Whispers in the Graveyard. Theresa Breslin
The church itself was usually built at the northern end, not in the centre, so that no one could be shamed by being buried in the shadows of the northern side. If there was such an area it would be kept for suicides, criminals and vagrants. These people wouldn’t have tombstones and that’s why, usually, the north side of an old graveyard will have no memorials.’
‘So that is why there is nothing here?’
‘Except . . .’ said Professor Miller. ‘The church remains are in the right-hand corner. Which means that this isn’t the north side . . . and . . . this part is not just bare, it’s devoid of anything . . . of everything. Of life . . . and . . . death.’
Mr Frame laughs nervously.
And again, suddenly, the realisation is in my mind. Nothing flourishes here. The rowan is the only single thing that exists. Living or dead. And even the tree is strangely still. Now it is springtime and no bird has made its nest among its branches. In the autumn no bird came to eat the red rowan berries. I remember quite clearly last year, when they cascaded onto the ground, small and round and ripe, no ant or insect ate them. They lay until, rotting, they returned to the soil.
The two men move away down towards the gate. I hear Mr Frame say, ‘I think I’ll notify our environmental health department and get them down here immediately. They can decide what to do.’ He paused for a minute.
‘We’ll have to wait for their clearance. Although there may be some work the squad can get on with meantime. Removing that tree for example.’
He calls to the foreman and they have a brief discussion. The workies take their tools and clamber back inside the van.
They are gone.
Silence.
But for how long?
I stand high on the wall. I touch my face; salt tears are there. They are going to destroy my place. I will have no refuge now. Even the criminals and beggars got a place of rest. Not me. I lean far out over the wall and grab a branch of the tree to swing myself down.
An edge cuts into me and tears the surface of my skin as I land at the base of the tree. The rope-thick roots rush up against my body and I roll over onto the soft earth. I see a gash in the sleeve of my jacket. Liquid red squeezes through. A few drops of my blood spill and are quickly swallowed up into the dark soil. I stand up shakily and suddenly, impulsively, I wrap my arms around its solid trunk.
The recoil sends me staggering backwards, dazed and stupefied. As though it had leapt to life beneath my grasp, had become a writhing throbbing snake, slithering against my body.
I dab at my arm. Blood makes me faint and dizzy. That’s it. That explains my feeling of strange revulsion.
I stagger to my feet. I must get away. I take, though I do not know this, what will be my last look at its pearl-white skin and grey-green leaves. My doomed mountain ash.
Later, but it was really too late then. Far, far too late, I found out that rowan trees were planted to ward off evil.
‘You’ve hidden it. Where is it?’
He’s rummaging through the bottom kitchen cupboards as I come in the back door. Fancy dishes, cake plates, water jugs and a decorated fruit bowl are strewn around him on the floor. Emblems of our former family life.
‘Dunno what you mean.’ I drop my rucksack on the floor and edge past him, picking my way among the debris. Cloth napkins, a flower vase. Things we’ve not used in months. Not since she left.
I slink into the hall and through to the living room. Close the door softly. Switch the telly on and squat down.
Game show. Soap. Cartoons. Talk show. News.
I flick back to the cartoons. I can watch them with the sound down.
Bright colours like my comics. Fills my head. There’s light and dark and noise, movement and colour, quick and fast. It blots everything else out. Except . . .
It’s better when you do it for yourself. Like . . . inside your head. You know. Make the story happen yourself. The way you want it to be. They spoil it on the telly sometimes, people don’t look right, make stupid remarks that don’t fit in. But words, words are different. I heard someone reading poetry on the radio once. The phrases stayed inside me for weeks, exploding in my head, thrusting and twisting in my gut.
The noise from the kitchen is getting louder. Things are being thrown. I put my head in my hands. He is getting worse. Definitely. The weekend firecracker has usually fizzled out by Monday afternoon.
There is an almighty bang from against the wall. I stretch over and turn the volume on the TV up a bit. I’m hoping the noise will cover me to get safely upstairs. I turn the door handle silently. Walking on the sides of my feet softly down the hall. Almost at the stairs now.
The kitchen door crashes open.
‘You know where it is, don’t you?’ he demands thickly. His body fills the doorway.
I breathe slowly. Once. Twice. My sludge-coloured day is streaked with blood-orange.
‘There’s none left. You finished it all.’
I’m watching him carefully. My eyes on his hands. The trick is in the timing.
Get ready.
Knowing when to move is as important as knowing which way to go.
‘You’d better tell me.’ He points his finger in my face. His bulk has blotted out any light in the passageway.
I shake my head slowly and move backwards. He comes at me then, arms swinging. I duck.
Red alert.
Sometimes being wee and skinny is a bonus. I’m round behind him and into the kitchen before he knows it. I grab my rucksack and scramble out the back door. A crashing noise behind me. Shattered glass showers the path.
I make the lane and I don’t look back.
Have to stay out for a few hours at least. I’ll go to Peter’s house for a bit. His mum will be at work.
His two younger sisters are squabbling in the living room. We go into his kitchen to make sandwiches.
‘Where’d you end up today?’ he asks me. ‘I searched about for you at lunch time.’
‘Here and there.’ I’m offhand. No one knows my secret place. ‘How was your day with WW?’
‘The usual. He had Melly blubbing away ten minutes after you left.’ Peter pulls some slices of bread from the plastic-wrapped loaf on the work top. He stops, with his hand half out of the bag. ‘You know, copying my work, Sol . . . I don’t mind, but . . . you’ll never learn anything that way.’
I take out two mugs, spoon in sugar and add milk. ‘Don’t care,’ I say quickly. ‘Was Watkins bothered that I didn’t come back?’
‘Na.’ Peter is smearing jam and peanut butter on the bread. He waves the knife at me. ‘I’ve told you before. He’s not supposed to send you out of class like that. He would get into trouble if he was found out. You should get your dad to report him.’
His eyes meet mine. He must know. We only live a few streets apart. He hands me my piece, not looking at me now.
His mum comes in lugging a supermarket bag full of shopping.
‘What a mess!’ she says, picking up our mugs and the jar of peanut butter from the kitchen table. ‘Come on, Pete, lend