“Ivy, we must put flowers on your brother’s and your father’s graves,” Clara said softly. “It could be a very long time before we return. Canada is far from England.” She stopped on the gravel path to put her arms around her daughter. Clara had struggled to make ends meet since her husband had died, selling her engagement ring to meet a mortgage payment. She was relieved that she had been offered the well-paying position of lady superintendent of the Galt Hospital. I’m doing what Dr. Newbury suggested: setting my sail anew. But I’m only accepting the job in Lethbridge for Ivy’s sake.
A sudden clang of church bells was an abrupt reminder that the war had ended a year ago that day. Visitors to the cemetery looked up at St. Katherine’s Church tower as the bells pealed out the eleventh hour. Knockholt Cemetery was crowded with families looking for their loved ones’ graves.
“Over here!” someone shouted. “I’ve found Chester!” A group hurried past, scuffling the pebbles as they rushed to join the discoverer of Chester’s tombstone.
Like war, peacetime is to be shared, Clara thought as she listened to three women talking to one another about the slow emergence of fresh food on the market.
“We’re expected at the pub in less than an hour,” Clara said, taking Ivy’s hand as they wound along the pathway. Clara looked up at the cloudless blue November sky. “Ivy, let’s be positive! Pretend we’re explorers to the New World. We’re going to see cowboys, Indians, galloping horses, enormous lakes, towering mountains, pristine snow, and year-round sunshine. Aren’t you breathless with excitement?” She kissed Ivy’s wispy blond head and continued to hold her. She could feel the wetness of her daughter’s tears through her dress. Both of them remained motionless, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Clara’s mind drifted to the grim day she had spent in the Knockholt Cemetery only a year before. Mourners had lined up where she now stood with Ivy. The influenza pandemic had spread so rapidly throughout England that it had put immense pressure on the burial system.
At the time, a horse-drawn hearse was the only vehicle available to transport Billy. The back doors of the hearse, hand-carved in the form of draperies, were held closed by huge brass springs. Clara swallowed hard, remembering the sharp clack of the doors as they were shut — dealing a note of finality — and the shocking words of the driver. Knocking one of the springs with his fist, he’d said, “These will ensure no indignity will occur while I’m driving.”
Clara had driven to the cemetery in the hearse, while Miff and Addy had followed in their car with Di Shaw, Clara’s friend since her nursing school days. Clara’s parents had contributed well beyond their means for the purchase of a magnificent gravestone that would honour George, and now Billy. Only a modest stone had been laid on George’s grave in the midst of war. Clara received loving notes from her siblings from as far away as Gallipoli. Even from a distance, she felt their grief.
Light drizzle had begun to fall on that sad day of the funeral as Clara arrived at the cemetery with Billy in his small coffin. The horses’ backs glistened in the rain. The driver, forced to wait on the High Road outside the graveyard and fearful that the horses might bolt if a car passed, had stood beside the carriage with a tight hold on the reins. It was an hour’s wait before they were handed a piece of paper with the plot number and permission to proceed. Two men stepped up to unload the coffin and carry it to the designated spot behind St. Katherine’s Church. The young vicar was waiting for them at the grave. He looked haggard and dishevelled in his damp suit and soiled clerical collar. For a young man, his face was heavily lined. He had already performed six burials that day, but Billy was the first child.
Billy’s casket was lowered onto his father’s. Clara shivered, recalling the dug-out rat-infested trenches George had crawled through to repair communication lines. Everything became blurry around her.
The minister offered his condolences and began his shortened service. The last thing Clara could remember was “earth to earth,” followed by thumping sounds as clumps of mud hit father and son’s boxes. Overwhelmed, she collapsed forward and toppled into the grave. Miff immediately stepped down onto the coffin, trying not to lose his footing in the slippery mud. The vicar reached down, and together they hauled Clara up into Addy’s arms. Di began to sob until Miff pulled her away. Overwhelmed with anguish, Clara leaned on the men for support. Streaks of clay mixed with blood smeared her face. Di climbed into the hearse beside her, and Clara was taken to hospital, where they cleaned the deep cut on her forehead.
A young man, balancing himself on crutches, stopped in front of Clara, “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“Oh, thank you for your concern. I suppose being in the graveyard has brought back some terrible memories. My husband and son are buried here.” Clara motioned to the plots not far from a giant yew tree.
“Was it the flu?” the man asked.
“For my son, yes.”
“My brother would be almost seven,” Ivy said, tears glistening on her eyelashes. “We’re moving to Canada now that my daddy is dead.”
Seeing the look of pain on Clara’s face, the man said quietly, “Death doesn’t mean the same to a child.” After a quiet moment, he asked, “And your husband?”
“Died in the service of his country.”
The man, not more than twenty years old, smiled as Ivy stared bug-eyed at his useless-looking legs.
“We all lose something to win a war,” the young man said, tapping his leg. “Want to see how fast I can go on these things?” He set out, swinging his legs through the crutches. “C’mon. I’ll race ya to that big tree.”
Ivy trotted beside him toward the enormous yew and Clara followed. The eight-hundred-year-old tree attracted visitors from miles around, and, according to the vicar, had even increased attendance at church.
“I must leave ya here,” the man said, turning along another path.
“Thank you for cheering us up,” Clara said.
“Good luck, ma’am. You have a pretty little daughter.”
Whistling, the man swung away in another direction. Clara began to walk on, then stopped abruptly and broke into a grin. Di Shaw was leaning back against the wide trunk of the old yew, reading a book. Ten years earlier, Clara had walked out of St. George’s Hospital with Di, both proudly holding their nursing diplomas. They had, however, followed different paths; Di married immediately upon graduating and soon had a family. How life’s circumstances change, she thought.
“You look elegant just sitting by a tree,” Clara said. Di jumped up and rushed over with her arms extended. She was wearing a grey wool coat, a beige silk head scarf, matching gloves, and fashionable stockings. Despite the war, she had retained her taste for fashion.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Clara said, looking happy and surprised.
Ivy wrapped her arms around Di’s middle. “Can’t I live with Auntie Di?” she asked.
Clara covered her hurt with a smile. “Miff said you would meet us at the pub. Now that you’re here I can show you the headstone.”
They stomped through overgrown grass to the grave. Beyond the church hedge there was a meadow filled with late autumn flowers. “Such a peaceful place,” Di said, resting her hand on the granite. “This must have cost a fortune.”
“My parents helped me. It was the least we could do for Billy and George.”
“What is this black stuff?” Di asked as she traced the inscription with a finger.
“It’s