Warwick arrived at the cathedral as soon as it opened and had soon seen all there was to see—twice, paying his respects to every single grave, including one that belonged to a dear fellow called Francis Francis. Warwick’s feet had echoed up and down the stone tiles and he needed to sit.
It would be easy to miss Katherine in such a huge building. She could be in and out in the time it took him to walk down the nave but he had an advantage. He knew exactly where she would be and there were seats to ease his waiting near the very spot.
Jane Austen’s grave was in the north aisle and Warwick took a seat in the nave. It was partially obscured by a great pillar but he wouldn’t be easily spotted because she wouldn’t be looking for him, would she? He just had to make himself as comfortable as possible and hope that she arrived before he dropped off to sleep. He was positioned near a great fat radiator that was doing a good job of warming his little corner of the cathedral, and it would be terrible if he fell asleep and missed his big chance.
He spent a while reading, first the cathedral information leaflet and then the children’s guide which he thought much more interesting. He then got his notepad out and started writing a short story, all the time looking up to make sure he didn’t miss Katherine.
The low-backed wooden chair was comfortable enough for a few minutes, but it wasn’t long before Warwick felt his bum going numb. He picked up the small green hymnal in front of him and flipped through it, reading the words of Percy Dearmer.
A brighter dawn is breaking,
And earth with praise is waking
‘Let’s hope so, Percy. Let’s hope so.’
What if it all went wrong? What if Katherine screamed at him and made a big scene in front of the whole of Winchester? What if she threw chairs at him across the nave? Or worse—what if she didn’t show up at all?
He looked at his watch. There was time yet. He mustn’t panic.
***
It was cold enough for snow.
The sky was darkening when Katherine made her way to the cathedral. Strings of white lights threaded through the trees overhead. She’d managed to tick everything off her Christmas list and got a few gorgeous extras besides. The Christmas market, with its tiny wooden huts huddled around the cathedral, had been addictive, and Katherine bought a red berry wreath for her front door, the softest of shawls for her aunt and an indulgent bag of creamy fudge she couldn’t resist plundering as she watched the skaters on the ice rink.
And then it was time.
As she entered the cathedral through the great red door, she breathed a sigh of relief. There were a few tourists around but it wasn’t nearly as crowded as the shops had been. Katherine was always surprised that other people should want to visit Jane Austen’s grave. Selfishly she wanted Jane to herself, but her grave was a popular spot with tourists whose toes strayed onto the sacred spot and cameras flashed at the words on the gravestone. Katherine would wait patiently for her turn, lighting a candle for Jane not because she was religious but because Jane had been. She waited for the crowds to clear and then walked towards the aisle, reading the familiar words etched into the stone.
Every year was the same. Katherine felt a sudden swell of emotion and had to blink rapidly to avoid tears falling, and then she’d sigh. How could she get emotional about a person who died two hundred years earlier—a person she didn’t know at all?
‘But I do know her,’ Katherine said to herself.
And each year, the same things upset her. The grave above Jane’s belonged to a Frances Dorothy Littlehales, who had died at the age of seventy-one. That was thirty years more than Jane had been given. How unfair that seemed to Katherine! She always wondered what Jane would have done with so many more years. What wonders would she have written?
***
Warwick’s eyes and thoughts wandered. He gazed up at the cathedral’s astonishing roof. Imagine the weight if it all came crashing down, he thought. How many houses could you build with the masonry?
He turned around to look at the view behind him. He liked the huge West Window. The colours were so sparse that the window was almost completely transparent but there wasn’t much light to be let in that day, and what little there was, was fast fading. An enormous Christmas tree stood under the window, sparkling with white lights. Together with the groups of tiny bright candles, the lights did their best to brighten up the dark spaces, but it was a losing battle and, by four o’clock, the north aisle was almost in total darkness.
He was just thinking how easy it would be to slip under the spell of religion and superstition in such a place when he saw her. She was wearing a bright pink hat with matching gloves and scarf and her long dark hair was loose. An icy little wind had nipped her nose scarlet and her cheeks were flushed with colour too. She was laden with shopping bags when she stopped by the grave of Jane Austen.
At first he couldn’t move but stared at her as if she were some kind of mirage. She had no idea he was there and he remained seated, half-hidden behind the great stone pillar, watching her as she looked down at the grave in the aisle. This was the moment he’d been waiting for but suddenly he felt unsure of what to do.
Then, swallowing hard, he got up and walked towards her.