breathe and open your eyes under water it was so beautiful. And do you remember the time we saw the little octopus? And he was so shocked to see you, he shot
away. And you got a fright too. And you swallowed all that seawater. Do you remember?’
She sat back on her heels. It was much better now. It was tidy and weed-free, and the shells and stones looked like they belonged there.
‘I had to pull you out of the sea and you scraped your leg on the rocks when I was trying to lift you up. And the salt water stung so much you started to cry. And the only way I could stop
you crying was to promise that we’d go to the ice-cream shop on the way home.’ She smiled at the memory of that day, stood up and stretched. Her thigh muscles were stiff from the
unnatural position. She stretched to ease out her back and shoulders. It was another sunny day and warm enough to have left the house without a coat. She pulled a large rubbish bag from the basket,
stuffed the weeds into it and tied it tightly in a knot. She looked around for a bin. It was busy here today. From where she was standing she could see the stone walls of the chapel. A large crowd
was outside and, as she watched, a group of black-clad pall-bearers slid a coffin from a hearse and shouldered it inside.
She looked down at her daughter’s headstone. She read out the inscription:
‘To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.’
Mary had loved William Blake’s work. She had carried a copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience everywhere with her. It had never been found. Above the inscription, Mary’s
name and her dates of birth and death were carved: 1975–1995. She would have turned thirty this year. She could have been a mother. She could have been anything. And I could have been a
grandmother, Margaret thought. I could have seen the future spreading out towards infinity. Generations of my descendants. Keeping my memory alive. But there is none of me now. No one to look in
the mirror and recognize me in their features. No one to remember her birthday. No one to weep for her or mourn her. No one to put up a headstone and tend her grave. For a moment she thought she
would collapse with the weight of her despair.
She bowed her head. ‘Bye-bye, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, my darling.’
She walked slowly down the path, past angels and saints and Christs crucified. Then she stopped and put her hand into her trouser pocket. She pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. Se
turned towards the chapel. The faint sound of music drifted out as she walked past the front entrance and around towards the back. She dumped the plastic bag in an already overflowing bin and went
on towards the line of yews she could see in the distance. The security guard in the little hut at the front gate had written down the number of the grave and pointed out the way to her.
‘It’s over there beside the trees. You see the big tomb with the angel on top? Well, the one you’re looking for is beside it. What was the name again?’ He looked down at the
hard-backed ledger on the desk. ‘Holland, was it? Died in 2000. Yeah, here it is, Patrick Charles Holland. You can’t miss it.’
The big tomb with the angel on top held Patrick’s father and mother and his baby sister, who had died when she was three. Patrick’s headstone was more modest. Black marble with the
inscription picked out in silver. The grave was covered with marble chips and a large bunch of white lilies filled the still air with their cloying sweetness. Margaret put down her basket. She
closed her eyes. The words came to her lips:
‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’
Never forgotten, the old words, the old ways. A decade of the rosary. In times of trouble, at moments of crisis, the words came unbidden.
away. And you got a fright too. And you swallowed all that seawater. Do you remember?’
She sat back on her heels. It was much better now. It was tidy and weed-free, and the shells and stones looked like they belonged there.
‘I had to pull you out of the sea and you scraped your leg on the rocks when I was trying to lift you up. And the salt water stung so much you started to cry. And the only way I could stop
you crying was to promise that we’d go to the ice-cream shop on the way home.’ She smiled at the memory of that day, stood up and stretched. Her thigh muscles were stiff from the
unnatural position. She stretched to ease out her back and shoulders. It was another sunny day and warm enough to have left the house without a coat. She pulled a large rubbish bag from the basket,
stuffed the weeds into it and tied it tightly in a knot. She looked around for a bin. It was busy here today. From where she was standing she could see the stone walls of the chapel. A large crowd
was outside and, as she watched, a group of black-clad pall-bearers slid a coffin from a hearse and shouldered it inside.
She looked down at her daughter’s headstone. She read out the inscription:
‘To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.’
Mary had loved William Blake’s work. She had carried a copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience everywhere with her. It had never been found. Above the inscription, Mary’s
name and her dates of birth and death were carved: 1975–1995. She would have turned thirty this year. She could have been a mother. She could have been anything. And I could have been a
grandmother, Margaret thought. I could have seen the future spreading out towards infinity. Generations of my descendants. Keeping my memory alive. But there is none of me now. No one to look in
the mirror and recognize me in their features. No one to remember her birthday. No one to weep for her or mourn her. No one to put up a headstone and tend her grave. For a moment she thought she
would collapse with the weight of her despair.
She bowed her head. ‘Bye-bye, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, my darling.’
She walked slowly down the path, past angels and saints and Christs crucified. Then she stopped and put her hand into her trouser pocket. She pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. Se
turned towards the chapel. The faint sound of music drifted out as she walked past the front entrance and around towards the back. She dumped the plastic bag in an already overflowing bin and went
on towards the line of yews she could see in the distance. The security guard in the little hut at the front gate had written down the number of the grave and pointed out the way to her.
‘It’s over there beside the trees. You see the big tomb with the angel on top? Well, the one you’re looking for is beside it. What was the name again?’ He looked down at the
hard-backed ledger on the desk. ‘Holland, was it? Died in 2000. Yeah, here it is, Patrick Charles Holland. You can’t miss it.’
The big tomb with the angel on top held Patrick’s father and mother and his baby sister, who had died when she was three. Patrick’s headstone was more modest. Black marble with the
inscription picked out in silver. The grave was covered with marble chips and a large bunch of white lilies filled the still air with their cloying sweetness. Margaret put down her basket. She
closed her eyes. The words came to her lips:
‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’
Never forgotten, the old words, the old ways. A decade of the rosary. In times of trouble, at moments of crisis, the words came unbidden.
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