Трейси Шевалье - Falling Angel

Lavinia hardly looked at him, but leaned back and closed her eyes.

Then, as the wheels began to turn, I heard someone say in a low voice, “Tomorrow.” I thought it must be Mr. Jackson adding that the angel would be ready in time for the funeral the next day.

Mummy must have heard it, too, for she sat up suddenly, as if Miss Linden at school had come around with her ruler and prodded her in the side the way she does to us during comportment lessons.

Then we were whizzing down the hill, and I spotted Simon coming out of the mason’s yard, without the angel’s head. He saw us, too, and from the corner of my eye I watched him sprint alongside the hansom until he could not keep up any longer.

This is what happens. I see it all.

When we slide the marble slab off the Waterhouse grave, we has to pry it loose from the base of the plinth where the angel stands. Joe and I are doing it, with our pa and Mr. Jackson watching. Mr. Jackson’s giving advice the way he likes to do. I want to tell him we knows what we’re doing, but he’s the guvnor-he can say what he likes.

Joe’s working at the slab with a crowbar and he leans against the plinth to put his weight behind the bar. Now, Joe’s a big strong man and his back’s pushing that plinth, and before you know it the plinth starts moving. Them masons must’ve made a mess of the foundation when they put it in for that to happen. I been digging at the cemetery six years and never seen one shift so.

Worse’n that, the mortar holding the angel to the base of the plinth ain’t strong. I see the angel wobble back and forth.

“Joe,” I says, “stop.”

Joe stops with the crowbar but he’s still leaning against the plinth, and the angel wobbles again. I can see the crack in the mortar now, but before I can say something the angel starts to topple. I hear a woman shout just as the angel falls sideways and hits the Coleman urn. The head cracks right off, and it falls one way and the body the other. In fact the body falls right where Mr. Jackson’s standing, ‘cept he ain’t there now ’cause our pa’s knocked him right out the way.

It all happens slow and fast too. Then Kitty Coleman and the girls run up to us. Livy takes one look at the headless angel and shrieks and faints, which is nothing new. Mrs. C. helps up Mr. Jackson-his face is all pale and sweaty. He’s breathing heavy and he takes out a kerchief and wipes his face. Then he looks at the base of the plinth and the cracked mortar, clears his throat, and says, “I’m going to strangle that mason with my bare hands.”

I know what he means.

Then he says, “Thank you, Paul,” real quiet and solemn to our pa. It sounds funny ‘cause he never calls our pa by his name.

Our pa just shrugs. “Dunno what they need an angel up there for anyways,” he says. “Urns and angels and columns and whatnot. Bloody nonsense. When you’re dead you’re dead. You don’t need an angel to tell you that. Give me a pauper’s grave any day.” Our pa taps one of the paupers’ wood crosses. “My pa were buried in one and that’ll suit me too.”

“Just as well,” Mr. Jackson says, “for that’s where you’re likely to end up.”

You might think our pa would be offended, but something in the way Mr. Jackson says it makes our pa smile. The guvnor smiles, too, and it’s a funny sight, given he’s just almost been struck down dead. It’s like they’re mates sitting over a jar in the pub, laughing at a joke.

“Anyhows, best see to the girlie,” our pa says then, nodding at Livy. Maude’s crouching by her, and Mrs. C. goes over to her too. Livy sits up. She’s all right-she always is.

Ivy May’s standing next to me. “You should have marked that angel,” she says.

Takes me a minute to work out she means the skull‘n’ crossbones. “Can’t,” I say. “Livy won’t let me.”

Ivy May shakes her head and I feel bad, like I let her down. No time to say more, though, ‘cause Mr. Jackson says to me, “Simon, run to the mason’s yard and tell Mr. Watson he’s wanted here immediately. If he complains, give him this.” He hands me the angel’s head, whose nose is broke off. It’s heavy and I almost drop it, which makes Livy shriek again. I tuck it under my arm and run.

I were in the garden beating carpets when he came tumbling over the fence and fell right at my feet. “Ow!” I shouted. “What’s this boy doing here? You muddy little rascal, jumping the fence like you own the place. Don’t you come tracking that mud from the grave into this garden!”

Cheeky boy just grinned at me. “Why not?” he said. “You track enough of it here yourself on the bottom of your skirts. Though we ain’t seen much of you these days up at the cemetery.”

“Shut your trap,” I said. Oh, he were cheeky, all right. Simon, he’s called. Never said much to him at the cemetery but the girls talk about him all the time. He’s the brother Maude never had, I always think.

I seen him creeping behind graves to have a look when I been busy with that gardener. He thought he were hidden, but I seen him. Wanted to see the business. I didn’t care-I thought it was funny. Not now, though. Gardener don’t want no more to do with me. Bastard.

“I never thought much of him,” Simon said now like he knew exactly what I was thinking. “You’re well clear of him, I’d say.”

“Shut it,” I said. “No one asked you.” But I weren’t really mad at the boy. Talking to him gave me a chance to rest my back-these days beating rugs is a killer. “Anyways, what you come here for?”

“Want to see where the girls live.”

“How’d you find it?”

“Ran after their cab. Lost it for a bit, so I just walked round till I saw it again, leaving Maude and her mum here. Must’ve already let out Livy.”

“Sure, she lives right there, Miss Livy and her sister.” I pointed at the house across the way.

Simon had a good look at it. He’s a scrawny boy, for all his digging. His face is pinched round the eyes and his wrists are all red and knobbly, busting out of a jacket too small for him.

“Wait here a minute,” I said. I went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Baker was cutting up a chicken. “Who’s that boy?” she said right away. She don’t miss nothing round here. Can’t keep a thing from her. I seen how she looks at me sideways these days, though she don’t say nothing.

I ignored her, cut a slice of bread and spread it with butter. Then I took it out to Simon, who looked glad to see it. He ate it fast. I shook my head and went in to get some more. As I was spreading the butter, thicker this time, Mrs. Baker said, “If you give a stray scraps, it’ll never leave you alone.”

“Mind your business,” I snapped.

“That bread is my business. I baked it this morning and I’m not baking more today.”

“Then I’ll go without.”

“No, you won‘t,” she said. “If I let you, you’d eat the entire kitchen these days. You watch yourself, Jenny Whitby.”

“Leave me alone,” I said, and ran out before she could say more.

While Simon ate the bread I started to beat the rugs again.

“Look,” he said after a bit, “there’s Livy in the window. What’s she doing?”

I looked up. “They do that all the time, them two. Stand in the windows of their nurseries and make signs at each other. Got their own language no one understands but them.”

“Bet I’d understand it.”

I snorted. “What’s she saying, then?” Miss Livy was pointing up and bowing her head. Then she pulled a finger across her throat and pouted.

“ She’s talking about the cemetery,” Simon said.

“ How’d you know that?”