May, After the Storm
The screeching is insane, the fight bloody. High above the church roof, attacks and retreats, feathers and fury. The larger gull dive bombs its rival aiming to impale it with an evil beak, intent on murder. The flock shrieks encouragement. Brutal.
The gulls are too intent on violence to notice the silent ones below.
Beneath the lush green grasses and whispering leaves of the watchful trees a favoured few are buried here. There will be no new grave. Miss Elisabeth feels it in her bones – there will be no body to bury. They will never find the missing girl.
She lays her posy next to Florence’s headstone – her friend and former teacher; one of the few select islanders allowed to sleep beneath this hallowed earth. The graveyard is full. People who live and work on this tiny island now have to be buried elsewhere.
Elisabeth herself has a nice plot already sorted in Helston, where 27her people were from. Her mother and father and baby brother already lie side by side over there. She can’t remember her brother as she was only little when he was taken by the angels. She wonders if she’ll recognise him. She hopes they all get on when they’re reunited in the great hereafter. Elisabeth is looking forward to seeing her mum and dad again. She’ll be able to say ‘I told you so’ now they realise it was not her who left the gate open, allowing the horse to escape, even though she got a smacked bottom for it.
Funny, she remembers that time as if it were yesterday, but she can’t quite place what she had for breakfast.
How Elisabeth loves this church. But her faith is of the little England ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ variety, not the snake-wrangling hysteria and speaking in tongues favoured by Americans like John What’s-His-Face, the expert up at the Abbey Gardens. Seemingly ecstatic in the pews, booming out hymns, dispensing hearty handshakes afterwards. So embarrassing. He was from the Bible Belt. Elisabeth is sure she wouldn’t like it there. A real Holy Joe. Didn’t do him much good though – a terrible business, that.
Miss Elisabeth is at her happiest arranging flowers for the altar, cocooned by the profound peacefulness of the church. The moment she steps outside, she is untroubled by thoughts of sin. She does not approve of Catholics with their guilt and handwringing and over-the-top ceremonies. She does not trust any form of passion in religious practice.
As she walks away from Florence’s grave she says a silent prayer for the poor lost girl. They’ve just started searching for her – police from the mainland, volunteers – but the waves have already taken her, Elisabeth feels sure of that. Still, she will join them this afternoon – it is only right, a community effort.
Eventually, though, the search will be abandoned. 28
There might be a plaque of some sort at some point in the future – a few words on a bench near the church. Nothing that might really commemorate a woman’s life.
Men get the statues.