The Sleeping and the Dead

Most of the women had been elderly when they died. Most, it seemed, had been widows. The Elsies, the Mays and the Maggies had all joined dear departed husbands. She had almost given up hope when she came across one which fitted her dates. The grave had been planted with ivy and she pulled the plant away from the headstone to read the letters. Frances Lumley, aged thirty, daughter of Elizabeth and Miles. Hannah crouched on her heels to clean the rest of the text, convinced that her search was over. But Frances Lumley had been drowned at sea and there was no mention of a husband or child. And she had died in September, not a season for crocuses.

Michael’s mother was buried in the grave next to Frances Lumley’s and, despite her care, Hannah nearly missed it. In comparison to Frances’s headstone the white marble was clean; the engraving looked as if it had been chiselled the day before. And there were fresh flowers in a brass pot which gleamed in the last of the sunlight. At first she thought this was a new grave, slotted in amongst the others to fill a space. It was only when she read the date that she saw the occupant had been buried the year after Frances. She had died on 19 February.

So there were relatives who lived near enough to tend the grave. She hadn’t expected that. She still thought of Michael as he had been then. Quite alone. With only her and the Brices to care for him.

She read aloud. ‘Maria Jane Randle née Grey. Daughter of Anthony and Hester. Beloved wife of Crispin and mother of Theo.’ The facts were as bold as the carving. There was no comforting verse or religious text.

She knew her search was over. If she had opened the shoebox in Michael’s bedroom on that day after school she would have found a birth certificate, and probably a passport too, in the name of Theo Randle. She couldn’t guess where Michael – because that was how she would continue to think of him – had filched his first name. The family name he’d taken from his mother’s parents. All the same she continued her walk past the last two lines of graves. She had to be sure and she hated a job half done. There were no other women of the right age buried in the place. She returned to Maria’s grave and though she could remember them by heart she jotted down the details of her death and her birth, copying the engraving word for word. The sun had almost gone and she was starting to feel cold.

Hannah hadn’t managed to eat anything after her interview with the detectives the night before, and after her walk along the sea front she was starving. In the town she queued up with the trippers to buy fish and chips and sat on a bench looking over the sea to eat them. She finished everything, even the thick pieces of batter she usually left behind, and licked her fingers. She had to pass the Prom on her way home and looked through the open door, thinking that Rosie’s urgent appointment might involve a drink with her friends. But there was no sign of her or of anyone else Hannah recognized.

She had intended phoning Porteous as soon as she got home, had been gearing herself up to it all the way home. But when she got in the answerphone was blinking and there was a message from Arthur. ‘Hi, I was hoping to see you today. How did you get on last night?’ The taped voice had a stronger Liverpudlian accent than she remembered, was even more mellow and laid back. He’d left his home number and she dialled it quickly before she thought too much about it. He answered after a couple of rings. ‘Hi,’ again, as one of the kids would. Her mother, who’d been very strong on telephone etiquette, would have had a fit.

‘Arthur. It’s me. Hannah. Are you doing anything?’

‘Nah, a couple of reports. Nothing interesting. Nothing urgent. And have you seen what’s on the telly?’

‘Would you come over? I could do with your advice.’ She felt breathless. She thought he must be able to tell from her voice how nervous she was.

‘Do you want to go for a drink?’

‘Not a drink, no.’ The idea of alcohol turned her stomach. Even the fish and chips seemed a mistake. ‘Would you mind coming to the house?’

She gave him directions then sat and waited, thinking she’d made a fool of herself. Melodrama wasn’t her style. It didn’t suit her. He’d think, as Jonathan had done, that she was menopausal and hysterical. Or he’d get the wrong idea entirely and see her as one of those pathetic women, recently dumped, who’d do anything for the company of a man.

He arrived sooner than she’d expected. It hadn’t given her time to work out what to say so she opened the door and stood awkward and tongue-tied in the hall.

‘Are you OK?’ He’d come out so quickly that he was still wearing carpet slippers – battered suede moccasins. Jonathan would never wear slippers. He said they were old men’s garments, like pyjamas.

She began an explanation for calling him, but stumbled over the words. He put his arm around her.

‘Hey. What is it?’

She pushed him away gently. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to have dragged you out.’