The Lost Ones. Anita Frank
kissed me then. I melted into his touch. My fingers threaded into the hair at the back of his head, drawing him ever closer to me. When we broke apart, I smiled with deliciously swollen lips.
‘I like your intent,’ I whispered. ‘I accept your intent – and I’ll match your intent, every step of the way.’
The car pulled up before the church just as the troop of servants appeared from a pathway down the side of the graveyard. There were a few spots of rain in the wind as we got out, and I took the umbrella for good measure. The memory of Gerald’s proposal had left me feeling melancholic and for once, I welcomed the opportunity for quiet reflection that the church service offered. Annie Burrows appeared last from the pathway, following a plump woman who was carefully tucking two posies of wild flowers into a bag looped over her forearm. Her eyes narrowed as she caught me watching her.
Following Lady Brightwell to the front door of the church was rather like following Moses across the Red Sea. The crowd of villagers who had congregated outside parted, their heads dipped deferentially as we passed through their midst. I think Madeleine found the whole experience rather embarrassing, shyly meeting people’s eyes and murmuring ‘Good morning’ as she followed in her mother-in-law’s wake.
Lady Brightwell, though, displayed little short of divine authority. She glided through the aisle and up the nave, Miss Scott darting forward to hold open the swing door of the Brightwell boxed pew, positioned at the front. Miss Scott herself only sat when she was quite satisfied she had met her employer’s every need and comfort.
I followed Madeleine into the pew behind. I sighed as I sat down, tucking my umbrella into the corner out of the way. Madeleine unhooked the embroidered hassock and set it on the cold flags, dropping down to offer a prayer. I had no interest in engaging with the God who had abandoned me, so I remained in my seat, worshipping my memories of Gerald rather than a deity I could not see.
It was an unexceptional service. The vicar was ancient and stumbled over his words, his eyes straining to read the sermon, the glasses balanced on his stubby nose clearly unfit for purpose. The organist too was either decrepit or inept, labouring every note until even ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’ was reduced to a dirge. I leapt to my feet for the parting blessing, eager to escape.
Lady Brightwell stopped outside the porch to engage the vicar in a long discussion about the state of the hassocks. Miss Scott, clutching her handbag, leant in to me as the departing congregation shuffled around us.
‘I miss the bells,’ she said as Madeleine joined us. ‘I was just saying, it’s not the same without the bells, is it, my dear?’
Pealing church bells were a distant memory. Sundays had been silent for three long years, and would be, I feared, for longer yet. I left Madeleine to console her mother-in-law’s companion and drifted away to scan the faded inscriptions on the headstones haphazardly placed about the graveyard.
I hadn’t gone far when I noticed a soldier. He had his back to me, standing stiff and straight before a humble-looking grave, his head bowed. My heart ached; there was something very poignant about the simple sight – a fighting man grieving the lost. Sensing my presence, he began to look my way. I put my head down and walked on, shivering in the cool breeze that whipped up a clutch of dead leaves, buffeting them along the path before me.
A large chest tomb caught my eye and I wandered over to it. The flat tablet of stone that sealed the top rested on ornate pillars, one at each corner. An exquisitely carved stone angel, her head bowed in prayer, her wings closed behind her, knelt at one end, the folds of her robe pooling around her, her arms crossed over her chest. I stopped to read the inscription cut deep into the stone side, and learnt I was standing at the final resting place of none other than Sir Arthur Brightwell himself. The grass about the sarcophagus was unkempt, the edges of the stone lid were beginning to flake, and there was no indication that anyone had been near it for some time.
Moving on, I noticed a few feet away a more traditional headstone, its arced top ornately carved with cherubs and flowers. My pulse stuttered as I read the simple inscription:
IN LOVING MEMORY
LUCIEN ARTHUR BRIGHTWELL
AGED 5 YEARS AND 10 MONTHS
A wilting posy of simple wild flowers lay at the foot of the headstone. I crouched down to touch the faded offering. How curious the boy should be remembered and yet the father should not.
I became aware of someone hovering behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see the woman Annie had followed, waiting patiently for me to move on.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, rising.
‘Oh no, miss, that’s quite all right. I’m just not used to seeing anyone else here, that’s all.’
I noticed that she was clutching one of the bunches of flowers I had seen her with earlier, the top of the other just visible over the rim of her bag.
‘You left the flowers?’
Her round cheeks diffused with pink. ‘Oh, they’re nothing much, miss, just a few pretty wild flowers I pick on the way here each week.’
‘Oh no, I think they’re lovely.’ I stepped away from the grave. ‘What a very sweet thing to do.’
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