Читать книгу Viridian Tears - Rachel Green - Страница 11

Chapter 6

Meinwen Jones sheltered from the rain under the sculpture of an angel made of copper sheets. The drops hitting the parts of the piece of art combined to sound more like music than an autumnal storm. The hissing of tires as mourners drove up to the re-purposed community center provided a counterpoint, and if she’d been trained as a musician instead of a secretary-cum-short-order cook in her native Aberdovey, Meinwen might well have discovered a symphony in the sounds around her.

After what seemed like an hour of waiting, but according to her mobile phone was less than half that, the hearse appeared followed by two black Daimlers. She waited until the coffin was transferred to the building and the family ushered inside, then joined the rank and file of mourners attending the funeral of Helen Matthews, ignoring the askance looks some of the other attendees gave her for her rainbow-colored umbrella.

She slipped into a seat at the back of the chapel, hoping the service would not be layered in religion. Helen had been a good friend and supporter of Meinwen’s books and pamphlets on the history of Laverstone, but other than the Tuesday-night reader’s group, Meinwen knew little about the woman. Piped music played Abide with Me at a muted volume.

Her heart sank as she picked up the order of service. At least it was an Anglican one, rather than the full-blown spectacle of a Catholic requiem mass. Reverend Dodgson appeared from the staff door and strode to the lectern. It could be worse.

“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here to pay tribute to our sister, Helen Matthews…”

Meinwen stifled a yawn and wondered if it was too late to slip out again. Probably. The doors had been closed and were guarded by a gentleman in a morning suit as if they were prisoners who might take the opportunity of the first hymn to bolt screaming from the room. A glance at her mobile earned her a pursed-lip expression from the elderly lady to her left. Meinwen pretended not to notice.

After a brief but heartfelt prayer, since the priest seemed to know the deceased personally, a young man stood and walked to the front. He faced the assembled mourners with a set of index cards in his hand. His mouth opened and closed several times before he glanced at the cards and cleared his throat.

He gripped the lectern with his free hand. “My mother was a woman of many passions…”

Meinwen perked up. This sounded more interesting. As far as she’d been aware, Helen was the sort of woman who’d prefer a nice cup of tea to unexpected passionate sex over the kitchen table but she wasn’t one to judge unfairly.

“Her passion for reading was almost matched for her passion for collecting antiques and she had a habit of penning a poem every day of her life. It pleases me to say I’ve paid for the hosting of her website for the next five years as a lasting tribute to her.”

Meinwen snorted. Five years? It wouldn’t last five weeks without fresh input, just one of those sites that stayed around to skew the results of internet searches. Type in the name of a fluid discharged by a septic ulcer and you’d get Helen’s poem about her cat, Molly. She wondered if Donall Matthews would look after Helen’s pets.

Meinwen was jerked back to the present by the man moving back to his seat. She wondered if she should clap or would that be disrespectful. It gave her the idea for another book, and she fumbled in her handbag for a pen to jot it down. Funerary customs from ancient Laverstone to modern times.

The brief flurry of scribbling earned her another glare.

Reverend Dodgson introduced the next hymn and the audience stood. As a self-styled witch, Meinwen knew the value of a communal sing-along but the hymns were generally unable to inspire passion in anybody. She stared at the order of service. The Lord’s My Shepherd was much better as a psalm. As a song it suffered from syntax hammered into place to make the verses rhyme. Still, again, it could be worse. She scanned the rest of the sheet. No, All Things Bright And Beautiful was thankfully absent. She’d had enough of that at the First Aberdovey Methodist School. Not that there’d been a second. It was a victim of grammar. It should have read The Aberdovey Methodist First School.

The music died down into a painfully extended end note and they all sat, Meinwen a moment behind the others. Honestly, she just wanted to pay her respects to a friend, not convert to Christianity. Not for the first time she wished Helen had been an agnostic. Humanist funerals were so much more cheering. There were tears, certainly, but none of this doom and gloom. None of this I-am-not-worthy stuff. She glanced at the other people on her row. Two to her right, a girl was busy tapping out a text, her two thumbs a blur of movement. At least she’d put the phone on silent.

Reverend Dodgson began reading Psalm twenty-three. Meinwen groaned, but not as much as when he opened his Bible and began reading from John. “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me will live, even though they die and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

There was justification for a zombie apocalypse right there. Modern cinema had it all wrong. The undead were just missionaries. If Helen Matthews rose from her coffin there’d be mass heart attacks. Hers too, probably. She was almost surprised he hadn’t read the bit about New Jerusalem from Revelations. It would be quite appropriate, considering this was Eden Gardens, locally known as “New Eden” or “the new cemetery” depending upon whether the speaker approved or not.

The service segued into another hymn. Jerusalem. She could have written this.

By the time they reached the committal, where the priest asked for divine intervention on behalf of the deceased, Meinwen breathed a sigh of relief that the tedium was almost over. The coffin slid slowly out of sight, downward rather than the traditional through a curtain. As a child Meinwen had always imagined the crematorium flames behind the curtain and generally wondered why the material didn’t catch fire.

She was first out when they opened the doors.

It had, mercifully, stopped raining. Although there was a covered area, the roof half-glassed like a Victorian conservatory, much of it was open to the elements. The sky was pendulous with cumulonimbus, a chill wind beating them across the sky like a milkmaid with her cows. Were milkmaids still a career option, or were they Agricultural Livestock Technicians these days? Meinwen wandered across to look at the flowers left by mourners. It hadn’t even occurred to her to bring any. She’d make a donation to charity in their stead.

Some attendees were lighting cigarettes. It explained why much of the mourner’s area was open to the sky. A full conservatory would have been impossible, and illegal, to smoke in. A man she recognized as Helen’s husband made his way to the lychgate leading to the car park, followed by his son and, presumably, his daughter-in-law. Several of the mourners lined up to murmur consolations as they left, some to go to the wake at the Green Hill, others to return to jobs or home.

Meinwen spotted a dark-haired woman in a business suit talking on the phone. She recognized Eden Maguire from the newspaper. They’d done quite an expose on her when the cryotorium first opened amid a flood of protests from people who either thought the process dangerous or who simply didn’t want a new cemetery on the site of the old community college. The woman was trying to keep her voice low while conducting her half of an argument. Several people glanced her way and she gave a half-smile, then slipped back into the building. One of the staff moved in front of the door to prevent any of the mourners returning inside.

Meinwen bit her lip. Although attending the funeral had been her excuse to come here, she had another matter on her mind, the reason she’d been skulking in the garden of rest for almost an hour before the service. She headed to the door but the attendant barred her way. “Can I help you, madam?”

“I just need to go back inside for a moment.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Please make your way to the car park via the exit provided.”

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Maguire.”

He withdrew a small tin from his breast pocket, opened it and handed her a business card. “Appointments can be made during office hours.”

“I want to see her now, though.”

“I’m afraid she’s very busy.”

“This’ll only take a minute or two.” She leaned forward until her lips were all but brushing the dark skin of his ear. “It’s about purchasing a plot.”

“All the same, Madam.” He took her arm and steered her gently toward the exit. “You can either see Emily at reception about it or else make an appointment.”

“Oh, very well.” She straightened her coat and joined the queue at the exit, shaking the hands of Helen’s three favorite people. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sure she’s exactly where she wanted to be.” It was a white lie but it was what one said at a funeral. She leaned forward to brush the cheek of Helen’s widower. He smelled of Old Spice and pipe tobacco and brought a memory of her uncle Gareth before he ran off with the butcher’s wife. “My condolences.”

“Wait.” He clutched at her hand. “You’re Meinwen, aren’t you? From Helen’s book club?”

“That’s right. She’ll be sorely missed. “ Meinwen pressed his hand between hers. “We’ll read an excerpt from Great Expectations in her honor tonight.”

“Yes. That was her favorite. I could never get on with it myself. All those lives ruined.”

“There’s redemption at the end.”

“So the vicar tells me.” He gave her a weak smile. “Look, Helen left you a bequest at the house. Nothing special, mind. A few books and a little award the council gave her when she retired last year. ‘Make sure they go to Meinwen,’ she said. It was very nearly her last words.”

“What were her last words, may I ask?”

“‘What are you doing with that hammer, Donall?’“ He gave a soft chuckle. “I’m only joking. Actually she sat up in bed and said ‘I’ll have a cup of tea and a biscuit’ and then she was gone. Just like that. She didn’t suffer at all.”

“Well, that’s a blessing.” Meinwen freed his hands from her own. “I’ll drop by in a day or two to collect them.”

“You do that, love. You’re not coming to the wake then?”

“I think I’ve intruded enough, Mr. Matthews. I’ll leave you in the good care of your family. Besides, I don’t have any transport.”

“Come on. There always room for one more in the hire cars.”

“Next time, perhaps.” Meinwen squeezed his arm, mentally kicking herself for the phrase.

The next time would probably be his own.

She followed the wall of the building back around to the front passing, curiously, a small children’s playground. While the idea of a playground in a cemetery seemed a little odd, it made sense to keep the boredom of toddlers at bay when visiting deceased relatives. Children were generally more congenial to the idea of ‘talking to grandma’ when it involved a huge slide and roundabout. Meinwen had to exert considerable self-control not to go in herself.

She pushed open the front door and stood for a moment in the reception area. It was tasteful, she had to admit. An area of comfortable seating around a coffee table, original paintings on the walls and a desk of Victorian origin, a huge piece of furniture almost as large as a modern child’s bedroom. It was covered by a piece of plate glass, beneath which was a hand-drawn plan of the entire cemetery.

A small hand bell stood on one side to the desk. She rang it.

A few moments passed before the inner door opened and a young woman came out. “May I help you?”

“Emily, isn’t it?” Meinwen gave her a warm smile. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Maguire, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it will only take a moment.” Meinwen peered at the map. “It’s about this spot, here.”

The woman frowned. “We haven’t marked that area for dispersal yet. There are no plots available.”

“It’s not about a plot, as such. It’s a proposal for that section of the cemetery.”

“You’ll have to make an appointment, madam. Mrs. Maguire really is very busy.”

“I appreciate that, but this will only take a few minutes of her time.”

The woman pursed her lips. It gave her the unfortunate appearance of a duck although Meinwen had no intention of telling her that.

“I’ll ask her for you, but I’ll warn you she rarely sees people without an appointment.”

“Thank you.” Meinwen beamed. “I couldn’t ask for more.” She waited for several minutes in the reception area. With nothing else to do, since the only magazines available were funerary catalogues, she studied the paintings on the walls. Although abstract, the oils were reminiscent of watercolors dripped on wet paper, the edges of color almost fractal in their intensity.

She stepped back to see all three along one wall at once. They seemed to be a progression; the pattern in the first tight and constricted but expanding across the triptych until the third was loose and airy. She frowned. Were they originally based on something figurative? There was movement across the pieces, almost the suggestion of a figure in the center. What, then, did the multitude of white flecks represent?

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?”

“I suppose so, but be quick.” Eden tightened her lips. Meinwen could see she was annoyed but the expression put dimples in her cheeks and was really quite an adorable look, similar to the way a toddler looked positively edible when it was cross.

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.”