‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ says Paul quietly. ‘She’s still scaring us half to death, isn’t she?’
I nod my head as we go on, names and ages flashing in front of my eyes: Helen Stamp, 56 years; Judy Turner, 78 years; Morgan Hyatt, 6 months; Ian St Clair, 30 years. Some of the gravestones have photographs on them and ones where babies are interred are festooned with balloons and pictures of cartoon characters. A halogen Minnie Mouse floats in the breeze above a white headstone, its smiling face bearing down ominously on to the graves.
‘Look at that, eh,’ says Paul as we pass the tiny gravestone. ‘Six months old. No age to die that, is it? No age at all.’
I shake my head and try not to think of that terrible night but as we cross the path I’m back in the lift, falling through space. I put my hand on Paul’s arm to steady myself and as I look up I see the mulberry tree and I know that Mum is near. She’s come to save me from falling further.
‘Bury me beneath the mulberry tree,’ I whisper.
‘What’s that?’ asks Paul.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Just a memory of Mum.’
It was something she had written at the back of her Sunday missal. I never knew what it meant but the line stayed with me over the years. Now it all makes sense. She wanted to be buried next to her baby son.
‘It does that to you, this place,’ says Paul. ‘Brings back all sorts of memories.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, walking past the stones that lead to the tree.
Past Rita Mathers who has been ‘sleeping peacefully’ since 1987 and Jim Carter who has been ‘one more angel in Heaven’ for the last thirty years, until there it is. A simple rectangular piece of granite, slim and unobtrusive, marking the final resting place of my parents and brother.
As I look at my father’s name I go cold. Why would she want to be buried with him? But then I think of the mulberry tree. David is here. There is nowhere else my mother would want to be.
‘Here we are,’ says Paul, standing back so I can get a closer look. ‘The stonemasons got it finished in time for your visit, thank goodness.’
‘Yes,’ I mumble as I stand holding the sweet peas tightly in my hands.
The flowers that must have been placed there on the day of the funeral lie shrunken and brown on the grass by the stone. I pick them up and set them aside then place the fresh sweet peas on the ground. The air smells of soil and the delicate scent of the flowers as I crouch by the stone and read the inscription. Here it is. Mum’s life and death neatly summed up in three lines.
Gillian Louise Rafter
14th November 1945 – 26th March 2015
Forever in our hearts
I skim over my father’s inscription and read the writing at the bottom of the stone.
In Loving Memory of
David Robert Rafter
18th January 1977 – 23rd August 1978
Sleep in the arms of Jesus, little man
I close my eyes and try to imagine what my brother would have looked like as he grew up; what kind of a life he would have led. But like Alexandra Waits, he is just a name inscribed on stone. If only I could remember him. I let myself sink down on to the grass as the smell of sweet peas wafts across the air, and I trace his name with my finger.
But as I go to stand up, someone screams.
‘What was that?’ I say, looking up at Paul.
He is standing above me, his face blurred by the sun.
‘What?’
‘That . . . noise,’ I say, holding a finger to my lips. ‘Listen.’
‘I can’t hear anything,’ says Paul. ‘Unless it’s your friend whatsherface.’ He laughs nervously.
‘It was . . .’ I begin. ‘It was nothing. Probably a seagull.’
But I know what it was. It was the old woman. Why won’t she leave me alone? I kneel down by the grave again.
‘Sally told me a bit about your brother,’ says Paul, coming to kneel next to me.
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Not much really, just that she had a brother who died before she was born. That he’d had an accident.’
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘I don’t remember him. I was only three years old when he died. He was just a toddler. Mum had taken him to the beach one day and he got into the sea. She tried to rescue him but the waves were really strong and they carried him away. That’s as much as I know. Mum never liked to talk about him.’
‘It must have been devastating for your parents.’
‘It was. They never got over it. Sally and I spent our childhood trying to put them back together. It didn’t work.’
‘It’s tough being a parent,’ says Paul. ‘Or step-parent in my case.’
‘Yes, but it’s not really the same, is it?’ I say. ‘You know that one day you’ll see Hannah again. But for your child to die, well, it’s just . . .’
I swallow the words. This place is starting to get to me.
‘Have you never wanted to, you know, do the whole family thing, settle down?’ he asks.
I shake my head.