Трейси Шевалье - Falling Angel

“That is all well and good, Mr. Ashby,” Caroline Black called out suddenly. I froze. “I do applaud the idea of free access to literature and education. But can we honestly celebrate such an occasion when half the population cannot apply its newly available knowledge to that part of life so important to us all? If women do not have the vote, why bother to read the treasures of literature?”

As she spoke, people around her took a few steps back so that she was alone in a circle of spectators, apart from Mummy and me standing awkwardly beside her.

Mr. Ashby tried to interject, but Caroline Black continued in a smooth voice that carried a long way and would not be interrupted. “I’m sure if our MP, Mr. Dickinson, were here he would agree with me that the subject of votes for women goes hand in hand with issues like public libraries and education for all. He is even now hoping to present a bill to Parliament about woman’s suffrage. I appeal to you”-she gestured at the circle around her-“as concerned, educated members of the public: each time you enter this building, consider the fact that you yourselves-or, if you are a man, your wives or sisters or daughters-are being denied the chance to be responsible citizens by casting your vote for those who would represent you. But you can do something about this. Come to the meetings of the local WSPU, every Tuesday afternoon at four o‘clock, at Birch Cottage, West Hill, in Highgate. Votes for women!” She bowed slightly, as if acknowledging applause only she could hear, and took a step back, leaving Mummy and me alone in the circle.

The faces surrounding us stared curiously, probably wondering if we were suffragettes too. Mrs. Waterhouse at least gave me a look of horrified sympathy. Next to her Ivy May was staring at my mother. Mummy herself was gazing at Caroline Black, and for the first time in months she was smiling.

I looked across to the cemetery gate, but Lavinia was no longer there. Then I caught a glimpse of her inside the cemetery just before she disappeared between two graves.

Her laughter rang out like a clarion call, sending a jolt up my spine that made me open my eyes wide. I had thought it was another foggy, muffled day, but when I looked around for the source of the laughter, I discovered it was one of those crisp, windy autumn days I love, when as a girl I wanted to eat apples and kick at dead leaves.

Then I saw John Jackson across by the gate, and I had to stand very still so that he wouldn’t see me. He did nonetheless. I had tried to walk up the hill a number of times to see him, and to explain. But I had never managed it. I suspected he understood-he understands most things.

I heard the laugh again, right at my side. Caroline took my arm, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

I’m down the grave standing on the coffin when she comes along. The procession’s just left, and I’m shifting dirt so it fills the cracks round the coffin. Then I’ve to knock out the lowest shoring wood with a hammer and our pa and Joe’ll pull ‘em out with a rope. It’s twelve feet deep, this one.

Our pa and Joe are singing:

She’s my lady love

She’s my dove, my baby love

She’s no gal for sitting down to dream

She’s the only queen Laguna knows.

They stop but I keeps on:

I know she likes me

I know she likes me

Because she says so

She is the Lily of Laguna

She is my Lily, and my Rose.

Then I look up and see Livy standing at the edge of the grave, laughing down at me.

“Damn, Livy,” I say. “Wha’re you doing there?”

She shakes her hair and shrugs. “Looking at you, naughty boy,” she says. “You mustn’t say ‘damn.’ ”

“Sorry.”

“Now, I’m going to get down there with you.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can.” She turns to our pa. “Will you help me down?”

“Oh, no, missy, you don’t want to go down there. ‘Tain’t no place for you. ’Sides, you’ll get your nice dress and shoes all dirty.”

“Doesn’t matter-I can have them cleaned afterward. How do you climb down-with a ladder?”

“No, no, no ladder,” our pa says. “With a deep un like this we got all this wood stuck in, see, every foot or two, to keep the sides from caving in. We climbs up and down it. But don’t you go doing that,” he adds, but too late, ‘cause Livy’s climbing down already. All I can see of her is her two legs sticking out from a dress and petticoats.

“Don’t come down, Livy,” I say, but I don’t mean it. She’s climbing down the wood frame like she’s done it all her life. Then she’s down on the coffin with me. “There,” she says. “Are you pleased to see me?”

“Course.”

Livy looks round and shivers. “It’s cold down here. And so muddy!”

“What’d you expect? It’s a grave, after all.”

Livy scrapes her toe in the clay on the coffin. “Who’s in there?”

I shrug. “Dunno. Who’s in the coffin, our Pa?” I call up.

“No, let me guess,” Livy says. “It’s a little girl who caught pneumonia. Or a man who drowned in one of the heath ponds trying to save his dog. Or-”

“It’s an old man,” our pa calls down. “Nat‘ral causes.” Our pa likes to find out something about who we bury, usually from listening to the mourners at the graveside.

Livy looks disappointed. “I think I shall lie down,” she says.

“You don’t want to do that,” I say. “It’s muddy, like you said.”

She don’t listen to me. She sits down on the coffin lid and then she stretches out, her hair getting mud in it and all. “There,” she says, crossing her hands over her chest like she’s dead. She looks up at the sky.

I can’t believe she don’t mind the mud. Maybe she’s gone doolally. “Don’t do that, Livy,” I say. “Get up.”

She still lies there, her eyes closed, and I stare at her face. It’s strange seeing something so pretty lying there in the mud. She’s got a mouth makes me think of some chocolate-covered cherries Maude gave me once. I wonder if her lips taste like that.

“Where’s Maude?” I say to stop thinking of it.

Livy makes a face but keeps her eyes shut. “Over at the library with her mother.”

“Mrs. C.’s out and about?”

I shouldn’t have said nothing, nor sounded surprised. Livy opens her eyes, like a dead un suddenly come to life. “What do you know about Maude’s mother?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just that she was ill. That’s all.”

I’ve said it too quickly. Livy notices. It’s funny-she’s not like Ivy May, who sees everything. But when she wants to she notices things.

“Mrs. Coleman was ill, but that was over two months ago,” she says. “She does look dreadful but there’s something else wrong. I just know it.” Livy sits up. “And you know it.”

I shift from one foot to the other. “I don’t know nothing.”

“You do.” Livy smiles. “You’re hopeless at lying, Simon. Now, what do you know about Maude’s mother?”

“Nothing I’m going to tell you.”

Livy looks pleased and I wish I hadn’t said even that. “I knew there was something,” she says. “And I know that you’re going to tell me.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because I’m going to let you kiss me if you do.”

I stare at her mouth. She’s just licked her lips and they’re all glistening like rain on leaves. She’s trapped me. I move toward her, but she pulls her face back.

“Tell me first.”

I shake my head. I hate to say it but I don’t trust Livy. I have to have my kiss before I’ll say a word. “I’ll only tell you after.”