Meanwhile Gardens Page 2

  They looked trustworthy Rion thought. She would ask them how far she had to go. Again she pulled down her sleeves to hide her bruises and pulled up the collar of her fleece. Rion took a deep breath.

  “Excuse me,” Rion smiled nervously. “Could you tell me how far it is to – ” she couldn’t finish the end of her sentence before the man shouted at her, “Hum!”

  Rion looked nervously at him, “I beg your – ”

  “Hum goddammit!” the man’s eyes bulged alarmingly as he seemed to look through her. Rion’s breath caught in her throat. Who was this madman and why did he want her to hum?

  Rion looked to his companion for support but the woman simply yelled, “Hum!” in the same authoritative tone.

  Her eyes brimming with tears Rion began on the only tune that came into her head. She falteringly hummed the first few bars of God Save The Queen before she seized her chance and dashed away.

  “Hum!”

  She heard the man order again but Rion was hobbling away as fast as she could, hoping to God they wouldn’t run after, catch her and – oh my gosh, ghastly images again filled her mind. Rion half ran, half-limped round the bend in the canal and away from the deranged couple.

  By now Rion was convinced that everyone in London, absolutely everyone, was either mad or horrible.

  Or both.

  “Hum!” Ollie shouted again before looking after the young girl. “Hey!” he called to her back but Rion had vanished around the corner with no intention of returning. Ollie shrugged his shoulders and gave one final yell, “Hum!”

  This time he was rewarded by a glimpse of Humdinger the III under Carlton Bridge faraway in the distance.

  “Auntie Em, he’s over there.”

  Within ten minutes Rion had crossed over the canal. She skirted the funeral merchants on the busy Harrow Road before finding herself in front of some open iron gates painted white. With trembling heart she entered the small building to the right, handed over the last of her money for a map, then walked through the triumphal arch into the calm of her destination.

  She had made it.

  Kensal Green Cemetery.

  2

  STRANGE BUT UNDENIABLY

  HANDSOME

  It was peaceful here. The cemetery had none of the emptiness, none of the gloom, of the stony patch attached to St Kilda’s church in Bridlington. There, the graveyard was filled with stolid headstones of people awash with decency and thrift. Here Rion could see that thrift was neither desired, nor indeed a consideration. For as far as the eye could see there were temples and obelisks, marbled family shrines and miniature chapels for the dead, all laid out along elegant, tree-lined avenues.

  Rion saw on her map that her hero’s grave was at the far end of South Avenue, on the other side of the cemetery. Excited now, she set off.

  After a few steps the plucky runaway had the peculiar feeling she was being watched. Rion looked up but the only people she could see were a rather incongruously jolly little group beside a grave on what, after a hurried look at the map, she deemed to be North Avenue.

  She carried on, her attention taken by a romantic stone canopy nearby. Rion turned off Centre Avenue onto the soft, slightly springy wood chips of a smaller path. Again she felt she was being watched, but again a furtive glance revealed no one.

  Within moments she was standing in front of a sculpted comforting angel that guarded the grave beneath the canopy.

  “George Augustus Frederick Percy Sydney Smythe. Seventh Viscount Strangford and Second Baron Penshurst,” she read out loud the lettering carved in stone.

  “He died before he was forty, you know – ”

  Rion jumped, startled by the young man who had appeared suddenly beside her. The young man ignored her look of surprise and continued, “ – of brandy, dissipation and consumption. He was a journalist as well as a Tory politician – who would have thought eh?” he said wrily. “Plus ça change – ” he paused for a moment in reflection. “What do you think dissipation is?”

  From her previous encounters with Londoners Rion thought it best to remain silent.

  “Whatever it is,” he continued, “it doesn’t sound very now does it?”

  Rion turned to look at the young man who appeared oblivious to her silence. He was roughly the same height as her although much, much older – at least twentysix she reckoned. He wore a raggedy sweater over paint spattered jeans. His black hair bounced in thick curls over his forehead.

  “I used to know a gardener years ago called Percy,” the young man paused in thought. “You don’t get too many Augustus’s – or should that be Augustii? – now do you? You did then though. Another Augustus, George 111’s sixth son – the Duke of Sussex – is buried here. It’s said his house was full of singing birds and chiming clocks and that during his final illness he survived on a diet of turtle soup and orange sorbet! Imagine that!”

  Rion began to imagine if he would ever stop talking.

  “Some of these graves go down sixty feet or more and have spaces for generations of the same family.”

  Rion overcame her nervousness. “How do they get down there?” she asked curiously

  “Ropes and pulleys. There are also catacombs under the main chapel but I don’t know much about them.” Jake gazed over the acres of tombs and monuments. “I could show you around if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, it’s ok,” Rion said hurriedly. “I’m just trying to find the grave of – ”

  “He was known as a dazzling, handsome rake.”

  “Sorry?”

  The young man gestured to the elaborate grave, “George Augustus Frederick Percy Sydney Smythe, Seventh Viscount Strangford and – ”

  “ – Second Baron Penshurst,” Rion finished for him.

  The young man smiled. “It is also said he fought the last duel in England. Nifty huh?”

  Nifty? Rion felt herself warming, somewhat against her will, to this talkative young man. Anyone who could use the word ‘nifty’ – and get away with it – might just be ok.

  “I’m Jake by the way.”

  Rion avoided his eyes and didn’t offer her name.

  After a pause he asked, “Would you mind if I accompanied you?”

  “Really, it’s ok, I – ”

  “Well, as long as we’re both going in the same direction. Shall we?”

  He took Rion gently by the elbow and turned her round to face the burial places lining the other side of the small path. After a couple of steps he stopped before a white marble grave locked inside some railings.

  “William Makepeace Thackeray,” Jake announced.

  Rion looked up, interested. She peered closer. “We were reading Vanity Fair at school.”

  “Ah, Vanitas vanitatum – ” Jake said sombrely.

  “- all is vanity,” Rion finished the closing sentence of the novel for him intrigued. Who was this gentle-mannered, undeniably attractive, but undeniably strange, man and what was he doing in a cemetery? “I was going to take my GSCE next summer.”

  “Was – ?” he enquired.

  “Well, it’s, I don’t think – I’ll….nothing – ” she flustered.

  Jake put his hand up to stop her. “It’s none of my business is it?”

  “No it’s just, yes, I mean – ”

  To stop her embarrassment Jake gently took her by the arm again, “This you must see.”

  He led her back to where the main avenue branched to the left. In front of them was a compact, ornate shrine.

  “Now this man knew about life.”

  Rion looked at the carved stone tomb, decorated with shields, that lay on blocks of green marble. The whole was enclosed by red columns that supported a canopy of arches, gargoyles and other flourishes.

  “Who was he?” she asked, awed by the overdecorated Gothic shrine.

  “Commander Charles Spencer Ricketts 1788 -1867. He ran away to sea when he was seven years old, served under Nelson at Trafalgar, quickly rose to the rank of commander, married an heiress and retired at t
wentyseven.”

  Jake paused to let the information sink in before continuing in a tone half-admiring, half-envious. “Now tell me that wasn’t a great life plan? I mean, who could want for more? Marrying an heiress and retiring at twentyseven – it’s every man’s dream.”

  “They must have been the celebs of their day.”

  “Yeah, but they got it by doing great things, extraordinary things, not by being kicked out of a reality show in week three.”

  Suitably impressed Rion followed Jake as he ambled down the avenue, pointing out the graves of notable people as well as their foibles.

  Finally they arrived under a large evergreen oak where the cemetery bordered the canal. This could be the moment, Rion thought, where she could thank him for his company before setting off to find her hero’s grave.

  “Are you a guide here?”

  Jake smiled. “Not exactly.”

  Rion noticed Jake’s attention had been taken by something behind her. The girl followed his gaze to see a taxi coming down the main avenue in the distance.

  “What do you do then?”

  “I thought we agreed to no questions,” Jake replied goodnaturedly.

  “Well, do you live round here?”

  Jake rolled his eyes.

  “I know it’s none of my business, and I wouldn’t normally ask,” Rion said hurriedly, not wishing to appear forward. “It’s just I’m trying to find somewhere to stay and – ”

  Jake again raised his eyes skywards.

  “Sorry, I know, no questions.”

  “No, it’s not that but – ” Jake paused for a moment, unsure. He then looked her level in the eye. “Can I trust you?”

  Rion felt her cheeks redden as she returned his gaze. Embarrassed she looked at the ground before forcing her eyes to meet his again, “Yes.”

  Jake again looked into the ivy-clad tree. “This is where I live,” he pointed out the evenly spaced notches at the back of the trunk that led to the lower branches and the dense foliage.

  Squinting upward Rion could just make out some planks camouflaged green some way above her head.

  “You live – ” she jerked her eyes up, amazed, “– up there?”

  The taxi was at the top of Terrace Avenue now, slowly making its way down the muddy track towards them.

  “Damn,” Jake said, “she’s early.” He paused for a moment before leading Rion away from the approaching taxi.

  “I know a place you can stay. It’s unusual but quite comfortable.”

  “I – ” Rion began.

  “Don’t worry, there’ll be no funny business.”

  They had reached a cluster of gravestones away from the tree. Jake motioned for Rion to sit beside one, “She doesn’t like to see anyone around when she arrives. Come back in an hour.”

  Jake began to walk away. After a second he turned back, “What’s your name?”

  “Rion.”

  “Rion?”

  “Like Marion but without the Ma,” Rion added helpfully.

  Jake again began to walk away before turning once more as if he had forgotten something.

  “Oh,” Jake paused, looked at the ground then looked back at Rion and smiled. “Don’t come knocking if the tree’s-a-rocking,” he winked at her. “Know what I’m saying?”

  Rion felt her face flush a deep red.

  From her hidden place beside the grave of Emmeline Pilkington, whose tombstone was inscribed with a beguiling ‘In fragrant memory’, Rion watched Jake shin up the notches of the imposing tree and vanish from sight.

  Through curious eyes she saw the taxi stop beneath Jake’s tree. A slender woman, thirties, stepped out, paid and quickly looked about her. She was dressed in a well-cut jacket, tailored trousers and turquoise pumps. Shading her eyes were an owllike pair of dark glasses. A large bouquet of flowers peered out of the elegant pink shopping bag she held in one hand. On the side of the bag were the words GHOST written in big white letters.

  “Come back at four o’ clock sharp,” Rion heard the woman say authoritatively.

  As the taxi slowly bumped and rattled up Terrace Avenue the woman, looking for all the world like a bereaved widow, placed the bouquet of flowers beneath the tree. When the taxi made its way out of the distant main gate Rion saw the woman look around before taking off her dazzling turquoise pumps. She put them in the pink bag where the flowers had been, put the bag over one shoulder and had a final look about her. Satisfied she wasn’t being watched Angie Peters went to the back of the tree where, to Rion’s amazement, she nimbly stepped up the notches and away from view.

  Rion stayed beside the tombstone of the fragrant Emmeline for a minute wondering if what she had seen had really happened. Deciding it had done, and deciding that Londoners really took the biscuit, Rion walked back to the mysterious tree. Without looking up into the prolific vegetation that concealed she couldn’t imagine what, Rion picked up the bouquet of flowers and hurried away.

  Gorby watched with interest as Rion wound between the colonnades of the Anglican Chapel. From his groundfloor window the guard saw her reach the gateway and vanish from sight. If he was lucky she would return. Gorby patted his large stomach in an attempt to massage away the mid-afternoon rumblings. It wouldn’t be long now until –

  “Tea!” a shrill voice called from down the corridor.

  The guard removed his peaked cap to give his magnificent strawberry birthmark a good scratch. With the rumblings increasing Gorby loped along the stoneflagged passage towards the promise of cake and digestives.

  Rion counted her way along the burial plots of West Centre Avenue. Within moments she had reached grave 31398, square 140, row 1.

  Upon seeing the simple red granite monument Rion was immediately disappointed. And then immediately guiltridden for feeling so disappointed.

  She had some funny notion, she thought to herself, that her hero’s tomb would somehow be worthy of the huge amount of inspiration she had received from him.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was elegant, yes, and simple, yes, but it was neither the grand nor grandiose shrine she had imagined.

  Rion peered closer to make sure this was indeed her hero’s final resting-place.

  The inlaid gold lettering confirmed it was.

  Jean Francois Gravelet (1824-97)

  Of Niagara House, Ealing

  On either side of the monument were silhouette marble medallions, portraits of the man she had come to see and of his wife who had died ten years before him.

  Why was it, she wondered, that a century ago women died ten years before their men, whilst now women died ten years after them?

  Rion placed the elegant bouquet between the marble portraits and offered up a prayer for guidance. She sat on the low walls of the grave, waiting for some message, some thunderbolt that would tell her what she was to do. She waited. And waited.

  And waited.

  The mid-afternoon sun warmed her as she slipped further and further down until she lay sheltered by the low walls of the tomb.

  Rion stretched out, enjoying the feeling of the cool stone beneath her. It had been a long day but now she had made it to where she wanted to be.

  Secure in the arms of her hero Rion could keep the tiredness away no longer. The last thing she saw as she drifted off was the large angel smiling at her from atop the memorial.

  Within seconds she was sound asleep.

  Within seconds she was dreaming of rocking trees, of ugly sisters, of angels and brutes and tightrope walkers, all spinning round, all grinning, all telling her to hum! Hum goddamnit! Hum!

  Gasping, Rion shook herself awake.

  “You’ll catch a chill if you lie there much longer.”

  Rion looked up to find Jake sitting behind her on the low walls of the tomb.

  “Granite, marble, any stone really,” he continued, “but especially smooth polished ones, the cold just goes right through you.”

  Rion rubbed her eyes, unsure for a second of where she was.

  Then
it all came back to her.

  She had made it to London, she had made it to her hero’s grave, and this curly-haired, friendly-faced person in front of her was called Jake and he somehow lived in a tree house in the cemetery…..?

  This last bit seemed unclear.

  Rion shook her head as if to jolt her thoughts into place, but the information remained: Jake lived in a treehouse where the cemetery bordered the canal. There was also something about a woman with dazzling blue pumps – ?

  Rion shuddered and sat up.

  “It looked like you were having a bad dream.”

  “How did you know where I was?” Rion asked, her hands shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun.

  “When you didn’t show up at four as arranged....”

  Rion hurriedly looked at her watch and saw it was twenty past – she had slept for an hour!

  “I spied you here from home. You can see most of the cemetery from there.”

  “Of – of course.”

  “You said you wanted a place to stay?”

  The young girl looked up at the silhouette medallion of her hero. Could she trust this man? she silently asked.

  “What are you doing here anyway? I mean, why this grave out of all the others? What’s so special about Jean Francois Gravelet?”

  Rion smiled at hearing her hero’s true name.

  “No one calls him that!” she said.

  “OK, apart from being the most famous tightrope walker in the world, what’s so special about Blondin?”

  As Rion unzipped her fleece and reached into an inner pocket Jake saw the mottled yellow bruising around her neck. He was curious but knew not to ask questions.

  From her fleece Rion brought out a thin, plastic wallet which she unfolded, carefully removing a much-creased piece of paper. Ever so delicately she lay the paper on her knee and smoothed out the creases before passing it with much gravity to Jake.

  The paper consisted of a faded engraving of a mustachioed man balancing on a tightrope above a raging waterfall. What was peculiar about it was the man appeared to be cooking something in a frying pan in the middle of his traverse.