Grave Girl (3 page)

Sighing, Sam looks down at her menu. "I'm a girl," she says eventually. "I'm not disabled. I'm not stupid. I'm not even a girl, I'm basically a woman, so..." She pauses, before forcing herself to look the mayor in the eye. "Are you seriously saying that just because there was a mix-up over gender, you'd consider sending me away and starting the hiring process all over again?"

The mayor pauses.

"Seriously?" the girl adds, unable to hide the incredulity in her voice.

"The hiring process is rather complicated," the mayor says quietly.

"This is the twenty-first century!"

"Yes, but -"

"Look. Maybe I'm not exactly what you had in mind. Maybe you thought I'd be some big, hulking guy who's really good with petunias and a rake, but I'm here, and I'm a hard worker. You told me this'd be a trial period, so let's start the trial." She waits for him to answer. "You said yourself that you were looking for someone different. Have you only hired guys before?"

"Well... yes," the mayor replies.

"And how's that worked out for you?"

"Not particularly well," the mayor says, "but I don't think the problem was that -"

"Then give me a chance," she continues. "Worst case scenario, you end up back at square one again. But at least let me show you what I can do. I'm the right person for this job. I really, really,
really
need this to work out, and I guarantee that no matter how long you spend looking and no matter how many big, tough guys you bring up to Rippon, you'll never find someone as dedicated and determined and hard-working as me. I mean, I even walked the whole way from the train station, just to get here. Do you really think I'm not tough enough to be your gardener?"

"Ah, yes," he says, pausing for a moment. "Well, I'm afraid there has perhaps been another small misunderstanding." He coughs to clear his throat. "When I said that you'd be looking after a garden, I might have used the wrong word. It's not so much a garden as a... well... Perhaps I'd better show you."

Chapter Four

"It's disgraceful," the old lady says, setting a fresh bunch of flowers down on her husband's grave. The grass is overgrown and there are weeds and thistles everywhere, while the gravestone itself is covered in old moss. It's as if no-one gives a damn. Wrapping her thin, boney fingers around the old flowers from last week, she slowly and painfully stands up straight. She knows she's getting too old for these weekly visits, but she also knows that if she doesn't come and pay some attention, her husband's grave will be left totally overlooked.

"Back again next week," she mutters, turning and starting to walk back toward the gate. She notes with grim humor that the journey to and from the grave takes significantly longer than the actual moment at the graveside itself. Sometimes, she finds herself wondering whether, at eighty-seven years old, she's perhaps passed the point of sanity. Then again, she reminds herself, she's spent her whole life worrying about what other people think, and it didn't really help. Now, finally, all she cares about is going to her husband's grave each week.

When she reaches the gate, she struggles to get it open. Once she's outside, she turns and pulls the gate closed, before glancing back at the statue. She wants to believe that her suspicions are baseless, and that the statue is just what it looks like: a life-size stone representation of an angel, holding its hands up in prayer. Still, the old lady can never quite shake the feeling that those blank stone eyes are capable of turning to stare at her, and she still fears that one day the statue might smile at her and then slowly open its mouth to bare its fangs.

Chapter Five

"Okay," Sam says, as she and the mayor stand by the gate. "So this is the 'garden' you told me about, huh?"

"It is," the mayor replies tentatively. "I mean, it
is
a garden. There are flowers and trees, and grass, and wildlife and bushes and things like that."

"And graves," Sam says, looking up at a huge stone statue of an angel in prayer. "Lots of graves."

The Mayor nods.

“
Which,” Sam adds, “is quite significant.”

"Let me show you around," the mayor says, striking forth along the narrow shingle path that winds its way between a series of gravestones and small stone mausoleums. The grass is somewhat overgrown, giving the place a neglected feel, while some of the stones and statues have chunks missing. A few of the mausoleums even have gaps in their stonework, with weeds and vines poking out of the darkness. The land is uneven, with little bumps and dips all over the place, and the only sign of life is a small starling that hops from perch to perch before finally taking flight into the gray afternoon sky. Against the far wall, a series of bushes display bright red and purple berries, filled almost to bursting point with succulent juices sourced from roots that reach deep, deep underground into the cemeterial soil.

"It's very peaceful here," the mayor continues, pausing for a moment to tap the tip of a gravestone with his cane. "Most of the time, anyway."

"I guess the residents don't make much noise," Sam notes wryly, spotting a mouse scurrying along the top of the wall. The creature stops for a moment and turns to her, before continuing on its way.

The mayor marches onward, leading Sam further and further along the path. While the cemetery might have looked small from the entrance, it's actually rather large, extending for several hundred meters in every direction. There are plenty of large hedgerows to divide the place up into a series of plots, however, while a high stone wall - reaching up three or four meters - borders the entire site.

"People
do
come to visit from time to time," the mayor explains, "although visiting hours are strictly limited. The front gate has to be opened at 8am every day, and closed again at 8pm every evening. The only exception is the last Friday of every month, when the place is closed for the duration of the day. This is to allow essential maintenance work to take place, and also to give the gardener a little time off. Obviously there are services to be held from time to time, but these are always in normal opening hours and to be honest, we're a small town so there are only a dozen or so deaths each year."

"A dozen's quite a lot," Sam replies, looking over at a nearby grave and noting that there appears to be a significant bulge under the grass. "It's a dozen more than I expected."

"Now, your duties," the mayor continues, "if you take the job, will be many. The primary responsibility of the gardener is obviously to keep things looking neat and tidy. Mow the lawns, trim the borders, generally make sure that the whole place is a nice, calm environment. We must not disrespect the dead by letting this place go to the dogs." He kicks a patch of overgrown, unruly grass. "As you can see, it's been a few weeks since our last gardener departed, and I'm afraid he wasn't particularly conscientious. What I'm looking for is someone who'll do more than the bare minimum. I want someone who'll live, breathe and dream this cemetery, twenty-four hours a day."

"I can do that," Sam says, trying to sound enthusiastic. "I promise, I'm the most dedicated worker you'll ever find. I'll be up with the sun and I won't stop working until it's dark again!"

"Do you have much experience with this kind of thing?"

"Lots. Lots and lots. I've done gardens before." She pauses for a moment, desperately trying to think of something that'll sound convincing. "Never specifically a cemetery, of course, but I can learn the extra bits. I'm very adaptable. I promise you won't regret hiring me, not for a second."

"We'll see about that," the mayor replies. "I should warn you right from the start that there are some parts of this job that, well, they just can't be put into words. You need to be a very flexible and adaptable worker, and you need to be able to react to situations and accept them. Above all, you need a strong constitution. Do you have a strong constitution?"

Sam nods.

"And do you still want this job? Even after you've seen what it entails?"

"Totally," the girl says. "I'm here and I'm ready to work. All I want is a chance to prove myself. I swear, by the end of this trial period, you'll wonder how you ever managed without me. I'll be better than your last ten gardeners put together."

The mayor eyes her suspiciously for a moment. "Perhaps," he says eventually, turning and making his way over to the small, dilapidated building in the center of the cemetery. It takes him a moment to force the door open, and finally he leads Sam into a dark, rundown little room with an old stove and a few tables scattered about. Rather improbably, given the derelict nature of the hut-like structure, there's a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling, but everything else about the place speaks of total squalor: there are old plates piled high in front of cracked windows, while dirt is spread across the floor and there's an upturned wheelbarrow in the corner.

"What do you think?" the mayor asks, running a finger through the dirt on the counter.

"I can work here," Sam replies, forcing herself to remain optimistic.

"Come and see the rest of the place," the mayor continues, walking slowly through to the next room. A small single bed has been pushed against the far wall, and a wardrobe stands slightly askew next to the door. "This is the bedroom," he says after a moment, using his cane to push some old cans off a nearby chair. "You can put your bag down there."

"That's okay, thanks," Sam says. "I'll just wait until we get to the apartment."

"Apartment?" the mayor replies, turning to her. "I never said there was an apartment!"

"You said it's a live-in job," Sam says, looking panicked. "You said that's why the basic wage is so low!"

"It's a live-in job, alright," the mayor continues, "but there's no apartment. You'll be living in this very room! I know it's probably not up to the standards you're used to in a fancy city like Leeds, but needs must as the Devil drives. It's perfectly comfortable, and it can even get quite hot if you've got enough wood in the stove."

Stepping over to the middle of the room, Sam turns and looks around. The entire place is covered, from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall, in dust and dirt, while the windows are grimy and - in places - cracked and broken. It's like someone just shut the door to this place several years ago and left it to fall into disrepair, never thinking to open it up or give the place a clean.

After a moment, Sam spots a mouse – perhaps even the same mouse as before – peering in through one of the cracked windows, as if to keep track of her progress.

"I suppose it's useful, you being a woman," the mayor says eventually. "That's what this place needs. A woman's touch."

"Are you sure there's not somewhere else I can live?" Sam asks, turning to him.

"You don't like the cottage?"

"It's not that," Sam continues, walking over to the window and looking out at the cemetery. The thought of spending her nights in this rattly little building, surrounded on all sides by a pitch-black cemetery, sends a shiver down her spine. "It's just not quite what I expected," she says quietly.

"Well, I can't help that," the mayor replies. "It's the best we can do, and I'm sure you can fix it up if you just use your imagination. The last gardener, Faraday, wasn't much for creature comforts. I swear, he spent more time with his nose in a book than actually working on the place. He rather let his duties fall by the wayside, as you can see, but there's no reason it has to stay like this. There are some old glass panes somewhere in the shed, so you can fix the windows, and there might even be some paint around. You've got your basic electricity and running water, so all the conveniences of home are here, even if you have to look a little harder for them."

Swallowing hard, Sam looks back across the room. It's not that she's used to luxury in Leeds. The problem isn't really the building at all; it's the fact that the place is slap bang in the middle of a cemetery. Having never previously considered herself to be superstitious or easily creeped out, Sam suddenly realizes that perhaps she's not ready to live, work and sleep by herself in a place like this.

"Do we have a problem, Ms. Marker?" the mayor asks, staring at her with a suspicious glint in his eye.

"No," Sam replies, forcing herself to smile. "No problem at all."

"Then you'll be needing this," the mayor says, pulling a large metal key-ring from his pocket and placing it on the table by the window. Several large, rusty old keys are fixed to the key-ring; they look as if they're designed to open large vaults rather than normal doors. "To be honest, a smart girl such as yourself should be able to pick up the basics of the job just by getting on with it, so I think the best thing is if you spend the rest of the day making yourself feel at home, and then tomorrow morning you can open up and get on with whatever needs doing. Start with the grass, maybe, and then just take things as they come. You'll find all the tools in the shed over by the eastern wall. The most important things are to keep the place looking neat and tidy, make sure the gates are opened and closed on time, and watch out for kids during the night."

"Kids?"

"Local teenagers. They love this place. They think they can climb the wall under cover of darkness and get a few cheap thrills by drinking and smoking and whatever else between the gravestones. They make a hell of a racket, and a mess too, but they're easily scared off if you flash a torch in their direction. Even better, wave a spade in the air and they'll be needing fresh britches for a fortnight."

"Part of my job involves scaring kids?" Sam asks, shocked.

"Your job is to keep the cemetery safe and tidy," the mayor replies. "This is a place of rest, after all, and it's hard for our residents to rest when there are children getting up to no good on the graves."

With that, he turns and heads over to the door.

"I'll let you get on with unpacking and making the place feel a little more like home. Feel free to do anything you like with the place. Paint the walls if you wish, and fix the windows. I think there's some paint left over in the basement from the last tenant. One more thing, though. I'm sure you'll appreciate that we don't really condone visitors, so I'd prefer it if you could refrain from entertaining anyone here. No parties, that sort of thing. I'm afraid that includes friends and family who might want to visit from out of town. We have a couple of lovely little bed and breakfast establishments in town, in case anyone should happen to drop by and visit you."

"That won't be an issue.”

The Mayor nods approvingly. "And you're absolutely, completely certain that you've got what it takes for this job? I mean, no offense, but I'm still a little dubious about a girl doing something that's normally been done by a man. It's not that I doubt girls in general, and I'm certainly not sexist or old-fashioned, but girls have different physical abilities, and this is a very physical job."

"I'll be fine," Sam replies. "Actually, I'll be more than fine. I look forward to working with you, Mayor Winters."

"And I you," the mayor replies. "If you like, you can come to the cafe this evening and I'll buy you a drink and introduce you to some of the locals."

"Sure," Sam says quietly. "Thanks. That sounds good."

"Otherwise," the mayor continues, "I'll pop by tomorrow and see how you're getting on. Oh, and I suppose I should give you this." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a creased brown envelope and sets it on the chair by the door. "Your first week's pay packet," he explains, before turning and making his way out of the cottage.

For several minutes, Sam stands alone in the middle of the room. Unsure of where to even start, she's almost paralyzed by indecision. This time yesterday, she had nowhere to live, nowhere to work, and nothing to do. Now she lives in a cottage in a cemetery, she has a full-time job, and her list of tasks is building by the second. It's not only the cemetery that needs to be fixed up: the cottage is a complete mess, and Sam has never, ever felt so completely out of her element. Finally, realizing that she has to get on with
something
, she walks over to the bed and sits down, sending up a thick cloud of dust in the process.

"Brilliant," she mutters, putting her head in her hands. "A great big stinking metaphor for my whole life."