Трейси Шевалье - Falling Angel

I was hoping just to leave my card, but Kitty Coleman received us very gracefully in her morning room. I blinked at the colors she’d had it done in-mustard-yellow with a dark brown trim, which I suppose is fashionable now. She called them “golden yellow” and “chocolate brown,” which sound much better than they looked. I prefer our own burgundy. There is nothing to compare with a simple burgundy parlor. Mind you, I don’t have a morning room-perhaps if I did have such a light room as hers on the first floor I might paint it yellow as well.

But I doubt it.

Her taste is very refined-embroidered silk shawls over the sofas, potted ferns, vases of dried flowers, and a baby grand piano. I was rather shocked by the modern coffee set, which has a pattern of tiny black and yellow checks that made me feel dizzy. I myself prefer a simple rose pattern. But à chacun son goût. Oh! I made the mistake of saying so out loud, and she replied in French. I understood not a word of it! It was my own silly fault for trying to show off.

I came away with one secret comfort. No, two. The girls at least are delighted with each other, and Livy could do with a sensible friend. At least Maude will be a steadying influence, unless she, too, succumbs to Livy’s spell as the rest of us have-all but dear Ivy May, who is impervious to her sister’s excesses. I am always surprised by her. Quiet as she is, she does not let Livy get the upper hand.

And the other comfort: Kitty Coleman’s At Homes are Tuesday afternoons, just as mine are. When we discovered this, she smiled a little and said, “Oh dear, that is a pity.” I will not switch mine, however-some traditions I will not tamper with. And I know she will not switch hers. In this way we shall be able to avoid that social occasion, at least.

I can’t say exactly why I don’t like her. She is perfectly civil and has good manners and is lovely to look at. She has a fine house and a handsome husband and a clever daughter. But I would not be her. A vein of discontent runs through her that disturbs everything around her. And I know it is uncharitable of me to think it, but I do doubt her Christian commitment. She thinks too much and prays too little, I suspect. But they are the only people we know close by, and the girls are already so fond of each other, and so I am afraid we are bound to see a great deal of each other.

When we got home and were sitting in our back parlor, I couldn’t help but look out of the window at their grand house in the distance. It will always be there to remind me of their superior position. I found this so upsetting that I let my teacup crash into its saucer, and the dear thing cracked. I did weep then, and even Ivy May’s arms around my neck (she does not like hugs, as a rule) did little to comfort me.

Lavinia and I are desperate to get to the cemetery. Now that we can go together it will be so much more fun than before. But since the Waterhouses have moved to the house at the bottom of the garden, we have not managed to go, what with one thing and another: we went to Auntie Sarah’s in the country at Easter, and then Lavinia was ill, and then Mummy or Mrs. Waterhouse had a visit to make or an errand to run. What a bother-we live so close yet cannot get anyone to take us and are not allowed to go there on our own. It is a shame Nanny left to look after her old mother, or she could have taken us.

Yesterday I asked Mummy if she would go with us.

“I’m too busy,” she said. She didn’t seem busy to me-she was just reading a book. I did not say so, however. She is meant to be looking after me now that Nanny has gone. But mostly I end up with Jenny and Mrs. Baker.

I asked her if Jenny could take Lavinia and me.

“Jenny has far too much to do to be dragging you up there.”

“Oh, please, Mummy. Just for a little while.”

“Don’t use that wheedling tone with me. You’ve learned it from Lavinia and it doesn’t suit you.”

“Sorry. But perhaps-perhaps Jenny has an errand to run for you up in the village. Then she could take us.”

“Haven’t you lessons to prepare for?”

“Finished them.”

Mummy sighed. “It’s just as well you’re going to school in the autumn. Your tutor can’t keep up with you.”

I tried to be helpful. “Perhaps you have books that need returning to the library?”

“I do, in fact. Oh, all right, go and tell Jenny to come here. And she can see if the fabric I’ve ordered has arrived while she’s in the village.”

Lavinia and I raced up the hill, pulling Jenny with us. She complained the whole way, and was quite puffed at the top, though if she hadn’t used her breath for complaining she might have been all right. All our hurrying didn’t make any difference anyway-Ivy May refused to run, and Jenny made Lavinia go back and get her. At times it can be a trial having Ivy May with us, but Mrs. Waterhouse insisted upon it. Once we got to the cemetery, though, Jenny let us do whatever we liked, as long as we kept Ivy May with us. We immediately ran off to find Simon.

It was such a treat to be in the cemetery without anyone to look after us. Whenever I go with Mummy and Daddy or Grandmother I feel I have to be very quiet and solemn, when really what I want to do is just what Lavinia and I did-rush about and explore. As we looked for Simon we played all sorts of games: jumping from grave to grave without touching the ground (which is not difficult, as the graves are so packed in); taking a side each of a path and scoring points for seeing an obelisk, or a woman leaning on an urn, or an animal; playing tag around the Circle of Lebanon. Lavinia does shriek when she’s being chased, and some grown-ups told us to hush and mind our manners. After that we tried to be quiet but we had such fun playing that it was hard.

At last we found Simon, right up the top of the cemetery not far from the north gate. We didn’t see him at first, but his pa was standing next to a new grave, pulling a bucket of soil up using a rope and pulley on a frame set over the hole. He dumped it into what looked like a big wooden box on wheels, several feet high and heaped with soil.

We crept closer and hid behind a headstone, not wanting Simon’s pa to see us, for he is dirty and red faced and whiskery, and we could smell the drink on him even from where we were. Lavinia says he’s just like a character out of Dickens. I suppose all gravediggers are.

We could hear Simon singing in the grave, a song Jenny sometimes sings along with the crowds on the heath on a Bank Holiday Monday:

Now if you want a ‘igh old time

Just take the tip from me,

Why ’Ampstead, ‘appy ’Ampstead is

The place to ‘ave a spree.

Simon’s pa wasn’t even looking at us, but somehow he knew we were there, for he called out, “Well, little missies, wha’re you wanting?”

Simon stopped singing. His pa said, “Come out from there, all three of youse.”

Lavinia and I looked at each other, but before we could decide what to do, Ivy May had stepped out from behind the headstone, and we had no choice but to follow.

“Please, sir, we want to see Simon.” I was surprised that I called him sir.

He seemed surprised too, looking at us as if he couldn’t believe we were there. Then he suddenly shouted into the hole, “Boy, you got visitors!”

After a moment Simon’s head popped out of the grave. He stared at us.

“Well, naughty boy,” Lavinia said, “aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Can we switch places for a bit, our Pa?” he said.

“‘Tain’t much room down there for me and Joe,” Simon’s pa said. Simon didn’t say anything, and his pa chuckled. “Oh, well, then, go on there with your girlies.”