hand – the first time I ever saw the sea for real. I miss them. I miss them suddenly and terribly. I want to see them, want to connect with something that’s mine.
‘Again.’
I turn, even as he revs the engine and walk straight to my car. I don’t even look back. As I get in, I can hear him calling to me, thinking I’m still stuck under the bonnet.
‘Ben? Again? Again, mate? You happy? Oi! Ben!’
I rev my own engine hard. And I’m off.
*
It’s a three-hour drive to the cemetery where my folks are buried, but I’ve got a full tank and the roads are empty. As I drive in, the sun breaks through the clouds and something superstitious in me tells me this is a good sign. It’s been raining and everything is incredibly clear. I park the car. Outside the Chapel of Rest, a group of mourners wait to go in as another service finishes.
I slip into the graveyard itself, follow the path I know from old. My mum and dad died when I was eighteen, so I’ve been here many times. I look around: the old cherry tree is about to flower. Sparrows and blue tits bob around its branches. Suddenly it’s warm with the sun out, so I pull off my jumper.
I stop at their graves. These seem remarkably well tended. And then I realise I’ve got the wrong ones. Someone else – Martin and Jemima King. Embarrassed, I turn, thinking I must be a row out or something. I move down, but stop. Turn back, try to get my bearings again. Stop.
I look at the cherry tree, the same tree I’ve looked at so many times before from this exact spot. It frames the chapel behind it. I am in the right place. But the names on the graves …
I walk away, walk around trying to work out where I’ve gone wrong. I do it ten times, at least. I know that the two graves in front of me should bear my parents’ names. But they don’t.
I feel sick and angry all at the same time. I look around, I’m choking on air, coughing. My knees wobble.
I start at one end of the graveyard and begin to check off each and every grave, slow and methodical. My mobile phone rings in my pocket but I don’t even bother to check who’s calling. I walk on, and with every name I don’t recognise, anger continues to rise within me. Soon I’m boiling, volcanic.
I head for the Chapel of Rest, ready to take it out on someone. The man inside the room marked ‘Staff Only’ is pale and podgy, wearing the black suit and tie that the job requires. His hair’s white, he could be sixty or something. He’s got his head in paperwork, humming to himself, so I slam the door to get his attention. Before he speaks, I’m at him.
‘You’ve got some explaining to do. Who the fuck gave you permission to dig up my parents’ graves?’
The man is too astounded to speak.
‘My parents, Jeremy and Patricia Jones. Buried here on March 16th, 1986. Out there. But I’ve just been out there and someone’s … they’re not there. So someone’s gone and fucking moved them!’
The accusation seems to spring Podgy back to life.
‘I don’t think so, sir. No.’
‘So, what’s happened to them?’
‘We would never, never move a grave, it’s absolutely out of the question.’
‘Did you dig them up?’
‘NO! Absolutely not, we’d never, it’s against the law, sir.’
‘Those graves there, the two together – you can see them from here – those ones. They were my parents and now—’
‘Those are, that’s Mr and Mrs King. I know the family well. They were buried there over thirty years ago. Their daughters still visit regularly to change flowers and keep them tidy.’
Doubts again, doubts trickle around my head. They drip across my eyes like tar. Podgy can sense it, his confidence is growing.
‘Sir, I’ve worked here for the best part of forty years. If I’d buried your parents then we would have met before and, well, I’m very sorry, sir, but I don’t remember you.’
‘No. I don’t remember you either.’
I don’t understand. I lean out a hand against a chair to
‘Again.’
I turn, even as he revs the engine and walk straight to my car. I don’t even look back. As I get in, I can hear him calling to me, thinking I’m still stuck under the bonnet.
‘Ben? Again? Again, mate? You happy? Oi! Ben!’
I rev my own engine hard. And I’m off.
*
It’s a three-hour drive to the cemetery where my folks are buried, but I’ve got a full tank and the roads are empty. As I drive in, the sun breaks through the clouds and something superstitious in me tells me this is a good sign. It’s been raining and everything is incredibly clear. I park the car. Outside the Chapel of Rest, a group of mourners wait to go in as another service finishes.
I slip into the graveyard itself, follow the path I know from old. My mum and dad died when I was eighteen, so I’ve been here many times. I look around: the old cherry tree is about to flower. Sparrows and blue tits bob around its branches. Suddenly it’s warm with the sun out, so I pull off my jumper.
I stop at their graves. These seem remarkably well tended. And then I realise I’ve got the wrong ones. Someone else – Martin and Jemima King. Embarrassed, I turn, thinking I must be a row out or something. I move down, but stop. Turn back, try to get my bearings again. Stop.
I look at the cherry tree, the same tree I’ve looked at so many times before from this exact spot. It frames the chapel behind it. I am in the right place. But the names on the graves …
I walk away, walk around trying to work out where I’ve gone wrong. I do it ten times, at least. I know that the two graves in front of me should bear my parents’ names. But they don’t.
I feel sick and angry all at the same time. I look around, I’m choking on air, coughing. My knees wobble.
I start at one end of the graveyard and begin to check off each and every grave, slow and methodical. My mobile phone rings in my pocket but I don’t even bother to check who’s calling. I walk on, and with every name I don’t recognise, anger continues to rise within me. Soon I’m boiling, volcanic.
I head for the Chapel of Rest, ready to take it out on someone. The man inside the room marked ‘Staff Only’ is pale and podgy, wearing the black suit and tie that the job requires. His hair’s white, he could be sixty or something. He’s got his head in paperwork, humming to himself, so I slam the door to get his attention. Before he speaks, I’m at him.
‘You’ve got some explaining to do. Who the fuck gave you permission to dig up my parents’ graves?’
The man is too astounded to speak.
‘My parents, Jeremy and Patricia Jones. Buried here on March 16th, 1986. Out there. But I’ve just been out there and someone’s … they’re not there. So someone’s gone and fucking moved them!’
The accusation seems to spring Podgy back to life.
‘I don’t think so, sir. No.’
‘So, what’s happened to them?’
‘We would never, never move a grave, it’s absolutely out of the question.’
‘Did you dig them up?’
‘NO! Absolutely not, we’d never, it’s against the law, sir.’
‘Those graves there, the two together – you can see them from here – those ones. They were my parents and now—’
‘Those are, that’s Mr and Mrs King. I know the family well. They were buried there over thirty years ago. Their daughters still visit regularly to change flowers and keep them tidy.’
Doubts again, doubts trickle around my head. They drip across my eyes like tar. Podgy can sense it, his confidence is growing.
‘Sir, I’ve worked here for the best part of forty years. If I’d buried your parents then we would have met before and, well, I’m very sorry, sir, but I don’t remember you.’
‘No. I don’t remember you either.’
I don’t understand. I lean out a hand against a chair to
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