As i approach the graveyard, my anxiety starts to build, a knot in the pit of my stomach, my mind darting from thought to thought. Theres no patten, no reason for the thoughts, just that my body does not want to be here. “this is stupid, its been 17 years since he died” i say to myself out loud, as i walk under the lynch-gate, ahead is the church were i spend lot of time as a child, developing and growing into the man i am now.
The church has changed, the flint work is clearer and blue clock on the tower more prominent, but the graveyard is not a well kept and the paths look like they need repair. its been maybe 10 years since i’ve stood here and apart from the superficial changes, the maintenance on the building and the decay of the rest, I could be ten years old again, running about and playing while my Nan cleans the graves. My mind wonders to those long endless summers. Life seemed bigger in those days, and a lot more fun.
The grass is wet from the resent rain, but its warm and he path and stones are dry. The sky appears dark and threatening, the resent rain is not far away, and this grey sky feels appropriate, matching the churning within me.
I walk along the path then turn down toward the area were I know i must visit, a bird flys across my path, and lands on a grave stone, “no anxiety for you my friend” i whisper, not wishing to break the spell.
The churchyard is old, maybe 1000 years old, dating back to saxon times, but much changed over the years, the tower standing tall, with the flag pole on top reaching into the heavens, painted white against the dark almost black sky.
the trees look bigger, and less well kept, the path leads toward the old village hall, nursery classes with mrs Forster, and summer fates, clubs and play, a happy place, changed now, divided into a small hall and flats, i will never again hide under the grand piano, its long gone, the smell of dust and the cover, that dark safe place were as a three year old i schemed with my friends, people who i still call friend 45 years later.
Just before the gate to the hall I turn left, and head down hill toward the resting place of my great grandmother, my only memory being of a small frail and very old lady sitting up in a bed wearing a white bed hat, with at least five other adults in the room, me pushing in, worming to see, her catching sight of me and busting into a wonderful smile, I was two or five my sister three, I was lifted up and hugged. In my mind nothing was said, and I never saw her again.
Her grave is lost in the grass, over to the right, buried as she was with her husband who died in the twenties, from complications of being gassed in France, and her son, killed in the Second World War.
Between this part of the graveyard and my destination there’s a old disused road, tree lined and dark, here the floor is dry, I walk through the gate and across to the second gate, I pause and look, taking in the seen, the grass is longer, the cherry tree, bigger, and the paths less well defined. As the years have passed there are less people walking them. memories fading into dust.
I turn left again and walk the 100 feet to the conner of the field, this area was initially the children’s section, head stones for babies, and toddles surround the focus of my attention. and there it is, white marble, black letters, the stone tells of a family tragedy, Georgie died June 1996, his beloved wife Beatrice, died 1953, and my uncle David, died 1936 age 5 months.
I stop and take in the seen, the marble is dirty, there are weeds and a pint glass on the grave, plus a broken glass vase, brambles from the hedge are encroaching, covering the grave to the right. I stare, and I pause, deep breath and I start to think about all the things I need to say, my stupidity, how I’ve hurt people I care about and how I’ve been hurt, and what i plan to do about it, it all comes out once I start I cant stop, the lies the hurt I tell it all, the darkness and how scared I was. As I tell it there are tears running down my face, birds sing and a quite inner tranquil feeling descends, just next to the grave is a bench, in memory of Mrs Cotteral, I have a good friend with that name, I wonder if its a sign. I sit and let my mind wonder, I’m have no thoughts, just sitting starring allowing ideas free form, numb and empty.
I sit for maybe 20 minutes, enjoying the calm of the place, reflecting on my life and looking for the key to let me start to understand myself, and who I am. Then I get up and walk to the centre of this part of the graveyard. Here is the grave of the women who I called Nan, the women, who despite her own personal tragedies, cared for and raised my mother after the death of Beatrice, I read the inspection, again there are three names, Louise Jane, dies 1988, aged 80, Walter Died 1961 husband, and Brian her only son, died 1956 aged just 21 of a brain haemorrhage, he was sent home from hospital, fitting on the floor, my mother terrified watching, then returned to hospital to die, then laid in the front room for a week before finally buried, my mother was in the house, 11 years old and will only ever mention it in passing, another forgotten tragedy.
I talk to Nan, tell her the same things as I have told her brother George. I cry again and I can hear her telling me to stop being stupid as she holds me tight, me looking up into her eyes feeling totally safe. I tell her I love her but that I need to let go, I need to move on, I need to stop thinking of others and start putting myself first. “About bloody time” I hear her say.
I turn my back and walk away, back to my grandfather’s grave, back to let go and to start to move on.
I reach the spot and walk up to the headstone, I place my hand on his name and say goodbye, say that I need to let him go and that I will always love him, but that I need to move on.
At that point for the first time, I notice the traffic noise, the real world is returning, punching the moment, and invading. And its ok, I think I need the real world now, I think I’ve said all I needed to say, done all I needed to do.
