Chapter 9 #3
“The cemetery?” I repeat, squinting at her. “Are you serious? What did they think I was doing to the cemetery?”
She clears her throat. “The call I took specifically related to the historic graves in your backyard.”
“What?” I gasp, but then I remember that conversation Jack and I had at the bookstore, and I groan. There’s no chance he did this,
but someone else might have heard enough to become needlessly alarmed. “I had a conversation with a friend last night about
those graves. Someone might have overheard parts of it and misunderstood it out of context.”
“Is there any truth to it? I’m sure you know, you must not move those graves without—”
“I would never touch that cemetery,” I interrupt her as I stand abruptly. “Come on. Let me show you.”
And soon I’m carefully picking my way over what’s left of the path to the cemetery for the second time in as many hours.
Viewing the space with Demelza beside me, all I can see are things that need to be addressed—branches fallen, grass overgrown.
But she’s not here to judge the state of the gardens.
She’s here to enforce the law, and everything I am doing is entirely in line with it.
“See?” I say, waving towards the headstones. “Untouched, and that is how they will remain. The only thing I’ll do up here
is to mow the grass, trim the trees, fix the gardens. It’s not my top priority but I will get it sorted.”
“I’m really sorry to have troubled you,” she says. “I’m sure you understand why I had to check.”
“Of course I do.” I sigh, looking back towards the house. From this angle it looks enormous—all of the stunning angles, the
wrought iron features, the slate roof and the sash windows. “I’m glad you’re thorough. A beautiful home like this deserves
to be protected. You really can’t tell me who called this in?”
She shakes her head again.
“No, I really can’t. But she—ah—someone was particularly alarmed that you might be planning to move the graves. That’s all
I can tell you.”
So it was a woman who called it in. But who could that have been? The only person I’ve spoken to about the cemetery is Jack.
Demelza and I walk back towards the house, and as we pass the powder room off the hallway, she hesitates.
“Do you mind if I—”
“Of course,” I say, and she sets her bag and the clipboard down on a dusty hall table and disappears into the bathroom.
I know I should not look at that clipboard.
But it’s right there, just a few steps away, and the temptation proves too much. I take a quick peek at the top page and I’m
expecting to see an unfamiliar name, maybe the name of some distant acquaintance.
A jolt runs through me as I take in Demelza’s flowery script.
9:01 a.m. Call from Virginia Edendale. Overheard new homeowner talking about moving graves from private cemetery. Mrs Edendale is very distressed. Thinks the new homeowner might already be undertaking this work and asked that we visit urgently.
I tell myself firmly that I need to have a cup of tea and calm down before I call Mum, but my body is on autopilot after Demelza
leaves. The phone is in my hand before I’ve made the conscious choice to pick it up.
“Mum, what the hell? You called council?”
“I didn’t . . .”
But she really is a very poor liar. She can’t even finish that sentence. I grit my teeth.
“I’m not touching the damned cemetery.”
“Well, I heard you tell Jack that you were going to move it,” she hisses and there is pure poison in her tone. It’s like in
one simple misunderstanding I have unleashed a version of my mother I did not know existed. Mum almost sounds like a different
person—someone bolder, someone direct. “This is just not okay, Fiona! Those people . . . those graves—they absolutely must
stay in place.”
“You were eavesdropping on my conversation.”
“I went to look at Marilyn’s crafting books and you were talking to him on the other side of the shelves! I know what I heard,
and I had a moral obligation—”
“Mum. You heard me explaining to Jack that graves of historic significance should be left in place.”
She hesitates, but only for a second before she says sharply, “You said graves can be moved.”
“If you’d eavesdropped for a few more minutes, you would have heard me explaining my absolute hatred for developers who think they can just move graves—how that very attitude makes my blood boil!
How that’s exactly the kind of thing I spent my whole career trying to stop!
” I draw in a sharp breath then pause. “Why didn’t you just ask me, Mum? ”
“But I thought . . .” All of the fight has gone out of her and she’s back to her usual self. Softly spoken. Timid. Almost,
in this instance, fearful, as if she’s afraid I’m going to . . . what? Yell at her? Hold a grudge?
“I’m sorry, Fiona. This is all so very hard and I’m just trying to do the right thing. I need to go, so we’ll have to speak
later.” It makes no damned sense, but as we end the call, my mother’s voice is shaky with what I have to assume is fear. As
I drop my phone down with a growl, it lights up with a text from Jon.
You didn’t reply to my text last night and I haven’t heard from you for a few days. I’m worried, Fi. Are you okay? You can
tell me if you aren’t.
“Oh cousin,” I mutter aloud. “I am very much not okay.”
Jon and I text almost every day, but we call only in emergencies. I’m pretty sure this meets that criteria. He answers on
the first ring.
“Fi?”
“Sorry, Jon. I’m fine, it’s just been busy and . . . argh! Everything is so strange and Mum is acting so weird!”
“How so?” he asks me.
“She thought she overheard me talking about moving the cemetery—”
“Moving the graves? Good grief.”
“So she called the council and reported me.”
“Well, fair enough. If I thought you were about to go around disturbing two dozen graves, I’d probably call the authorities
too.”
“You’d ask me first, surely,” I counter.
“Well, yes, I would definitely ask you. I’d say, ‘Hey Fiona, are you thinking of desecrating any graves today?’ and you’d say, ‘Actually
no, Jon, thanks for asking.’ When have you ever known your mum to confront anyone about anything? She always does this. Her go-to moves are hints and guilt trips and when those tactics don’t work, she goes
to extraordinary lengths to avoid having hard conversations directly. Alan has basically been her mouthpiece for thirty years.
And before that, it was my dad.”