Falling Angels (28 page)

I chose the epitaph, as Mama was overcome in the shop and had to go outside for some air. The shop assistant said the epitaph was meant for a baby, not someone Ivy May's age, but I think it's lovely, especially the phrase
To bloom in realms divine,
and I insisted it remain.

I could have spent all day in Jay's--it is so comforting to be in a shop devoted entirely to what one is experiencing. But Mama refused to linger and became quite short with me. I don't know what to do about her--she is very pale, poor dear, and hardly says a word except to be contrary. Much of the time she remains in her room, lying in bed as if she is ill. She rarely emerges for visitors, and so it has been up to me to see to the entertaining--pouring out cups of tea, asking Elizabeth to bring in more cake and crumpets. So many cousins arrived today that we ran out and I had to send Elizabeth to the baker's for more. I myself cannot eat a thing, except for the odd slice of currant bread, which the King's physician recommends for keeping the strength up.

I have tried to interest Mama in the letters of condolence we have received, but she does not seem to read them. I have had to answer them myself, as I worry that if I leave them with Mama she will simply forget, and it does not do to delay a reply.

People have said the most surprising things about Ivy May--how angelic she was, how she was the perfect daughter and such a support to Mama, how tragic for us and how much she will be missed. Indeed, I sometimes want to write back and ask if they thought it was
I
who died. But instead I make sure simply to sign my name large and clear, so that there will be no doubt.

Mama said to me at breakfast that she does not want me to go back to school, that I can finish the term by studying at home. Oust as well, as I am in no mood to sit in class. I should probably interrupt everything by weeping at the wrong moments.) And that next term I am to switch schools and attend the Sainte Union on the Highgate Road. My heart did a little leap, as the girls there have such smart uniforms. I was surprised, of course, as the school is Catholic, but perhaps I shouldn't be--Mama asked for the priest from St. Joseph's in Highgate to come and see her last night. Papa said not a word. If reverting to Catholicism is a comfort to her, what is one to say?

Papa has been kept very busy with the arrangements, and that is good, I think. I helped him when I could, as Mama is unable. When the undertaker came to see us it was I who chose the dress Ivy May is to wear (white cotton with puffed sleeves that used to be mine) and the flowers (lilies) and what to do with her hair (loose curls and a crown woven of white roses). Papa answered the other questions about the coffin and horses and such. He also met with the cemetery people and the vicar, and with the police.

The latter gave me rather a shock, as Papa brought a policeman home to question me! He was nice enough, but asked me so many questions about that awful afternoon in Hyde Park that I began to be confused about exactly when Ivy May went missing. I tried to be brave but I'm afraid I went through all the handkerchiefs we had just bought. Luckily Mama was upstairs and so did not have to hear the details. Papa had tears in his eyes by the time I finished.

The policeman kept asking me about the men in the crowd. He even asked about Simon, as if Simon were someone to be suspicious of! I put him straight there. And I told him about the men who chased Maude and me at the demonstration, and how frightened we were.

I did not tell him about the man who put his hand on my bottom. I knew that I should have, that it was just the thing he was looking for. But I was embarrassed to have to speak of it. And I could not bear to think that that man got hold of my sister. Telling the policeman about him would be like an admission that he had. I wanted to keep Ivy May safe from him, in my mind if nowhere else.

No one has talked about what actually happened to Ivy May. But I can guess. I am no idiot. I saw the marks on her neck.

Tonight I was standing at my window when I saw Maude standing at hers. We waved to each other, but it felt very peculiar, and after a moment I stepped back from the window. We are not allowed to visit each other, as one is not meant to pay visits while in mourning. Besides which, I don't think seeing Maude would bring much comfort to me now--all I can think of is her mother abandoning us in that huge crowd, and Ivy May's sweaty hand slipping from mine.

I sat on my bed and looked at Ivy May's little white bed in the corner. We would never lie in our beds again at night and whisper and tell each other stories--or rather, I told them and she listened. I am all alone now.

It hurt so much to look at that bed that I went down right then and asked Papa to move it.

I am so heavy with guilt that I cannot get out of bed. The priest has come, and the doctor, and neither can rouse me.

I did not tell them, nor Albert either, that I pretended to have a sprained ankle. Albert, bless him, thought it was real. If I had not pretended, if I had taken the girls to the march--or indeed if I had stood up to Livy and not allowed her to go--Ivy May would be sitting here with me now.

I have killed my daughter with my own stupidity, and if she is not here I do not want to live either.

The first thing I did was to give that impertinent maid her notice. I am sorry to admit that anything in a house of mourning could give me satisfaction, but that did. Of course she wailed and wrung her hands, but her dramatics had no effect on me--if anything they made me more determined that I had done the right thing, and none too soon.

Jenny had the nerve to mention Maude. "What will she do?" she kept crying.

"Maude will continue as she has always done. I will look after her--I have come to stay and will remain for as long as I am needed. But that is no concern of yours."

Jenny looked stricken.

"I let you go two years ago," I reminded her, "for reasons I'm sure you remember. My daughter-in-law should never have taken you back. Pack your bag and go. Your final wages will be sent to you."

"What about my reference?"

I snorted. "Do you think I would give a reference to a girl like you?"

"But how am I to get another position?"

"You should have thought of that when you lay with that man."

The girl ran from the room. To my surprise Mrs. Baker appeared a few minutes later, asking me to keep Jenny on.

"Why should I keep on a girl of such lax morals?" I replied. "Believe me, she will be much better off staying home and looking after her child, the poor mite."

"And what will she feed him--air?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind about Jenny's son, ma'am," Mrs. Baker said. "It's for Miss Maude's sake that I'm asking you to keep Jenny. The poor girl's just lost her mother--I hate to see her losing the people round her too. Jenny's been here since Miss Maude was a baby. She's like family to her."

"That girl is nothing like family to Maude!" I was so furious it was a struggle to keep my voice down. "How dare you compare her to the Colemans! And Maude doesn't need her--she's got me." By losing a mother, she has gained a grandmother, I almost said, but thought the better of it.

So Jenny went. Maude said not a word, though she stood in the hallway and watched her go with a very pale face.

Then, for her sake and Richard's, I made another decision. Already the morning after Kitty's death the flowers had begun arriving--elaborate arrangements of lilies, irises, cornflowers, white roses, all tied up with purple, green, and white ribbons. The cards read things like "To Our Fallen Comrade" and "Hope Is Strong--In Heaven As On Earth" and "She Gave Herself To The Cause." And that infernal telephone rang so much that I had a man come and disconnect it. Then suffragettes began coming to the door to ask about the funeral, until I had the hired girl who replaced Jenny turn them away. It was clear that Kitty was becoming a martyr to them. I dreaded to think what would happen if the suffragettes turned up en masse to the funeral--they might take it over and turn it into a political rally. I would never forgive myself for allowing James's family name to be dragged through the mud yet again.

I would not let it happen. I spoke to Richard of my plan and he readily agreed. After that it was not so difficult to arrange things to our satisfaction--after all, discretion is paramount in the undertaking trade.

She come running after me as I walked down the street with my bag. I'd stopped crying by then--I were too scared of what was to become of me even to cry. She didn't say nothing, just threw her arms round me and hugged me tight.

There ain't nothing she can do--a girl of thirteen up against such a grandmother? I feel terrible for breaking my promise to her mum about that witch, but I got no influence with someone like that--the missus should've known that. Nor can I do nothing about keeping her secret from the men. That's in God's hands now--or Miss Livy's, more like.

None of this should be my concern now, though--I got my own troubles, like how to keep me mum and me son and me on no wages and no reference. I've no time for tears. I've the rest of the missus's sil- verware in my bag, but that won't last forever.

I am rather ashamed of my daughter. I know these are difficult days for her, as they are for us all; indeed I've wondered if she would hold up under the strain. But I wish Livy and Maude had not said such awful things to each other in public, and right at Ivy May's grave--my poor Ivy May, who I could not protect from evil men. I am just glad Trudy was being comforted by a sister and did not hear them--she would have been horrified to hear herself argued over.

It was at first something to do with Maude's dress. I am no judge of these things, but she was wearing a rather fine silk dress that Livy clearly envied. Livy said something about the dress being ostentatious for a girl of thirteen to wear.

Maude then replied, "Lavinia, you can't spell the word, must less understand what it means. Mourning dresses by definition are not ostentatious."

I was a bit surprised, as Maude is usually so soft spoken. But then, she has just lost her mother. And Livy was shocked--and livid, I am sorry to say.

"I know enough to know that you should not be wearing a boater with that dress," Livy said. "Nor should you put your hair up under a boater--it just looks silly. And it's coming down at the back. Your hair isn't thick enough to put up the way mine is."

"Perhaps you forget that I have no mother to ask advice of," Maude said. "Nor a sister, nor even a maid, now."

"I don't have a sister either! Have you forgot that?"

Maude looked mortified at her slip, and if Livy had allowed her to apologize, as she seemed about to do, their argument might have blown over. But of course Livy couldn't resist pressing her point. "All you think of is yourself. Have you spared a thought for poor Mama, who has lost a daughter? Is there anything worse than losing one's child?"

"Losing one's mother, perhaps," Maude said in a low voice.

These comparisons were so odious that I finally had to step in--wishing I had done so earlier. (I often wish that, when it is too late.) "Livy, would you like to walk with your mother down to the carriage?" I asked, at the same time giving what I hoped was a sympathetic look to Maude.

"Papa, how often must I remind you--it's Lavinia." Livy turned her back on Maude and went over to her mother. I was about to say something-what, I did not know-but before I could, Maude slipped away and ran up the path farther into the cemetery.

Later that night, I could not sleep and came downstairs with my candle to get out
Cassell's
and
The Queen.
I have never looked in women's manuals before--thankfully I have little to do with household sorts of things. But at last I found what I was looking for--both manuals say that a child mourns its parent and a parent its child for the same period of time--one year.

I left both books on the table open to those pages, but when I came down the next morning they had been put away.

I could not stop shaking. I have never been so furious.

What I hated most were the horrid things I said as well. Lavinia brought out the worst in me, and it is much harder to live with that than with her remarks. I have learned to expect her to say silly and stupid things, and I have usually managed not to sink to her level, until now.

I sat for a long time by the sleeping angel. I had not known where I was running to until I ended up there. And that is where he found me. I suppose I knew he would. He sat down at the end of the slab of marble but did not look at me or say anything. That is his way.

I looked up into the bright blue sky. It was an obscenely sunny day for a funeral, as if God were mocking us all.

"I hate Lavinia," I said, swatting at some vetch that was growing at the base of the angel's plinth.

Simon grunted. "Sounds like something Livy would say."

He was right.

"But you ain't Livy," he added.

I shrugged.

"Listen, Maude," he said, then stopped.

"What is it?"

Simon tapped his finger on the marble. "We're digging your ma's grave now."

"Oh." I could not think what more to say.

"It's too early to be digging it. For a funeral meant for the day after tomorrow, in sandy soil? We should be digging it tomorrow afternoon. Else it could cave in, sitting there an extra day. Dangerous enough as 'tis. Shoring don't always work in sand. And Ivy May's grave so close. Don't like to dig two graves close together like that at the same time--the dirt don't hang together so well on that side. No choice about it, though, is there?"