Трейси Шевалье - Falling Angel

“Who told you to dig Mummy’s grave now rather than tomorrow?”

“The guvnor. Told us this morning. Our pa tried to argue with him but he just said to get on with it once Ivy May’s funeral’s done. Said he’d handle the consequences.”

I waited for Simon to continue. I could see from his face that there was something he would eventually tell me, laying it out step by step in his own time.

“So I had a little look round. Couldn’t see nothing from the work map in the lodge. Then I heard that the chapel here’s been booked for tomorrow morning. Now I knows the other graves dug for tomorrow’s all got coffins coming from outside. Don’t say which the chapel is for.”

I shook my head. “Mummy’s service is at St. Anne’s on Friday afternoon. Daddy told me.”

“Then one of the mutes at Ivy May’s funeral just now told me they’re doing a funeral at the chapel here tomorrow,” Simon continued as if I had not spoken. “Has to be your ma. Hers is the only grave ready with nothing to go in.”

I stood up-it hurt to hear him talk about Mummy like that, but I did not want him to see how much his words upset me. “Thank you for telling me,” I said. “I’ll try to find out from Daddy if something has been changed.”

Simon nodded. “Just thought you’d want to know,” he said awkwardly.

I wondered if Simon knew that Mr. Jackson had asked me about cremation-he seemed to find out about everything else. If he did, though, he didn’t say. At Ivy May’s grave Mr. Jackson had caught my eye, and to his unspoken question I’d simply shaken my head. He must have guessed by then anyway that Daddy had said no-otherwise he would have heard from us.

Instead I asked Simon about something else-something I was sure he knew. “What happened to Ivy May that day?” I said, looking straight at him. “No one will tell me.”

Simon shifted on the marble. For a long time he didn’t say anything and I wondered if I would have to repeat myself. Then he cleared his throat. “Someone strangled her.”

His answer was so stark that I could feel my own throat tightening. “A man?” I managed to say.

Simon nodded, and I saw from his face that I should not ask more.

We sat for a moment without speaking.

“I’m sorry ‘bout your ma,” Simon said suddenly. He leaned across and quickly kissed me on the cheek, then jumped off the grave and was gone.

Back at home I ran into Grandmother in the front hall, inspecting a bouquet of flowers that had arrived-lilies tied with green, white, purple, and black ribbons. “Suffragettes!” she was muttering. “Just as well we-” She stopped when she saw me. “Back already from the meal?”

“I haven’t been to the Waterhouses’ yet,” I confessed.

“Not been? Get you over there, then. Pay your respects. That poor child’s mother is gray with grief. Such a terrible terrible death. I hope they catch the man who-” She stopped herself.

“I will go,” I lied. “I just… need to have a word with Mrs. Baker first.” I ran downstairs so that I would not have to tell her why I was not going to the funeral meal. I just could not bear to see Mrs. Waterhouse’s face sucked dry of life. I could not imagine what it must feel like to lose a child, and to lose her so awfully and mysteriously. I could only compare it to how I felt losing my mother: an aching emptiness, and a precariousness about life now that one of the things I had taken for granted was gone. Mummy may have been absent or remote these past few years, but she had at least been alive. It was as if Mummy had been shielding me from a fire and then was suddenly taken away so that I could feel the scorching flames on my face.

For Mrs. Waterhouse, though, there must be simply a feeling of horror that I could not begin to describe.

Was one worse than the other, as Lavinia seemed to suggest? I did not know. I just knew that I couldn’t see Mrs. Waterhouse’s dead gaze without feeling an abyss open in myself.

Instead of going to the Waterhouses’ funeral meal, I went down to ask Mrs. Baker about ours. Since she was preparing it, she of all people would know if there had been a change in the arrangements.

She was stirring a pot of aspic on the range. “Hello, Miss Maude,” she said. “You should eat-you haven’t touched your food these last few days.”

“I’m not hungry. I-I wanted to ask if everything will be ready for Friday. Grandmother wanted me to find out for her.”

Mrs. Baker gave me a funny look. “Course it will.” She turned back to the pot. “I just spoke to your grandmother this morning. Nothing’s changed in two hours. Beef jelly will set overnight, the ham’s to be delivered this afternoon. It should all be ready by the day’s end. Mrs. Coleman wanted me to get everything ready early so I can help her with other things tomorrow-she’s not happy with the temporary help. Not that I do just anything. I won’t work on my knees, no matter what.” She glared at the pot. I knew that she missed Jenny, though she would never say.

She clearly thought the funeral Would be on Friday. If Daddy had changed the day, no one knew but him and probably Grandmother. I could not face asking either of them, and I knew they would not tell me anyway.

When I came down to breakfast next morning both Daddy and Grandmother were sitting at the table in their best mourning clothes, untouched cups of coffee in front of them. They had peculiar looks on their faces, but they simply said, “Good morning, Maude,” as I sat down to a bowl of congealed porridge. I tried to eat but could not swallow, so I simply pushed at the porridge with my spoon.

The doorbell rang. Daddy and Grandmother jumped. “I’ll get it,” Grandmother said to the hired char, who was lurking by the sideboard. I frowned at Daddy but he would not look at me-he kept his eyes on the newspaper, though I don’t think he was really reading it.

I heard low voices in the front hall and then heavy footsteps on the stairs, as well as creaking. Soon the footsteps sounded overhead, in Mummy’s room, and I knew Simon was right.

“Why have you done this, Daddy?”

He still would not look at me. “Finish your porridge, Maude.”

“I’m not hungry. Why have you changed the day of the funeral?”

“Go and change into your new dress, Maude.” Grandmother spoke from the doorway.

I did not move from my chair. “I want to know why you’ve done this. I have a right to know.”

“You have no rights!” my father roared, banging his hand on the table so that coffee slopped from both cups. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again. You are my daughter and you will do as I say! Now go and change!”

I did not move from my chair.

Daddy glared at me. “Do I have no authority in my own house? Does no one obey me? Has her influence extended so far that my own daughter won’t do as I say?”

I did not move from my chair.

Daddy reached over and knocked my porridge bowl to the floor. It smashed at the feet of the terrified maid.

“Richard,” Grandmother warned. She turned to me, her face more lined than usual, as if she had not slept well. “Your mother’s funeral is to be this morning. We felt it best to have a private service so that it is not taken over by the wrong element. Now, go upstairs and put on your dress. Quickly, now, while I have a word with Mrs. Baker. The carriage will be here soon.”

“I didn’t want it to be taken over by the suffragettes,” Daddy said suddenly. “You saw what happened when she was released from prison-it was turned into a victory celebration. I’m damned if I’m going to let them make a martyr of her. Fallen comrade, they call her. They can go to bloody hell!” He sat back with such a pained look that I could almost forgive him his behavior.