Meanwhile Gardens (3 page)

“Well, it’s, I don’t think – I’ll….nothing – ” she flustered.

Jake put his hand up to stop her. “It’s none of my business is it?”

“No it’s just, yes, I mean – ”

To stop her embarrassment Jake gently took her by the arm again, “This you must see.”

He led her back to where the main avenue branched to the left. In front of them was a compact, ornate shrine.

“Now this man knew about life.”

Rion looked at the carved stone tomb, decorated with shields, that lay on blocks of green marble. The whole was enclosed by red columns that supported a canopy of arches, gargoyles and other flourishes.

“Who was he?” she asked, awed by the overdecorated Gothic shrine.

“Commander Charles Spencer Ricketts 1788 -1867. He ran away to sea when he was seven years old, served under Nelson at Trafalgar, quickly rose to the rank of commander, married an heiress and retired at twentyseven.”

Jake paused to let the information sink in before continuing in a tone half-admiring, half-envious. “Now tell me that wasn’t a great life plan? I mean, who could want for more? Marrying an heiress and retiring at twentyseven – it’s every man’s dream.”

“They must have been the celebs of their day.”

“Yeah, but they got it by doing great things, extraordinary
things, not by being kicked out of a reality show in week three.”

Suitably impressed Rion followed Jake as he ambled down the avenue, pointing out the graves of notable people as well as their foibles.

Finally they arrived under a large evergreen oak where the cemetery bordered the canal. This could be the moment, Rion thought, where she could thank him for his company before setting off to find her hero’s grave.

“Are you a guide here?”

Jake smiled. “Not exactly.”

Rion noticed Jake’s attention had been taken by something behind her. The girl followed his gaze to see a taxi coming down the main avenue in the distance.

“What do you do then?”

“I thought we agreed to no questions,” Jake replied goodnaturedly.

“Well, do you live round here?”

Jake rolled his eyes.

“I know it’s none of my business, and I wouldn’t normally ask,” Rion said hurriedly, not wishing to appear forward. “It’s just I’m trying to find somewhere to stay and – ”

Jake again raised his eyes skywards.

“Sorry, I know, no questions.”

“No, it’s not that but – ” Jake paused for a moment, unsure. He then looked her level in the eye. “Can I trust you?”

Rion felt her cheeks redden as she returned his gaze. Embarrassed she looked at the ground before forcing her eyes to meet his again, “Yes.”

Jake again looked into the ivy-clad tree. “This is where I live,” he pointed out the evenly spaced notches at the back of the trunk that led to the lower branches and the dense foliage.

Squinting upward Rion could just make out some planks camouflaged green some way above her head.

“You live – ” she jerked her eyes up, amazed, “– up there?”

The taxi was at the top of Terrace Avenue now, slowly making its way down the muddy track towards them.

“Damn,” Jake said, “she’s early.” He paused for a moment before leading Rion away from the approaching taxi.

“I know a place you can stay. It’s unusual but quite comfortable.”

“I – ” Rion began.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be no funny business.”

They had reached a cluster of gravestones away from the tree. Jake motioned for Rion to sit beside one, “She doesn’t like to see anyone around when she arrives. Come back in an hour.”

Jake began to walk away. After a second he turned back, “What’s your name?”

“Rion.”

“Rion?”

“Like Marion but without the Ma,” Rion added helpfully.

Jake again began to walk away before turning once more as if he had forgotten something.

“Oh,” Jake paused, looked at the ground then looked back at Rion and smiled. “Don’t come knocking if the tree’s-a-rocking,” he winked at her. “Know what I’m saying?”

Rion felt her face flush a deep red.

From her hidden place beside the grave of Emmeline Pilkington, whose tombstone was inscribed with a beguiling ‘
In fragrant memory’
, Rion watched Jake shin up the notches of the imposing tree and vanish from sight.

Through curious eyes she saw the taxi stop beneath Jake’s
tree. A slender woman, thirties, stepped out, paid and quickly looked about her. She was dressed in a well-cut jacket, tailored trousers and turquoise pumps. Shading her eyes were an owllike pair of dark glasses. A large bouquet of flowers peered out of the elegant pink shopping bag she held in one hand. On the side of the bag were the words GHOST written in big white letters.

“Come back at four o’ clock sharp,” Rion heard the woman say authoritatively.

As the taxi slowly bumped and rattled up Terrace Avenue the woman, looking for all the world like a bereaved widow, placed the bouquet of flowers beneath the tree. When the taxi made its way out of the distant main gate Rion saw the woman look around before taking off her dazzling turquoise pumps. She put them in the pink bag where the flowers had been, put the bag over one shoulder and had a final look about her. Satisfied she wasn’t being watched Angie Peters went to the back of the tree where, to Rion’s amazement, she nimbly stepped up the notches and away from view.

Rion stayed beside the tombstone of the fragrant Emmeline for a minute wondering if what she had seen had really happened. Deciding it had done, and deciding that Londoners really took the biscuit, Rion walked back to the mysterious tree. Without looking up into the prolific vegetation that concealed she couldn’t imagine what, Rion picked up the bouquet of flowers and hurried away.

Gorby watched with interest as Rion wound between the colonnades of the Anglican Chapel. From his groundfloor window the guard saw her reach the gateway and vanish from sight. If he was lucky she would return. Gorby patted his large stomach in an attempt to massage away the mid-afternoon rumblings. It wouldn’t be long now until –

“Tea!” a shrill voice called from down the corridor.

The guard removed his peaked cap to give his magnificent strawberry birthmark a good scratch. With the rumblings increasing Gorby loped along the stoneflagged passage towards the promise of cake and digestives.

Rion counted her way along the burial plots of West Centre Avenue. Within moments she had reached grave 31398, square 140, row 1.

Upon seeing the simple red granite monument Rion was immediately disappointed. And then immediately guiltridden for feeling so disappointed.

She had some funny notion, she thought to herself, that her hero’s tomb would somehow be worthy of the huge amount of inspiration she had received from him.

But it wasn’t.

It was elegant, yes, and simple, yes, but it was neither the grand nor grandiose shrine she had imagined.

Rion peered closer to make sure this was indeed her hero’s final resting-place.

The inlaid gold lettering confirmed it was.

Jean Francois Gravelet (1824-97)
Of Niagara House, Ealing

On either side of the monument were silhouette marble medallions, portraits of the man she had come to see and of his wife who had died ten years before him.

Why was it, she wondered, that a century ago women died ten years before their men, whilst now women died ten years after them?

Rion placed the elegant bouquet between the marble portraits and offered up a prayer for guidance. She sat on the
low walls of the grave, waiting for some message, some thunderbolt that would tell her what she was to do. She waited. And waited.

And waited.

The mid-afternoon sun warmed her as she slipped further and further down until she lay sheltered by the low walls of the tomb.

Rion stretched out, enjoying the feeling of the cool stone beneath her. It had been a long day but now she had made it to where she wanted to be.

Secure in the arms of her hero Rion could keep the tiredness away no longer. The last thing she saw as she drifted off was the large angel smiling at her from atop the memorial.

Within seconds she was sound asleep.

Within seconds she was dreaming of rocking trees, of ugly sisters, of angels and brutes and tightrope walkers, all spinning round, all grinning, all telling her to hum! Hum goddamnit! Hum!

Gasping, Rion shook herself awake.

“You’ll catch a chill if you lie there much longer.”

Rion looked up to find Jake sitting behind her on the low walls of the tomb.

“Granite, marble, any stone really,” he continued, “but especially smooth polished ones, the cold just goes right through you.”

Rion rubbed her eyes, unsure for a second of where she was.

Then it all came back to her.

She had made it to London, she had made it to her hero’s grave, and this curly-haired, friendly-faced person in front of her was called Jake and he somehow lived in a tree house in the cemetery…..?

This last bit seemed unclear.

Rion shook her head as if to jolt her thoughts into place, but the information remained: Jake lived in a treehouse where the cemetery bordered the canal. There was also something about a woman with dazzling blue pumps – ?

Rion shuddered and sat up.

“It looked like you were having a bad dream.”

“How did you know where I was?” Rion asked, her hands shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun.

“When you didn’t show up at four as arranged....”

Rion hurriedly looked at her watch and saw it was twenty past – she had slept for an hour!

“I spied you here from home. You can see most of the cemetery from there.”

“Of – of course.”

“You said you wanted a place to stay?”

The young girl looked up at the silhouette medallion of her hero. Could she trust this man? she silently asked.

“What are you doing here anyway? I mean, why this grave out of all the others? What’s so special about Jean Francois Gravelet?”

Rion smiled at hearing her hero’s true name.

“No one calls him that!” she said.

“OK, apart from being the most famous tightrope walker in the world, what’s so special about Blondin?”

As Rion unzipped her fleece and reached into an inner pocket Jake saw the mottled yellow bruising around her neck. He was curious but knew not to ask questions.

From her fleece Rion brought out a thin, plastic wallet which she unfolded, carefully removing a much-creased piece of paper. Ever so delicately she lay the paper on her knee and smoothed out the creases before passing it with much gravity to Jake.

The paper consisted of a faded engraving of a mustachioed man balancing on a tightrope above a raging waterfall. What was peculiar about it was the man appeared to be cooking something in a frying pan in the middle of his traverse.

Below the picture was the caption:
Blondin cooks an omelette. Niagara 1860
.

“That,” Rion declared, “has got me through some of the roughest times of my life.”

Jake took another look at the picture which, to him, seemed more comical than inspirational. He nodded at Rion to continue.

“It’s just that he makes it look so easy doesn’t he? There he is risking his life hundreds of feet above treacherous, swirling waters when one wrong move, one inch, half-an-inch, even a millimetre of miscalculation would mean a fall to a certain death, battered and bludgeoned by the torrent on the rocks far below.” A shudder went through Rion as she thought of it.

“Whenever I’ve been at the end of my tether – and believe me being the youngest of four girls and with parents like mine – ” she shook her head vehemently. “There’ve been many times when I – ” her voice drifted off. “It’s just that if he could manage to cook and eat an omelette – to cook
and
eat – whilst doing something so difficult, then I can survive anything.”

“There’s more to it though, isn’t there?”

“More?” Rion asked astounded, sounding for the entire world like the orphanage beadle in a production of
Oliver
.

Jake nodded. “After Blondin cooked the omelette in the middle of the falls he took a bite then lowered it, by rope, to the Mayor of Niagara who waited with other dignitaries in the rescue boat far below.”

Rion hadn’t heard this part of the story.

“What did they think?”

“They pronounced it among the finest of omelettes they had ever tasted!”

Rion laughed with delight. “No-one in Bridlington understood about Blondin, no-one except my friend Tanya Bishop – she owned the hair salon I ran to whenever I could –
she
understood.”

As Rion reached for the crumpled picture her sleeve pulled back to expose two painful scabby red circles on the side of her wrist. Jake held Rion’s arm for a closer look, “Those are nasty cuts.”

But they didn’t look like cuts to him.

“Yeah, well – ” Rion hurriedly pulled down her sleeve to cover the unsightly marks. “Are you sure about this place to stay?”

Jake nodded.

“And you’re sure there’ll be no funny business?”

Jake pulled Rion to her feet, “I promise.”

They walked back through the colonnades of the Anglican Chapel and were soon on Terrace Avenue heading for Jake’s home in the trees.

“The cemetery closes at five this time of year – pretty soon. There are a couple of guards so it’s best not to be too visible.”

“Why do they have guards?” Rion asked.

“To stop the ritual slayings and grave robbings,” Jake rolled his eyes and fluttered his hands like some spectral figure until he saw Rion blanche. “Just kidding,” he winked at her and smiled.

Rion held her rucksack tightly to her back and nervously pulled her fleece around her.

“It’s because some of the monuments have been vandalised over the years, their stone wreaths, bronze busts, grieving angels – anything really – stolen. There’s a large market for them as garden ornaments it seems.”

Rion, shaken by the mere mention of ritual slaying – wasn’t that what her Mum said happened to girls that ran away from home? – was having second thoughts.

“Perhaps I should find somewhere else.”

Jake stopped. They were almost under his tree.