visit to our grave.”

  As she led away a reluctant Maude, Mr. Jackson glanced at me and I smiled at him. He bowed for the fourth time, muttered something about having a great deal to do, and rushed off, quite red in the face.

  Well, I thought. Well.

  Lavinia Waterhouse

  I didn’t mean to faint, really I didn’t. I know Maude thinks I bring it on deliberately, but I didn‘t—not this time. It was just that when I looked into the columbarium, I was sure I saw a little movement. I thought it might be the ghost of one of the poor souls with their ashes in there, hovering about in search of its body. Then I felt something touch the back of my neck and I knew it must be a ghost, and I fainted.

  When I told Maude afterward what had happened she said it was probably the shadow from the cedar against the back wall of the columbarium. But I know what I saw, and it was not of this world.

  Afterward I felt quite wretched, but no one paid any attention to me, not even to get me a glass of water—they were all agog at that man talking about burning and whatnot. I could not follow what he said at all, it was so tedious.

  Then Maude’s grandmother dragged her off, and our mothers began to follow, and only Ivy May waited for me. She can be a dear sometimes. I got to my feet and was brushing off my dress when I heard a noise above me and looked up to see Simon on the roof of the columbarium! I couldn’t help but scream, what with the ghost and all. I don’t think anyone but Ivy May heard me—no one came back to see what was wrong.

  When I had recovered I said, “What are you doing up there, naughty boy?”

  “Looking at you,” he said cheekily.

  “Do you like me, then?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Better than Maude? I’m prettier.”

  “Her mum’s the prettiest of all,” he said.

  I frowned. That was not at all what I’d wanted him to say. “Come, Ivy May,” I said, “we must find the others.” I held out my hand to her, but she would not take it. She just looked up at Simon, her hands clasped behind her as if she were inspecting something.

  “Ivy May don’t say much, do she?” he said.

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Sometimes I do,” she said.

  “There you go.” Simon nodded. He smiled at her, and to my surprise Ivy May smiled back.

  That was when the man came back—Mr. Jackson, the one who talked about all the burning. He rushed around the corner, saw Simon and me, and stopped.

  “What are you doing here, Simon? You’re meant to be helping your father. And what are you doing with these girls? They’re not for the likes of you. Has he been bothering you, young lady?” he said to me.

  “Oh, yes, he’s been bothering me awfully,” I said.

  “Simon! I’ll have your father’s job for this. Go and tell him to stop digging. That’s the end of you, lad.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was bluffing. But Simon scrambled to his feet and stared at the man. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he glanced at me and didn’t. Then suddenly he took a few steps back and before I knew it he’d jumped clear over our heads from the roof of the columbarium to the circle with the cedar in it. I was so surprised I just stood there with my mouth open. He must have jumped ten feet.

  “Simon!” the man shouted again. Simon scrambled up the cedar and began creeping out along one of the branches. When he was quite a long way up he stopped and sat on the branch with his back to us, swinging his legs. He wore no shoes.

  “She was lying. He wasn’t bothering us.”

  Ivy May often chooses to speak just when I don’t want her to. I felt like pinching her.

  Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows. “What was he doing?”

  I couldn’t think what to say, and looked at Ivy May.

  “He was showing us where to go,” Ivy May said.

  I nodded. “We were lost, you see.”

  Mr. Jackson sighed. His jaw moved about as if he were chewing something. “Why don’t I escort you two young ladies to your mother. Do you know where she is?”

  “At our grave,” I said.

  “And what is your name?”

  “Lavinia Ermyntrude Waterhouse.”

  “Ah, in the meadow, with an angel on it.”

  “Yes. I chose that angel, you know.”

  “Come with me, then.”

  As we turned to follow him I did give Ivy May a great pinch, but it was not very satisfying because she did not cry out—I suppose she thought she had used her mouth enough for one day.

  Edith Coleman

  I cut short my visit. I had planned to stay to supper and to see Richard, but found the trip to the cemetery so trying that when we returned to my son’s house I asked the maid to fetch me a cab. The girl was standing in the hallway with a dose of Beecham’s on a tray—the only time she has ever had the sense to anticipate anyone’s needs. She had flavored it with lime water, which was entirely unnecessary, and I told her so, at which point she giggled. Insolent girl. I would have shown her the door in an instant, but Kitty didn’t seem to notice.

  It was most annoying that Kitty didn’t tell me who the Waterhouses were—then I would have avoided an unfortunate moment. (I can’t help but wonder if she did it deliberately.) When we visited our grave I remarked on the angel on the next grave. Richard has indicated for some time that he intends to ask the grave owners to replace the angel with an urn to match ours. I merely asked Gertrude Waterhouse her opinion—neglecting as I did so to note the name on the grave. I was as surprised to discover it is their angel as she was to find we do not like it. In the interest of getting the truth out into the open—someone must, after all, and these things always seem to come down to me—I set aside any social embarrassment I felt and explained that everyone would prefer the graves to have matching urns. But then Kitty undermined my argument by saying she rather liked the angel now, while at the same time Gertrude Waterhouse confessed they did not at all like our urn. (Fancy that!)

  Then that tiresome Waterhouse girl piped up, saying that if the graves had matching urns people would think the two families were related. That remark gave me pause, I must say. I don’t think such an association with the Waterhouses would be beneficial to the Colemans in the least.

  And I don’t think much of the Waterhouse girl’s influence over
my granddaughter—she has no sense of proportion, and she may well ruin Maude’s. Maude could do much better for a friend.

  I wash my hands of the affair of the angel and the urn. I have tried, but it is for the men to sort out, while we women bear the consequences. It is unlikely that Richard will do anything now, as it has been over three years since the angel was erected, and apparently he and Albert Waterhouse are quite friendly on the cricket team.

  It was all very awkward, and I was furious with Kitty for making it so. It is just like her to embarrass me. She has never been easy, but I was more inclined to be tolerant of her when she and Richard were first married, as I knew she made him happy. These past few years, however, they have clearly been at odds. I could never speak to Richard of it, of course, but frankly I am sure she does not welcome him into her bed—otherwise they would have more children and Richard would not look so grim. I can do nothing but hint to Kitty that things ought to be otherwise, but it has no effect—she no longer makes Richard happy, and she seems unlikely to make me a grandmother again.

  Now, to smooth things over with Gertrude Waterhouse, I changed the subject to the upkeep of the cemetery, about which I was sure we would all be in agreement. When my husband and I were married he brought me to the cemetery to show me the Coleman family grave, and I was all the more certain that I had chosen well in a husband. It looked to be a solid, safe, and orderly place: the boundary walls were high, the flower beds and paths well tended, the staff unobtrusive and professional. The much praised landscape design did not interest me, and I didn’t care for the excesses of the Egyptian Avenue and Circle of Lebanon, but I recognized them as features that have established the reputation of the cemetery as the preferred burial place of our class. Far be it from me to complain.

  Now, however, standards are slipping. Today I saw dead tulips in the flower beds. That would never have happened thirty years ago—then a flower was replaced the moment it passed its prime. And it is not just the management. Some grave owners are even choosing to plant wildflowers around their graves! Next they’ll bring in a cow to munch the buttercups.