Grave was his name, John
Grave, which was very apt for a man in the grave digging profession we all
thought; very apt indeed. His sombre
presence in the village had always terrified the children; so much so that the
term “John Grave will get you” became our friends favourite threat to their
children if they misbehaved.
It wasn't until my Annie – on the day of
her mother's funeral – presented him with a bouquet of roses, that we saw him
smile for the first time.
'Paul,' she said to me, 'would you mind
giving us a minute?'
'Of course not, my dear, I'll wait for you
by the Chestnut tree.'
I observed from a distance as Annie handed
the man Grave an opened envelope. As he read the letter, his emotion became apparent,
so much so that Annie embraced him until he regained his composure. It was spring and the day was fresh and kind
to both the young and the old, all of whom were grieving.
*
On the anniversary of her mother's
funeral, we decided to visit her grave.
As dawn soaked the hedgerows and broken walls with its golden sun, I
felt a bittersweet happiness to be going home.
‘Would you mind if I bought some roses?’
she asked as we stepped off the
train.
‘Not at all, darling,’ I said, ‘why don’t
you get roses like you gave Mr Grave last time?’
‘Those were the ones I was thinking of
getting,’ she said as she lightly squeezed my hand.
We stood over her mother's grave and I
held her close whilst she wept gentle tears from her clear green eyes. The roses remained in her tight clasped hand.
‘What are you going to do with the roses,
love?’ I asked. I already knew the answer, even if I didn’t
know the reason.
‘Do you want to come with me?’
‘Do you want me to come?’ She nodded whilst burying her head in my
chest.
My stubble caught a few strands of her
strawberry blonde hair and they came loose from her clasp as I drew up from
kissing her head. The soft breeze
loosened more of her thick, barley coloured waves until it fell over her
lightly freckled cheek. Tucking it
behind her ear, we crunched along the gravel path that led to his small,
whitewashed cottage.
She rapped her petite knuckles against the
study oak door until heavy footsteps grew louder and then stopped on the
opposite side of the door. After a
moment, the heavy door opened to reveal John Grave. He had gone grey early in life; however,
flecks of amber still graced his trimmed beard.
It was his bright green eyes that gave away his youth though. His slightly stooped stance cast a shadow
over us.
‘It’s you,’ he almost whispered.
‘I came to visit mother.’
‘I hoped you would.’
‘These are for you,’ she said as she
shakily handed him the roses.
‘Thank you,’ he smiled, ‘will you stay a
while?’
'I can’t, not today anyway,’ she said, ’I’m
not ready.’
’I understand, although I’m not sure your
husband does.’
’He knows that I love him very much,’ she
said looking at me, ’and hopefully that is enough for now.’
I squeezed her hand and said that it was.
'Perhaps you could…'
'Perhaps I could write you a letter…an
unopened one this time?' she asked.
'I would like that. I would like that very much.'
It was another fine spring day and the
smell of newly cut grass was fresh in the air.
*
In the middle of summer came a warm but
relentless rain. In autumn, the rain
turned cold, and by late November, the sky was a perpetual grey that
teemed nothing but a constant
torrent of freezing sleet.
'The doctor says you have to eat.'
'I'm fine,' she said, 'can you fix my
pillows please, my neck is all stiff and sore?'
'Pneumonia is not fine,' I said as I
fluffed the pillows behind her head, 'how's that?'
'Much better, thanks.'
'Right, how about some of my mum's broth
now?'
'I'm not hungry…maybe in a bit.'
'Why are you so stubborn when it comes to
your health?' I asked.
'I'm fine.
As soon as this horrible, God awful weather clears up I'll get better
and then we can maybe take a wee holiday…maybe to Spain, yes?'
'That sounds like a fine idea,' I said,
'for the time being though, how about you at least eat some of the bread while
I phone my mum to tell her you're not eating her soup?'
'Ha-ha, don't you dare say that.'
'Well you better just get some of it eaten
then,' I replied.
‘Ok,’ she said, ‘but I’m only eating so
you shut up for a while.’
Her pale lips smiled.
‘Ok, love, I’m sorry, I’ll try and not go
on so much…I’ll be back in a minute, ok?’
‘Ok, tell your mum I said hiya, ‘she said,
‘oh, Paul…’
‘Yes, love.’
‘Thank you for looking after me.’
‘You’re welcome, sweetheart,’ I said, ‘anything
for you.’
When I came back, she was asleep. By her side were the empty plates and two
sealed envelopes. One was for me; the
other was for John Grave. I kissed her
cold, moist forehead and lay down beside her.
Annie’s breathing grew shallow - her lungs
seemed to be working hard just to inhale the clammy air. I closed my eyes and wished for
springtime. Her chesty cough broke into
my dreams and in my head the sky was a giant eye that was weeping slushy ice.
When I awoke, I realised that I had been
crying in my sleep. I turned to look at
Annie but she was not there. All that
remained was her still and lifeless figure.
*
The train journey was a lonely one. The sodden countryside of December sped by in
a flurry of sunless, murky skies and snow spattered, muddy fields. I had preceded my journey by writing to
John. I had not received a reply.
As I walked towards his cottage, the door
opened. John Grave reminded me of a
piece of large charcoal that been pulled from a pyre. His green eyes
stared intently at me as I
approached.
‘Good morning, Mr Grave,’ I said
stretching out my hand, ‘My name’s Paul, I’m Annie’s…I mean, I was Annie’s
husband.’
‘John…please call me John,’ he replied
whilst gripping my hand, ’I’m very sorry for your loss.’
’I’m sorry for yours too, although I’m not
entirely sure why.’
’Thank you,’ he said, ‘will you come in?’
‘I can’t just now, I have to see Father
McLean shortly…Annie’s body is being brought down here the day after tomorrow.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Did you get my letter?’ I asked.
‘I did,’ he said, ‘my apologies for not
writing back but letter writing has never been my strong point.
‘That’s ok…was it a problem to lay her
beside her mother?’
‘No…no problem at all,’ he said, ‘I think
she would have liked that.’
‘I think so too,’ I replied hoarsely.
I stood looking at him for a moment before
handing over the letter Annie had written to him. There was something familiar in those jade
green eyes of his.
‘From Annie,' I said, ‘she wrote one to me
as well.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied as he gingerly
accepted the sealed, cream envelope.
The skies began to darken and the shadows
from the bare branches of the chestnut tree began to zig and zag as if they
were attempting to scratch some invisible itch on the ground. We shook hands again and agreed to talk some
more after the funeral.
I heard John’s door shut gently when I
neared the bottom of the path.
*
A light rain had begun to fall as I stood
smoking by the chestnut tree. When I was
alone, I surveyed the empty graveyard, slowly taking in the host of lonely
memories of others’ pain. My eyes
finally came to a rest on Annie's grave.
Kneeling in front of it was John.
His grief seemed to equal mine and I felt a pang of sorrow for him.
He stood slowly and crossed himself. Looking up, he saw me and with quiet respect
made his way across to where I was standing.
'It was a beautiful service,' he said.
'It was a hard service,' I replied as I
rubbed my right eye with the palm of my hand.
John placed a calloused hand on my
shoulder.
'Are you ok?' He asked.
'No. No I'm not, but I guess that's to be
expected,' I said. 'I want to thank you
for coming today, John.'
He stood quiet and looked at the ground.
'I don't want you to take this the wrong
way,' I said, 'but it meant a lot to see an unfamiliar face grieving as you've
done today…it reminded me just how good a person my Annie was.'
'She said some very kind words to me the
day of her mother's funeral.'
I wiped my eyes again and lit another
cigarette whilst looking at her grave.
'Do you believe in what the priest said
about Annie's soul being everlasting?' I
asked.
'Yes.
Yes I do, but I don’t think it’ll go to God straight away though,' he
said.
'How do you mean?' I asked.
'You were soul mates, so I believe Annie's
soul will wait for you until you’re ready to join her.'
'You're a good man, John.' I said.
'So are you, Paul. So are you.'
We stood there, stranger to stranger and
embraced each other.
'Annie's last wishes,' I said as I pulled
away, 'were for me to visit you each year on the anniversary of her mother's
funeral.'
'I think I'd like that,' he replied.
'She also asked if I would bring you a
bouquet of roses and tell you something about her.'
'I'd definitely like that,' he said, 'are
you not curious as to why though?'
'I'm just happy I can still do something
nice for Annie,' I replied, 'besides, what else am I supposed to do…all I've
ever been good at is loving her.'
We embraced one last time and then I
departed until spring. I left happy
knowing that for years to come I would be able to fondly reminisce about Annie
to someone like John Grave.
*
I rose from my seat wearily. My stiff limbs creaked as I shuffled to the
door. It was early summer and the
morning was already beginning to grow hot when John met me off the train.
'Good Morning, Paul,' he greeted me
heartily.
'It is indeed, my old friend, 'I replied
as I leaned forward to shake his gnarled, old hand, 'it's good to see you.'
'And you,' he said, 'how's the family?''
'Fussing as always,' I said.
'I'm glad you've come,' he replied.
'Me too, John.'
'Are you up to taking a stroll to the
grave yard?'
'Absolutely,' I replied.
The village was silent as we walked
immersed in our memories.
'Paul,' he asked as we drew near, 'do you
remember asking me if I thought
Annie's soul would be
everlasting?'
'I do, John,' I said.
'Do you remember what I said?'
'I do,' I croaked, 'you said that Annie's
soul would wait for me until I was ready to join it.'
He smiled as he pointed to where Annie was
buried. Protruding from the heart of her
grave was a single, crimson rose.
'My God,' I cried, ' how is this
possible?'
'I planted the rose on Annie's request on
the day of her funeral,' he said.
John helped me to her grave. Salty tears spilled down the crevasses of my
old face whilst her rose quivered in the warm summer's breeze.
'Thank you, John,' I whispered, 'thank you
for looking after my Annie.'
'It is I who should thank you, Paul,' he
said, 'without you or Annie, I would be nothing. Without you or Annie, I would merely be a
name who could be traced back to nothing.'
'His green eyes began to fill and he tried
to wipe them away with the sleeve of his black woollen cardigan but they just
filled up again.
'Who was she to you, John?'
'She was my sister,' he replied, 'she made…’
‘John?’
I gently pressed.
‘She made me realise that as her memories
became my memories that I am not nothing…’
His tears flowed freely.
'You're
a fine man, John, and you've been a fine friend to me over the
years. More importantly, you've been a fine brother
to Annie.'
We stood on that summer's morning and
enjoyed the sun as two friends who are seeing each other for the last time
should do. Annie moved from side to side
in the breeze and looked as beautiful as I had ever seen her.
Tomas Bird - Coaltown 2014
