by M K Jones
Snapping back to the present, he nodded again at the rows of solemn faces and the congregation rose in unison. Outside in the sunshine, the crowds and the carriages were waiting. The chapel elders lined the path from the chapel door to the road as the coffin passed through.
The chapel stood on the bank of the canal and had been built about twenty-five years before. Today the opposite bank was lined with blossoming trees down towards where the dark water dropped steeply to the Two Locks. Minister Robinson led Ruth to the first family carriage and William and Sara and their three children climbed in after her. Her other children, Walter in his army uniform, Maud with her husband James and their children and the youngest, Evan, followed in a second carriage. Only George, now in South Africa, had not been able to attend.
As the horses jolted the carriage away, Ruth glanced briefly from behind her veil at the faces at the side of the lane. The number of people at the chapel had surprised her. So many friends. Others she didn’t know so well. but she was still grateful for their presence. She frowned as she passed a family that had stationed themselves a little way from the chapel wall. Bessie Morris smiled sympathetically as the carriage passed, but Ruth saw the smile disappear as soon as Bessie thought she could no longer be seen.
“They knew something, but they kept it to themselves,” Ruth thought, remembering the trouble that Bessie Morris had caused when they had first come to the farm, with her jealousy and suspicions and rumours. “I’ll know soon what it was.” She followed Bessie’s gaze as she turned to acknowledge a family in the crowd. And she frowned again as she glimpsed a face she recognised that ought to be familiar. She couldn’t remember why but felt firmly that this was someone who should not have been there. For a moment she felt butterflies in her stomach. But nothing came to her, so she shook the thought away. Then she turned back and fixed her gaze on the coffin in the hearse in front of her, where the man she had met and loved instantly as a girl of seventeen, was now being carried away.
Forty-two years they had been married. A fine family of children, all grown, except one, but today was not the day to think of that. Too late, the thought brought a stab of dread that hadn’t abated despite the passing of so many years. “At least this time we have a funeral.” Ruth tried to push the unwelcome thought from her mind but, as always, couldn’t banish it completely. She had promised to obey him and had succeeded in everything, except that one thing. She had almost come to hate him for a time, unable to understand how such a good man could act so harshly and, to her belief, so lacking in the love that he had promised her at their marriage. Again she shook the disloyal thought away as quickly as it had arrived, but knew that she would bring it back later, now that she had time to do so.
The journey to the graveyard was short. The carriages slowed at the high iron gates before passing through, the only noise the muffled clopping of the plumed horses’ bandaged feet.
The farm workers waited for the procession to arrive. They stood with their families, uncomfortable in black in the heat, but silent and respectful. John Jones had been a good employer in a time when farm work was hard to find. Since the new century had turned, many men had left for the pits and ironworks further up the valley, or to the newly emerging industries around the docks in Newport. Those remaining, and their families, counted themselves lucky – very lucky. A good man gone was a great worry, but the farmer’s son would provide continuity. Their work would be secure, their homes guaranteed. John Jones’ family had supported the board school that gave education to their children, provided help during their sickness, and given them Sunday to attend chapel and take a little time for themselves. They knew their luck and thanked God for it. They would do nothing to threaten their livelihood with this family, so they bowed their heads respectfully to Ruth and her family as the cortège passed them.
The carriages halted just inside the cemetery entrance. Ruth had been thinking again about that first meeting – she a servant girl, he a railway guard with such a beautiful tenor voice that had made her look up during the service to see who sang so wonderfully… She took a sharp intake of breath as she realised they had stopped.
While her son William handed her down from the carriage and she walked across the grass to the graveside, there was hushed silence. The earlier breath of wind had died completely. Ruth could hear only the rustling of the soft silk of her dress. She kept her gaze to the ground as she stepped across the rough grass, picking her way slowly and, in spite of the intense heat of the sun, found that she was shivering.
As she crossed the path that separated the two sides of the cemetery she glanced up and saw the waiting grave for the first time. She felt really cold and a shiver of fear from the knot in her stomach passed up to her face. It came upon her so suddenly that she glanced back to see if something had happened behind her to make her feel like this, but there was nothing that shouldn’t have been there. She paused for a moment, slowing her steps, trying to settle herself.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what was coming, that her John would be put into the ground today, their final, permanent separation. She had to face it, so she looked up towards the grave again. It seemed to her that it was darker than the rest of the graveyard. She paused again and took a deep breath. Ruth was not a woman given to hysteria. She had always been a sensible wife and mother, pragmatic and solid. Her mind must be overwrought, the result of her grief.
“William!” she called, but he had fallen back to walk with the minister. “Maud, what is that?” Her daughter, who had been a few paces behind, came quickly.
“What do you mean, Mother?”
“At the grave? Is someone there already?”
“There’s nothing there, Mother.” Maud looked back at her mother, concern showing on her own, pale face. “What did you think was there?” She saw her mother shaking. “Are you well, Mother? Are you too hot?”
“Rather, I feel cold. What is that?” She gestured towards the grave.
William had caught up and heard the question. “Where, Mother? I can’t see…” His voice trailed off as he saw the frown on his mother’s face. “It has been too much for her,” he thought. Then out loud, “I’ll walk with you. Richard is coming too.”
Seeing that the procession ahead had halted, Minister Robinson made his way to the front of the group to find out what had caused the delay, leaving the coffin with the undertaker’s men.
“Are you well, Ruth?”
“I am well, Richard. I thought, I saw…” But as she looked at their faces, she knew that they could not see what she had seen. Of course not. It was just imagination resulting from an overwrought mind. She took a deep breath and continued, this time calmer, “I am well, truly. Please continue.”
She shook her head and walked on, flanked by her son and the minister, to the graveside, her head down again. The rest of the family moved closer, as friends and acquaintances held back to give them room and privacy, and to allow the coffin to pass through to its final resting place.
Richard Robinson began to speak, reciting as the undertaker’s men lifted the coffin and lowered it into the ground. Ruth did not take her eyes off the casket until it slowly passed down and out of view, and kept her head bowed in the silence that followed the final words. Those assembled waited, watching Ruth to see what she would do. She sighed. And, at last, as her three sons and daughter began to move nervously forwards, she lifted her veil and raised her eyes to give them a sign of her love and acceptance. It told them that she was ready to move on.
But what she saw pinned her to the spot. Unable to breathe, her mouth open but unable to speak, she saw clearly standing at the end of the grave, not these grown-up children, but another child, the missing child, little Alice as she had been thirty years before on the day she disappeared. Her face, her smile, the same child, exactly as she remembered! All the old pain and heartache returned in that moment filling her with agonising joy.
Then a voice, right next to her, from someone she had not known was there b
ut so close as to seem to speak within her ear, murmured, “Say hello to Ruth, Alice.”
“Hello, Ruth,” said the child, looking up from the grave. Ruth stretched out, shouted to her child, “Alice! Alice!” and stumbled forwards with both arms held out to enfold her little girl, but found herself clutching arms full of mist. There was no-one there.
Three
May 2015
As Maggie turned into the school, she could see the thin, upright figure of her daughter, waiting indignantly. She sighed. She was only five minutes late, but this was a very exact child. Maggie pulled up, opened the door, and spoke immediately.
“Sorry, but I have a really good reason!”
The look of disgust in return said everything and Maggie fought to keep her face serious.
“You’ll never guess what! I found the graveyard! I thought they might have been buried close to their farm and chapel. Well, I was right. I found them!” Silence.
“Aren’t you impressed? Just a very little bit?” More silence. But she knew that curiosity would win out, so she said nothing.
“So, do I get to see them, then?” her daughter asked grudgingly.
“Of course,” Maggie smiled. “They’re your ancestors, too. Let’s get to the dentist. Then we’ll go home for lunch. I need to get some secateurs and my camera, too. It looks like no-one’s been near the grave for years. It’s very overgrown. We’ll go and clean it up a bit. Then we’ll pick up Jack.”
* * *
Maggie’s house was in a cul-de-sac, set back from the main road. The last in the row, it was on the edge of what was once a small hamlet on the eighteenth-century canal on the outskirts of the town.
Maggie drove out of the town and headed uphill towards the mountain, turning off at the last road before the urban landscape surrendered itself to farms and fields down towards Newport and the coast beyond.
Although they had been at the house for five months, every time Maggie approached it she couldn’t help smiling. The decision to buy had been impulsive. She had already found a modern 1960s terraced “box” on the edge of the town and registered the children at the local primary and comprehensive schools. She wasn’t excited about it, but she hadn’t intended to get excited about a home again. It would do well enough. Her sister and family were nearby, too, and were going to help them to get settled. On her final visit before signing the contract, Maggie had been driving around trying to get re-acquainted with the town that she had left over twenty-five years before. She tried to recall where her grandmother had lived and any locations that might spark other childhood memories, when she realised that she was lost. Knowing that she was getting closer to the older houses, she turned off the main road into a lane to try to get her bearings. And there was the house, bearing a tattered “For Sale” notice that had obviously been there for some time.
It was a large, run-down, Victorian, grey-stone building standing at the end of a row of more modern houses, very out of place, but, to Maggie, exceptionally beautiful. The state of the window casings and the greenery growing out of the chimneys told a story of neglect. But something about it reached out to her and drew her in, tugging on her heartstrings in a way that she knew was dangerous, but couldn’t resist.
She called the estate agent to enquire and he agreed to come out to show it to her immediately. Maggie sensed from his eagerness that she was the first person in a long time to show any interest.
From the moment she entered the porch with its black-and-white mosaic floor Maggie felt at home. She knew instinctively which room was which. The estate agent expressed surprise when she told him that she had never been in the house before.
Brian was a decent agent and had pointed out the problems – the disgusting carpets, the rotten window frames, the kitchen that hadn’t been updated since 1946, the decrepit roof, and the all-pervading stench of neglect and decay throughout. Maggie was realistic enough to acknowledge these problems. But she saw original fireplaces, and solid oak floors through the holes in the carpets. From the huge bay window at the back of the main living room, she saw a magnificent view straight across the enclosed garden sloping down to the canal and on to the hills rising up to the mountain. To the left, along the valley, whose gentle green patchwork slopes she could trace to the outskirts of the city.
She could imagine that the original owner must have looked out on just that view, through a window designed to capture the expanse and fullness of it. And that he had loved what he saw, too.
After showing her the jungle of a garden, Brian took her to the front of the house where they stood and looked at the entrance. The name was carved on a plaque at the side of the front door: “Garthwood House 1907”. Maggie was lost in a multitude of ideas of what she could do to the house to bring it up to a habitable state when she realised that he was speaking to her.
“… local landowner, and in its day, it was one of the old village’s finest family homes.”
“Sorry, Brian, what was that?” Maggie turned her attention back to him.
“Oh, nothing. Just some local history. So, what do you think, Mrs Gilbert? I can find a builder to help you get an idea of what the costs of repair will be. It’s basically a sound building, but you’ll want to know, and how much time…”
“I want to buy it,” Maggie interrupted. “How much are they asking?”
He took a deep breath and gave her the figure. “Of course…” he began but got no further into his suggestion that the current owners might be open to negotiation.
“Too much. Unrealistic. I’ll offer them fifty thousand less, to cover the repairs. Subject to survey, of course. Tell them it’s cash – if they’re prepared to move quickly. No chain. Will there be any problem with that?”
She hoped that she sounded calm and business-like. She had put her hands in her pockets so he wouldn’t see that she was digging her fingernails into her palms with excitement. The gleam in his eyes told her the answer. “I don’t think that will be a problem,” he replied quickly. “I’ll call the owners as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Tell them I want to start work at the beginning of December and move in by Christmas.”
Brian’s face showed a fleeting exasperation with this wildly unrealistic demand, but he didn’t want to spoil the moment. He had been trying to sell this house for five years. Four times he had come close but each time something had inexplicably gone wrong. He had started to wonder. “That’s only six weeks away,” he said cautiously.
“In by Christmas,” Maggie replied firmly. “That’s my offer.”
He called her half an hour later to confirm that her offer had been accepted and that the house would be hers in six weeks. The survey then confirmed that it was a sound building, and the purchase went through easily.
She was thrilled but, inevitably, her family had been horrified – that she had bought such a “ruin”, as her sister, Fiona, called it, “without proper advice from anyone apart from a surveyor and on such a ridiculous whim, when you had a nice little modern house ready and waiting!”
Maggie knew that Fiona was peeved that it was her opinion that had not been sought. When she had first walked into the house with Maggie she had stood open-mouthed in amazement. Maggie fleetingly hoped it was admiration.
“There’s no central heating. And the windows are falling out! The kitchen looks like it’s been there since World War Two. The whole place stinks! What were you thinking? And it’s way too expensive. This time you’ve really gone crazy!” Fiona bellowed. Then she sighed. “After all you’ve been through, Mag Why couldn’t you just stick with the easy option, just this once?” But Fiona knew Maggie well enough to know that she was a creature who just couldn’t take the safe, easy option. Ever.
At nine o’clock on the tenth of December Maggie received the keys from Brian and she and the children walked into their new home. They had already been in town for ten days, staying in rather cramped conditions with Fiona and her family, their vanload of possessions in the care of the mo
ving company while the final exchange of contracts took place. At their first sight of the empty house with its damp and rot and peeling wallpaper the children had been appalled and threatened to walk out at once. It had taken some work on Maggie’s part to convince them that within a week of owning it they wouldn’t recognise it.
She had made good use of her time in the six weeks it had taken for the sale to complete, lining up builders, carpenters, plumbers and all of the craftsmen she needed to bring the house back to the state of grandeur she firmly believed it deserved.
On the first day the house became a building site. But ten days later, the day Maggie had decided they would move in, the interior was unrecognisable, and just about ready to be lived in.
Jack, who at fourteen wasn’t very keen on having to do anything that seemed like real work, had remained sceptical, but his sister immediately understood Maggie’s fascination with this strange old house.
“I hate to say it, Mum, but you’re right. It’s talking to me, too. It likes us.”
Maggie looked at her daughter with amused interest. “How do you know?”
“Mmm, not sure. I just do. Have we been here before, when I was small?”
“No,” said Maggie, her interest sharpened. “Why do you think that?”
“I knew where all the rooms were.”
“That’s funny, so did I.”
Jack agreed to work on his bedroom, persuaded by Maggie’s generous bribe of complete choice of décor, and he stripped the wallpaper and repaired the cracks in the plaster. Maggie and Fiona, scrubbed up the living and dining rooms, and the small room that would become their study. They did their best with the kitchen and bathroom that, immediately after Christmas was to be completely gutted and replaced. They removed the carpets, sanded floors and scrubbed tiles.
