one bothers you.’
‘Yes.’ Margaret smiled at her. ‘I know what you mean. They’re funny places, graveyards, aren’t they? Surprisingly beautiful, despite all the grief and sorrow they
contain.’ She paused. ‘Your flowers are very pretty. I love marigolds. Did you grow them yourself?’
A flush spread across the girl’s face. ‘I didn’t, actually. I pinched them from a neighbour’s garden. I would have asked her but she was out. Anyway, I’m sure she
wouldn’t mind. I’ll tell her when I go home. I will.’
Margaret wanted to laugh. The girl seemed suddenly awkward, embarrassed and very young.
‘Well, I’m sure it’s OK. After all, it’s in a good cause, isn’t it?’ She bent her face to the flowers. ‘Mm, I like their smell. Marigold flowers are
supposed to be really good for blood circulation. Apparently the Arabs feed them to their horses.’
‘I didn’t know that. My father liked horses. He used to keep them once, so my mother says. When he was alive he had a lovely house and lots of land up in the Wicklow mountains. And
he had horses up there. And deer. Anyway, I’d better do this.’ She pushed the flowers carefully into the vase. ‘Are you related to Uncle Patrick? I’ve never seen you before.
Although,’ she cocked her head on one side so the silver rings in her ears jingled, ‘you do look a bit like his wife, Auntie Crea. In fact, I thought that was who you were when I saw
you first. You’re not her sister or something, are you?’
‘No,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m an old friend of Patrick’s from years ago. I’ve been living abroad for a while.’
‘Oh, I see. OK, well, I’d better go. It was nice talking to you. But . . .’ She looked away towards the group of headstones under the tall yews.
‘Sure, of course.’ Margaret smiled. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Yes, you too. Of course, I should have brought more flowers. My sister is here too. Although she’s in the new part, down by the road. It’s not as nice there. It’s noisy
– traffic, you know.’ The girl seemed suddenly stricken, as if tears would come at any moment.
‘Your sister? Oh, I am sorry. Was she older or younger than you?’ Margaret wanted to touch the girl. Give her comfort.
‘She was older. Quite a lot older. I’m nearly eighteen and she was in her thirties. She was my half-sister, really. My father wasn’t her father, you know?’ The girl
scuffed the ground with the toe of her clog.
‘How very sad. For you and your mother too.’ Margaret murmured. ‘Don’t worry about the flowers. I’m sure she’d understand. Why don’t you just go and see
her anyway? She’d like that.’
‘Do you think so?’ The girl’s expression brightened. She looked hopeful. ‘They like it when you come to visit. The dead, that is. I’m sure they must be bored and
lonely. I try to remember as many funny and interesting things to tell them as I can. I read to them too. You don’t think that’s stupid, do you?’
‘No, it’s great. My daughter’s here too. And because I’ve been away I haven’t visited her for ages. I’m sure she’s missed me. But it’s lovely that
you care so much. What do you read?’
The girl reached into a big patchwork bag and pulled out a paperback. ‘I’ve been doing Shakespeare’s sonnets in school. For the Leaving Cert. And I love them. They’re
difficult to understand but the language is so beautiful. So I read them aloud and, actually, it helps. Listen to this.’ She cleared her throat and flicked over the pages.
‘Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy—’
She broke off. ‘Isn’t that lovely? “Kissing with golden face the meadows green. Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” I love it.’
‘Yes, I love it too.’ Margaret picked up her bag. Tears had suddenly filled her eyes.
‘Well, I’d
‘Yes.’ Margaret smiled at her. ‘I know what you mean. They’re funny places, graveyards, aren’t they? Surprisingly beautiful, despite all the grief and sorrow they
contain.’ She paused. ‘Your flowers are very pretty. I love marigolds. Did you grow them yourself?’
A flush spread across the girl’s face. ‘I didn’t, actually. I pinched them from a neighbour’s garden. I would have asked her but she was out. Anyway, I’m sure she
wouldn’t mind. I’ll tell her when I go home. I will.’
Margaret wanted to laugh. The girl seemed suddenly awkward, embarrassed and very young.
‘Well, I’m sure it’s OK. After all, it’s in a good cause, isn’t it?’ She bent her face to the flowers. ‘Mm, I like their smell. Marigold flowers are
supposed to be really good for blood circulation. Apparently the Arabs feed them to their horses.’
‘I didn’t know that. My father liked horses. He used to keep them once, so my mother says. When he was alive he had a lovely house and lots of land up in the Wicklow mountains. And
he had horses up there. And deer. Anyway, I’d better do this.’ She pushed the flowers carefully into the vase. ‘Are you related to Uncle Patrick? I’ve never seen you before.
Although,’ she cocked her head on one side so the silver rings in her ears jingled, ‘you do look a bit like his wife, Auntie Crea. In fact, I thought that was who you were when I saw
you first. You’re not her sister or something, are you?’
‘No,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m an old friend of Patrick’s from years ago. I’ve been living abroad for a while.’
‘Oh, I see. OK, well, I’d better go. It was nice talking to you. But . . .’ She looked away towards the group of headstones under the tall yews.
‘Sure, of course.’ Margaret smiled. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Yes, you too. Of course, I should have brought more flowers. My sister is here too. Although she’s in the new part, down by the road. It’s not as nice there. It’s noisy
– traffic, you know.’ The girl seemed suddenly stricken, as if tears would come at any moment.
‘Your sister? Oh, I am sorry. Was she older or younger than you?’ Margaret wanted to touch the girl. Give her comfort.
‘She was older. Quite a lot older. I’m nearly eighteen and she was in her thirties. She was my half-sister, really. My father wasn’t her father, you know?’ The girl
scuffed the ground with the toe of her clog.
‘How very sad. For you and your mother too.’ Margaret murmured. ‘Don’t worry about the flowers. I’m sure she’d understand. Why don’t you just go and see
her anyway? She’d like that.’
‘Do you think so?’ The girl’s expression brightened. She looked hopeful. ‘They like it when you come to visit. The dead, that is. I’m sure they must be bored and
lonely. I try to remember as many funny and interesting things to tell them as I can. I read to them too. You don’t think that’s stupid, do you?’
‘No, it’s great. My daughter’s here too. And because I’ve been away I haven’t visited her for ages. I’m sure she’s missed me. But it’s lovely that
you care so much. What do you read?’
The girl reached into a big patchwork bag and pulled out a paperback. ‘I’ve been doing Shakespeare’s sonnets in school. For the Leaving Cert. And I love them. They’re
difficult to understand but the language is so beautiful. So I read them aloud and, actually, it helps. Listen to this.’ She cleared her throat and flicked over the pages.
‘Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy—’
She broke off. ‘Isn’t that lovely? “Kissing with golden face the meadows green. Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” I love it.’
‘Yes, I love it too.’ Margaret picked up her bag. Tears had suddenly filled her eyes.
‘Well, I’d
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