A SUBDUED SALLY and Maggie passed through the streets. Christ Church came into view and Sally gave a half-smile of reassurance but her friend, after attempting to return it and failing, bit her lip.
‘I appreciate your coming. Please, don’t worry. Father Collins assured me all will run smoothly.’
Maggie nodded uncertainly. ‘It’s just, well, folk might wonder why we’re going early. Mrs Sharp’s service ain’t till two; it’s only just gone twelve,’ she said out of the side of her mouth. ‘Are you certain he’s agreed to this? Happen you got it wrong.
‘I’ve heard whispers of this sort of thing for babbies what die afore they can be baptised, but …’ She glanced around. ‘Not with folk who’ve committed murder or self-murder – and Miss Sharp committed both! I’ve not heard afore of any priest turning the other cheek to summat like this.’
‘Well, now you have. He’s a compassionate man. He understands the circumstances behind Miss Sharp’s dreadful act.’ As had Maggie, she glanced around before continuing. ‘From what he hinted, it simply comes down to the humanity of individual clergymen. I’m thankful Father Collins is a sympathetic soul unafraid of defying convention.’
‘He’d be in hot water if he were found out, though, wouldn’t he? Mebbe us, an’ all. And that’d be nowt compared with what would happen were folk to discover what we were about. A quick prayer and blessing of an innocent babby’s grave is one thing; this is summat else altogether. I reckon many wouldn’t approve.’
‘I cannot speak for Father Collins. I don’t know what the repercussions, if any, would be, but the decision was his. And I for one am grateful. I’m not concerned what people think. This is right, I’m certain.’
Re-tying string around a posy of roses, the flower seller, sensing their presence, smiled without looking up. ‘Just a minute while I …’ She made a knot and returned the bunch to her basket. ‘There we are. Now, what would you like?’ Recognition flickered in her eyes and her smile turned sympathetic. ‘Hello, lass.’
Remembering her kindness with Peggy’s flowers, Sally smiled warmly. ‘Good afternoon. You were most helpful last week and regrettably, I need your advice again.’
The flower seller nodded understandingly. Many, many people, young and old alike, died daily around here. Attending more than one funeral in the same week, for some poor souls, wasn’t uncommon.
‘Who’s being laid to rest?’
Seeing Sally hesitate, Maggie stepped forward. ‘Two posies of white roses will do, ta. They’re suitable for an owder lady, ain’t they?’
‘Aye, they are. It’s important to pick summat right; flowers hold different meanings, you see. Aye, white roses – innocence, purity and reverence. A sound choice, lass.’
Sally paid with a mumbled thank-you. Once out of earshot, she glanced at her friend. ‘Oh, if only she knew …’
Maggie sighed. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Sally now knew that, away from the main churchyard, most parish churches held a marshy or overgrown plot for the interment of sinners beyond redemption.
In a remote corner beneath an ancient, bare-branched tree, Father Collins conducted a simple ceremony and, surrounded by countless unmarked graves, laid Pru Sharp to rest.
Murmuring a final goodbye, Sally placed a posy on the fresh earth then turned to the gravedigger. ‘Thank you.’
The kindly faced man leaning on his spade touched his cap. He marked the sign of the cross over his chest and nodded to the priest.
Father Collins returned it. ‘Thank you, Jackson.’ He motioned to her and Maggie. ‘Come, let us pray.’
They walked back to the church in silence.
Sally couldn’t suppress a bitter smile as Father Collins’ clear voice committed Agnes to the ground. No hushed tones, here. No glancing around before blessing the grave. No secrecy.
In her eyes, this woman had sinned far more than the one condemned to lie for eternity as far from the church as possible. Pru’s resting place would remain unmarked by stone or cross; no inscription, no lasting reminder of someone more sinned against than sinner. Yet despite the years of misery she’d inflicted, Agnes would lie peacefully in the Lord’s garden. It didn’t make sense.
Father Collins closed his bible. ‘I will leave you to say your final words.’
Alone with Maggie, Sally swallowed the pain of injustice and laid the second posy on the soil. She replaced the heartfelt apology whispered at Pru’s graveside with one question: ‘Why?’
Maggie reached for her hand. ‘That’s summat we’ll never know. They’ve carried their secrets to their graves. Dwelling on it’ll do you no good.’
Despite Agnes’s entitlement to a conventional funeral, it was as lonely an affair as her daughter’s, and as Maggie steered Sally away, sadness for both women overcame her. They’d had only each other. What-ifs haunted her but Maggie was right. Dwelling on what she couldn’t change was useless.
Father Collins stood waiting by the church doors and she clasped his hand. ‘I cannot express my gratitude for what you’ve done today. I’ll never forget your kindness, Father.’
Eyes soft, he inclined his head. ‘Have strength, my child. Remember, the Lord’s house is always open.’
Maggie took her arm. ‘Let’s get you home.’
Those words were music to her. She yearned to sit in Maggie and Ellen’s cosy kitchen and hold Jonathan close.
As they passed through the church gates, a gentleman collided with them. He struggled to keep hold of the sheaf of papers he carried and they rushed to assist him.
‘Thank you, thank you, I’m most terribly sorry,’ he mumbled, eyes flicking behind them to the church. ‘May I ask, is Father Collins still present?’
Sally nodded. ‘Yes, he’s—’
‘Thank goodness. Good day.’
‘Clumsy beggar,’ grumbled Maggie when he’d gone. ‘He near knocked us flying, then.’
Looking back, Sally frowned. ‘He was in quite a hurry. I wonder what was so important?’
‘Lord knows. Come on, lass, I hear our teapot calling.’
A beshawled figure watched the women turn into Junction Street.
When they disappeared from view, she emerged from the shelter of the branches. Wary eyes darting, she hurried to a fresh grave. She dropped to her knees and ran her fingers over the earth. She mouthed words then dipped her chin to her chest, lips still. She straightened the roses, caressed the soil once more then rose. Quickly, noiselessly, she scurried back to the trees.
Reappearing at the opposite end of the churchyard, she drew her shawl lower over her face. She flitted between the gravestones, eyes fixed on another dark mound up ahead. Reaching this, she didn’t kneel. No gentle fingering of soil or straightening of flowers. No whisper, no emotion. Glaring down, her every pore emitted pure loathing.
She spat on the ground and was gone.