Falling Angels (30 page)

There ain't no time to wait when a man's buried like that. He'll die in a few minutes if he ain't got no air. I jump into the hole though I'm not supposed to, landing in the mud on all fours like a cat. I look and look and then I see the thing our pa taught me. I see his finger sticking out the dirt, just the tip of it, wiggling. He remembered to put his hand up. I start clawing round the finger with my hands. Don't dare use a shovel. I dig so hard the sand gets jammed under my nails and it hurts bad.

"Hang on, our Pa," I say as I'm digging. "We're getting you out. I see your fingers. We're getting you out."

Don't know as he can hear me, but if he can it might make him feel better.

I'm digging and digging, trying to find his face, hoping he put the other hand up to it. There ain't no time, not even to look up. If I did look up, though, I know I'd see Joe standing on the edge of the grave, looking down at me, hands at his sides. He's a big man, and can dig for hours without stopping, but he's no thinker. He don't do the delicate work. He's better off up there.

"Joe, start counting," I say as I keep clawing at the sand. "Start from ten and keep counting." I reckon I've dug ten seconds.

"Ten," Joe says. "'Leven. Twelve."

If he gets to two hundred and I ain't found our pa's face it'll be too late.

"Thirty-two."

"Sixty-five."

"One twenty-one."

I feel something overhead and look up. There's a ladder 'cross the grave now. If more dirt comes down I can reach up and grab hold of the rungs so it don't get me. Then someone jumps into the grave beside me. It's Mr. Jackson. He reaches out with his arms wide and hugs the pile of dirt I been digging. I didn't think he were that strong but he shifts the pile back so I got more room. He do just what I need him to do without me having to say it.

"One seventy-eight."

My fingers touch something. It's our pa's other hand. I dig round the hand and find his head, then dig round that and lift his hand so his mouth and nose are clear. His eyes are closed and he's white. I put my ear up to his nose but don't feel breath tickle it.

Then Mr. Jackson pushes me aside and puts his mouth over our pa's like he's kissing him. He breathes into his mouth a few times, then I see our pa's chest go up and down.

I look up. Round the grave, all silent and still, there's a circle of men standing--other diggers, gardeners, masons, even dung boys. Word got out fast and everybody came running. They've all took their caps off, even in the pouring rain, and are watching and waiting.

Joe's still counting. "Two twenty-six, two twenty-seven, two twenty-eight."

"You can stop counting, Joe," I says, wiping my face. "Our pa's breathing."

Joe stops. The men all move, shifting feet, coughing, talking tow--everything they held back while they was waiting. Some of 'em don't like our pa for his love of the bottle, but no one wants to see a man caught down a grave like that.

"Hand us a spade, Joe," Mr. Jackson says. "We've got a lot of work to do yet."

I never been down a grave with Mr. Jackson. He ain't so handy with a spade as me or other diggers but he insists on staying there with me till we get our pa out. And he don't tell the other men to get back to work. He knows they want to see this through.

I like working side by side with him.

It takes a long time to uncover our pa. We have to dig careful so we don't hurt him. For a time he has his eyes closed like he's asleep, but then he opens 'em. I start talking to him as I'm working so he won't get scared.

"We're just digging you out, our Pa," I say. "The shoring come down with you in the grave. But you covered your face like you taught me, and you're all right. We'll be moving you out in a minute."

He don't say nothing, just keeps looking up at the sky, with the rain coming down so fast and going all over his face. He don't seem to notice it. I start to have a bad feeling which I don't say nothing 'bout 'cause I don't want to scare nobody.

"Look," I says, trying to get him to say something. "Look, it's Mr. Jackson digging. Bet you never thought you'd see the guvnor digging for you, eh?"

Our pa still don't say nothing. The color's coming back to his face but something's still missing from his eyes.

"Expect I owe you that pint, our Pa," I say, desperate now. "Expect there's plenty of men'll be buying you a pint today. I bet they'll be letting you back in the Duke of St. Albans. The landlady might even let you kiss her."

"Let him be, lad," Mr. Jackson says real soft. "He's just been through an ordeal. It may take him some time to recover."

We work without talking then. When at last our pa's uncovered, Mr. Jackson checks for broken bones. Then he takes our pa in his arms and hands him up to Joe. Joe puts him in a cart they use to haul stones, and two men start pulling him down the hill toward the gate. Mr. Jackson and I climb out the grave, both of us muddy all over, and Mr. Jackson starts to follow the cart. I stand there not sure what to do--the grave's not filled and it's our job to do it. But then two other diggers step up and take up the spades. They don't say nothing--they and Joe just start filling the rest of the grave.

I follow Mr. Jackson and the cart down the path. When I catch up to him I want to say something to thank him, something that connects us so I'm not just another digger. I was close to him in Kitty Coleman's grave and I want to remind him of that. So I say the thing I know 'bout him and her, so he'll remember the connection and know how grateful I am to him for saving our pa.

"I'm sorry 'bout the baby, sir," I say. "I bet she were too. She weren't never the same after that, were she?"

He turns and looks at me sharp like. "What baby?" he says.

Then I realize he didn't know. But it's too late to take the words back. So I tell him.

MAY 1910

The first thing I thought when I heard the bells tolling was that they might disturb Mama in her delicate condition. But then, Mama has never been so fond of this king as she was of his mother. His death is of course very sad, and I do feel for poor Queen Alexandra, but it is not like when Queen Victoria died.

I threw open the window to lean out. It should have been raining, or foggy, or misty, but of course it wasn't--it was a beautiful May morning, sunny and soft. The weather never does what it ought.

Bells seemed to be ringing everywhere. Their noise was so mournful that I crossed myself. Then I froze. Across the way Maude had opened her window, too, and was leaning out in her white nightgown. She was staring straight at me, and she seemed to be smiling. I almost stepped away from the window, but it would have seemed very rude since she had already seen me. Instead I stayed where I was, and I was rather proud of myself--I nodded at her. She nodded back.

We have not spoken in almost two years--not since Ivy May's funeral. It has been surprisingly easy to avoid her--we no longer go to the same school, and if I have passed her in the street I've simply turned my head and pretended not to see her. Sometimes at the cemetery when I've gone to visit Ivy May I've seen Maude at her mother's grave, and then I've crept away and gone for a walk till she's done.

Only once did we come face-to-face in the street. It was over a year ago now. I was with Mama and she with her grandmother and so it was impossible to avoid her. Maude's grandmother went on and on giving her condolences to Mama while Maude and I stood there gazing at our shoes, not a word passing between us. It was all terribly awkward. I did manage to glance up at her from time to time, and saw that she was wearing her hair up for everyday now, and had begun wearing a corset! I was so shocked I wanted to say something, but of course I couldn't. Afterward I made Mama take me straight out to buy a corset.

I have never said much to Mama about falling out with Maude. She knows we fought, but not why--she would be mortified if she knew it was in part over her. I know she thinks Maude and I are being silly. Perhaps we are. I wouldn't admit it to Maude but I do miss her. I have not met anyone at the Sainte Union who comes close to being the kind of friend Maude was. In fact the girls there have been rather awful to me, I think because to be honest I am so much prettier than they. It can be a burden having a face like mine--though on balance I prefer to keep it.

I expect my nod at Maude means I have forgiven her.

I went down to breakfast, still in my dressing gown, with a suitably sad face for the King. Mama, however, seemed not to notice the bells at all. She is so big now that she cannot sit easily at the table, and so she was eating a plate of marmalade toast on the chaise longue while Papa read the paper to her. Even as he read out the news Mama was smiling to herself, with a hand resting on her stomach.

"Such sad news," I said, depositing a kiss on each of their heads.

"Oh, hello, dear," Mama said. "Would you like to feel the baby kicking?"

Really, it was enough to make me flee the room. It is one thing for Mama to be pleased about the baby, especially at her age, and it is good that she has some color in her cheeks. But she seems to have altogether forgot Ivy May.

Papa smiled at me, though, as if he understood, and for his sake I stayed and managed a bowl of porridge, though I did not feel much like eating.

When I went back upstairs to change, I stood in front of my wardrobe and debated for a long while about what to wear. I knew I should wear black for the King, but just looking at that old merino rag hanging there made me feel faint. Perhaps if I'd still had the lovely silk from Jay's I would have worn that, but I burned it a year after Ivy May's death, as one is not meant to keep mourning clothes--they might tempt Fate to make one need to use them again.

Besides, I wanted to wear my blue dress, which I love. It has a special significance--I have been wearing it as often as possible, especially leading up to Mama's imminent confinement. I want a baby brother. I know it's silly, but I thought wearing the blue would help. I don't want another sister--it would hurt too much, and remind me of how I failed Ivy May so miserably. I let go of her hand.

So I put on my blue dress. At least it is dark blue--dark enough that from a distance it could be taken for black.

What is sad about today is not simply that the King is dead, but that his mother is truly gone now. If it were she who died I would not have thought twice about wearing black. I have begun to feel recently that I am the only one who still looks back to her as an example to us all. Even Mama is looking forward. I am getting tired of swimming against the tide.

I lay in bed for a long time and tried to guess which bells belonged to which church: St. Mary's Brookfield up one hill, St. Michael's and St. Joseph's up the hill in Highgate, our church St. Anne's at the bottom. Each rang just one low bell, and although each was at a slightly different pitch and tolled ever so slightly more or less slowly, still they all sounded the same. I had not heard such a noise since Queen Victoria's death nine years ago.

I stuck my head out of the window and saw Lavinia crossing herself in her window. Usually when I caught a glimpse of her somewhere--in her garden or on the street--a jolt ran through me as if someone had shoved me from behind. But now it was so strange to see her make such a foreign gesture that I forgot to be upset at seeing her. She must have learned to cross herself at the Sainte Union. I thought of her years ago being frightened of going into the Dissenters' section of the cemetery where all the Catholics are buried, and smiled. It was funny how things change.

She saw me then, and, hesitating for a moment, she nodded to acknowledge my smile. I had not meant it as a smile at her, really, but once she nodded I felt I ought to nod too.

We turned away from our windows then, and I went to get dressed, hesitating over the dresses in my wardrobe. The black silk hung there still, but it would need altering to fit me now--I had filled out since last wearing it, and I was wearing a corset besides. I had worn black for almost a year following Mummy's death, and for the first time I had understood why we are meant to wear black. It is not just that the color reflects a mourner's somber mood, but also that one doesn't want to have to choose what to wear. For the longest time I would wake in the morning and be relieved that I did not have to decide among my dresses--the decision had been made for me. I had no desire to wear color, or to be concerned about my appearance. It was only when I did want to wear color again that I knew I was beginning to recover.

I wondered sometimes how Lavinia fared with such a long period of mourning for Ivy May--six months for a sister, though I expect she kept up with her mother and wore black for a year. I wondered now what she would wear for the King.

I looked at my dresses again. Then I saw Mummy's dove-gray dress among them and thought that perhaps I could manage that. It still surprises me that her dresses now fit me. Grandmother does not approve of me wearing them, but the stroke has left her unable to speak easily, and I have managed to ignore her dark looks.