her guiding. ‘Watch the pothole to your left,’ then, ‘Stop! Horse coming!’ and ‘Step up onto the grass.’
Beneath my feet, the road turned to springy turf as we crossed the village green. From here it wasn’t far to the churchyard. Church Path lay before us, and beyond that the place itself. The walk hadn’t been too taxing, after all. It was good to smell spring grass and hear the birds again. Yet just when I relaxed a bit, Mercy stiffened at my side.
‘Uh-oh, bellringers up ahead,’ she muttered under her breath.
I braced myself. There’d be condolences now, questions after my health. I’d be polite, of course – they’d only mean well by asking. Then we’d move quickly on.
Except as we got closer, the men fell silent. There were no greetings, no enquiries after my health. In the end it was Mercy who spoke as we went by. ‘Morning, Mr Cleave! And to you, Mr Strawbridge and Mr Passmore! Isn’t it cold today?’
I didn’t hear a reply.
‘Why are those men staring?’ asked Peg, once we were out of earshot.
‘Don’t know,’ Mercy said.
‘They’re pointing at us. Look!’
‘Keep walking!’ said Mercy. ‘Don’t worry, Lizzie. I’m certain they weren’t pointing at you.’
Which, I sensed, meant they were.
Once we’d reached the churchyard, I told Peg to run on ahead to Mam’s grave.
‘Those bellringers,’ I said, once she’d gone. ‘It was me they were staring at, weren’t it?’
Mercy didn’t answer.
‘I feared it would be like this,’ I said, tears springing into my eyes. ‘I should’ve stayed at home.’
Mercy patted my arm. ‘You know what people are like when there’s been a tragedy. It’ll pass. They’ll be gossiping about Eden Court again by teatime.’
Sniffing back my tears, I hoped she was right. But it stung to be called a tragedy. I was just about to say so too, when Peg slid to a breathless halt in front of us.
‘It isn’t fair!’ she cried. ‘I hoped it’d be just us today but someone else is already at Mam’s grave!’
‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. They’ve got a long dark cloak on with shiny buttons down the front and they’re proper tall, too.’
The person didn’t sound familiar. Forgetting myown troubles for a moment, I fumbled for Peg’s hand. ‘You’d better show us.’
We followed the path that led to the far corner of the churchyard, where the yew trees grew dark and glossy green. The air here was cold, winter air. Beneath our feet damp grass soaked into our skirt hems.
‘There, that’s the person,’ said Peg, stopping sharp.
‘Oooooh,’ breathed Mercy.
I’d no idea which direction we were facing. Or how far away from the stranger we were. Or, more importantly, what they’d seen.
‘Describe them, can’t you?’ I hissed.
Mercy breathed deep. ‘Well, it’s a man … no, wait … it might be a woman … no, maybe it’s …’
‘Which is it?’ I said, frustrated that I couldn’t see for myself. ‘It can’t be that hard to tell.’
‘It’s a man,’ said Peg. ‘And he’s got dark hair combed forward.’
I wondered if she’d made that last bit up. Especially when Mercy said, ‘No he hasn’t. He’s wearing a curled wig.’
‘Never mind that now, Mercy,’ I said. ‘Tell me what he’s doing.’
‘Umm.’ I pictured her peering with her eyes all screwed up. ‘He’s writing something down.’
‘Can you see what?’
‘It looks like he’s copying from your mam’s headstone.’
‘Are you sure?’
Peg cried ‘Shh!’
Then came the crackle of paper, the swoosh of a cloak. Footsteps thudded across the grass, away from us to the front of the church and the village green. A blackbird shrieked before the quiet settled heavily around us again.
‘Phew! He’s gone,’ said Mercy.
‘Back to Eden Court, I expect,’ I said, because it was dawning on me who this stranger probably was. There weren’t many in Sweepfield whose cloaks made that expensive, silken sound.
Mercy
Beneath my feet, the road turned to springy turf as we crossed the village green. From here it wasn’t far to the churchyard. Church Path lay before us, and beyond that the place itself. The walk hadn’t been too taxing, after all. It was good to smell spring grass and hear the birds again. Yet just when I relaxed a bit, Mercy stiffened at my side.
‘Uh-oh, bellringers up ahead,’ she muttered under her breath.
I braced myself. There’d be condolences now, questions after my health. I’d be polite, of course – they’d only mean well by asking. Then we’d move quickly on.
Except as we got closer, the men fell silent. There were no greetings, no enquiries after my health. In the end it was Mercy who spoke as we went by. ‘Morning, Mr Cleave! And to you, Mr Strawbridge and Mr Passmore! Isn’t it cold today?’
I didn’t hear a reply.
‘Why are those men staring?’ asked Peg, once we were out of earshot.
‘Don’t know,’ Mercy said.
‘They’re pointing at us. Look!’
‘Keep walking!’ said Mercy. ‘Don’t worry, Lizzie. I’m certain they weren’t pointing at you.’
Which, I sensed, meant they were.
Once we’d reached the churchyard, I told Peg to run on ahead to Mam’s grave.
‘Those bellringers,’ I said, once she’d gone. ‘It was me they were staring at, weren’t it?’
Mercy didn’t answer.
‘I feared it would be like this,’ I said, tears springing into my eyes. ‘I should’ve stayed at home.’
Mercy patted my arm. ‘You know what people are like when there’s been a tragedy. It’ll pass. They’ll be gossiping about Eden Court again by teatime.’
Sniffing back my tears, I hoped she was right. But it stung to be called a tragedy. I was just about to say so too, when Peg slid to a breathless halt in front of us.
‘It isn’t fair!’ she cried. ‘I hoped it’d be just us today but someone else is already at Mam’s grave!’
‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. They’ve got a long dark cloak on with shiny buttons down the front and they’re proper tall, too.’
The person didn’t sound familiar. Forgetting myown troubles for a moment, I fumbled for Peg’s hand. ‘You’d better show us.’
We followed the path that led to the far corner of the churchyard, where the yew trees grew dark and glossy green. The air here was cold, winter air. Beneath our feet damp grass soaked into our skirt hems.
‘There, that’s the person,’ said Peg, stopping sharp.
‘Oooooh,’ breathed Mercy.
I’d no idea which direction we were facing. Or how far away from the stranger we were. Or, more importantly, what they’d seen.
‘Describe them, can’t you?’ I hissed.
Mercy breathed deep. ‘Well, it’s a man … no, wait … it might be a woman … no, maybe it’s …’
‘Which is it?’ I said, frustrated that I couldn’t see for myself. ‘It can’t be that hard to tell.’
‘It’s a man,’ said Peg. ‘And he’s got dark hair combed forward.’
I wondered if she’d made that last bit up. Especially when Mercy said, ‘No he hasn’t. He’s wearing a curled wig.’
‘Never mind that now, Mercy,’ I said. ‘Tell me what he’s doing.’
‘Umm.’ I pictured her peering with her eyes all screwed up. ‘He’s writing something down.’
‘Can you see what?’
‘It looks like he’s copying from your mam’s headstone.’
‘Are you sure?’
Peg cried ‘Shh!’
Then came the crackle of paper, the swoosh of a cloak. Footsteps thudded across the grass, away from us to the front of the church and the village green. A blackbird shrieked before the quiet settled heavily around us again.
‘Phew! He’s gone,’ said Mercy.
‘Back to Eden Court, I expect,’ I said, because it was dawning on me who this stranger probably was. There weren’t many in Sweepfield whose cloaks made that expensive, silken sound.
Mercy
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