Falling Angels. Tracy Chevalier

       SIMON FIELD

      I stay down the grave awhile after the girls have gone. There don’t seem no reason to come out. Our Pa don’t bother to come after me, or stand at the top of the hole and shout. He knows where he can get me when he wants. ‘This cemetery has a high wall round it,’ he always says. ‘You can climb out but in the end you always come back through the front gate, feet first.’

      The sky’s pretty from eight feet down. It looks the colour of that girl’s fur. Her muff, she called it. The fur was so soft. I wanted to put my face in it the way I saw her do.

      I lie back on the ground and watch the sky. Sometimes a bird flies across, high above me. Bits of dirt from the sides of the hole crumble and fall on my face. I don’t worry about the hole collapsing. For the deeper graves we use grave-boards to shore up the sides, but we don’t bother with little ones like this. This one’s in clay, good and damp so it holds up. It’s happened before, the hole caving in, but mostly in sand, or when the clay’s dried out. Men have got killed down graves. Our Pa always tells me to put a hand over my face and stick my other hand up if I’m down a grave and it falls in. Then I’ll have an air hole through the dirt and they can see by my fingers where I am.

      Someone comes then and looks into the grave. He’s black against the light, so I can’t see who it is. But I know it’s not our Pa – he don’t smell of the bottle.

      ‘What are you doing down there, Simon?’ the man says.

      Then I know who it is. I jump to my feet and brush the dirt off my back and bum and legs.

      ‘Just resting, sir.’

      ‘You’re not paid to rest.’

      ‘I’m not paid nothing, sir,’ I say before I can stop myself.

      ‘Oh? I should think you earn plenty from all you learn here. You’re learning a trade.’

      ‘Learning don’t feed me, sir.’

      ‘Enough of your insolence, Simon. You are but a servant of the London Cemetery Company. There are plenty more waiting outside the gate who would gladly take your place. Don’t you forget that. Now, have you finished that grave?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Then cover it over and go and find your father. He should be putting away the tools. God knows he needs the help. I don’t know why I keep him on.’

      I know why. Our Pa knows this place better’n anybody. He can take apart any grave, remember who’s buried how far down and whether it’s sand or clay. He learned it all from our Granpa. And he’s fast digging when he wants to be. His arms are hard as rocks. He’s best when he’s had a bit of the bottle but not too much. Then he and Joe dig and laugh and I haul up and dump the bucket. But once he’s had too much it’s Joe and me does all the digging and dumping.

      I look round for the long tree branch with the stumps on it what I use to climb out the little graves. Our Pa must’ve taken it out.

      ‘Mr Jackson,’ I call, but he’s gone already. I shout again but he don’t come back. Our Pa will think I’ve got out and covered the grave – he won’t come back either.

      I try to dig toeholds into the sides of the hole so I can climb out, but there’s no spade, only my hands, and the ground’s too hard. ’Sides, it’s firm now but I don’t know for sure it’ll last. I don’t want it to cave in on me.

      It’s cold in the hole now I’m stuck in it. I squat on my heels and wrap my arms round my legs. Every now and again I call out. There’s four other graves being dug today and a couple of monuments going up, but none of them near me. Still, maybe a visitor will hear me, or one of them girls’ll come back. Sometimes I hear voices and I call out ‘Help! Help!’ But no one comes. People stay away from graves just dug. They think something’s going to pop out the hole and grab ’em.

      The sky over me is going dark grey and I hear the bell ringing to tell visitors the cemetery’s shutting. There’s a boy goes round every day ringing it. I yell till my throat hurts but the bell drowns me out.

      After a time the bell stops and after that it’s dark. I jump up and down to get warm and then I crouch down again and hug my knees.

      In the dark the hole starts to smell stronger of clay and wet things. There’s an underground branch of the Fleet River runs through the cemetery. Feels close by.

      The sky goes clear of clouds and I start to see little pricks of stars, more and more appearing till the patch of sky above me is full, like someone’s sprinkled flour on the sky and is about to roll out dough on it.

      I watch them stars all night. There’s nothing else to do in the grave. I see things in ’em – a horse, a pickaxe, a spoon. Sometimes I look away and back again and they’ve moved a little. After a while the horse disappears off the edge of the sky, then the spoon. Once I see a star streak ’cross the sky. I wonder where it goes when it does that.

      I think about them girls, the one with the muff and the one with the pretty face. They’re tucked up in their beds, all toasty warm. I wish I was like them.

      It’s not so bad as long as I don’t move. When I move it hurts like someone’s hitting me with a plank of wood. After a time I can’t move at all. My blood must be frozen.

      The hardest part is towards the end of the night, when it might be getting light but it don’t yet. Our Pa says that’s when most people die ’cause they can’t wait any longer for the day to start. I watch the stars. The pickaxe disappears and I cry a little bit and then I must fall asleep because when I look up again the stars are gone and it’s light and the tears have frozen on my cheeks.

      It gets lighter and lighter but no one comes. My mouth is stuck together I’m so thirsty.

      Then I hear the hymn ‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’ which our Pa likes to whistle when he’s working. It’s funny ’cause he’s not been inside a church in years. The whistling gets closer and closer and I try to call out but it hurts too much to make a noise.

      I hear him walking round the hole, laying down boards and then the green carpets what look like grass, to make the ground round the grave look nice and neat. Then he lays the flat ropes across the hole that’ll go under the coffin for lowering it, and then the two wooden bearers they lay the coffin on, one each end of the hole. He don’t look down and see me. He’s dug so many holes he don’t need to look in ’em.

      I try to open my mouth but can’t. Then I hear the horses snorting and their halters creaking and the wheels crunching on the path and I know I have to get out or I never will. I straighten my legs, screaming from the pain ’cept there’s no sound ’cause I still can’t open my mouth. I manage to stagger to my feet and then I get my mouth working and call out, ‘Pa! Pa!’ I sound like one of them crows up in the trees. At first nothing happens. I call again and our Pa leans over the hole and squints at me.

      ‘Jesus,