North London, 1980.
Anya, nine years old, had been collected by car at 8:30am. She was spending the morning at the house of a friend. Sophia was working that morning, but would be free by mid-afternoon. It was arranged I should collect Anya at 1:30pm; we would walk back home and then all three of us would decide what to do for the remainder of the day.
It was a beautiful warm drowsy sort of summer day. Anya and I enjoyed being out together. We would dawdle and speak of many things. There were three miles to cover, and all the time in the world to wander, and we decided on the route that took us through the cemetery and across the heath.
We were taking a rest with the hillside cemetery spread out below. Mainly 19th Century tombs and monuments, with some big old family vaults. An old lady was making her way along an aisle between tombs and then turned up the main path that ran in our direction. She was carrying a small vase of withered flowers, having doubtless left fresh ones in their place. She spotted Anya looking at her, and gave her a warm smile.
Anya whispered to me, "Isn't she beautiful?" I wondered if you could be beautiful in your eighties. But the word would do well enough. The old lady's face was full of peace, love, gentleness, and a sublime contentment. It would have been memorable among a thousand faces.
We continued on our way, walking down the path. Anya remembered which aisle the old lady had emerged from, and turned to go along it, looking up at me. I nodded my approval. There was a large family monument at the end of the row with a dozen or more names inscribed upon it, mostly dating back a hundred years or more. But the eye was immediately drawn to a patch of white: a cleansed surface free of London grime. On a nearby ledge stood a vase of fresh flowers.
On the patch of white, we read the name of the last person to be lain to rest. It was recorded that he had been tragically killed in a flying accident at the age of 24. It was the date of his death that was remarkable. It had been in 1928, more than fifty-one years before.
"Who was he?" asked Anya quietly.
"I don't know, darling. I know no more than you." He might have been her fiancé or husband, though we reckoned that he would have been younger than the woman who had lovingly remembered him for so many years.
"Perhaps a younger brother," I suggested. Really, we knew nothing of the full story. Had she really been coming here all this time? It seemed so sad. Anya decided to shed a few tears.
When the woman first came here with flowers, so many years ago, we imagined her agonised by grief. But over the decades, happy loving memories had triumphed.
"So you can stop crying, darling. And I'll try to stop too."
It has always stayed so clearly in my mind. I thought I would like to share it with you.
Anya, nine years old, had been collected by car at 8:30am. She was spending the morning at the house of a friend. Sophia was working that morning, but would be free by mid-afternoon. It was arranged I should collect Anya at 1:30pm; we would walk back home and then all three of us would decide what to do for the remainder of the day.
It was a beautiful warm drowsy sort of summer day. Anya and I enjoyed being out together. We would dawdle and speak of many things. There were three miles to cover, and all the time in the world to wander, and we decided on the route that took us through the cemetery and across the heath.
We were taking a rest with the hillside cemetery spread out below. Mainly 19th Century tombs and monuments, with some big old family vaults. An old lady was making her way along an aisle between tombs and then turned up the main path that ran in our direction. She was carrying a small vase of withered flowers, having doubtless left fresh ones in their place. She spotted Anya looking at her, and gave her a warm smile.
Anya whispered to me, "Isn't she beautiful?" I wondered if you could be beautiful in your eighties. But the word would do well enough. The old lady's face was full of peace, love, gentleness, and a sublime contentment. It would have been memorable among a thousand faces.
We continued on our way, walking down the path. Anya remembered which aisle the old lady had emerged from, and turned to go along it, looking up at me. I nodded my approval. There was a large family monument at the end of the row with a dozen or more names inscribed upon it, mostly dating back a hundred years or more. But the eye was immediately drawn to a patch of white: a cleansed surface free of London grime. On a nearby ledge stood a vase of fresh flowers.
On the patch of white, we read the name of the last person to be lain to rest. It was recorded that he had been tragically killed in a flying accident at the age of 24. It was the date of his death that was remarkable. It had been in 1928, more than fifty-one years before.
"Who was he?" asked Anya quietly.
"I don't know, darling. I know no more than you." He might have been her fiancé or husband, though we reckoned that he would have been younger than the woman who had lovingly remembered him for so many years.
"Perhaps a younger brother," I suggested. Really, we knew nothing of the full story. Had she really been coming here all this time? It seemed so sad. Anya decided to shed a few tears.
When the woman first came here with flowers, so many years ago, we imagined her agonised by grief. But over the decades, happy loving memories had triumphed.
"So you can stop crying, darling. And I'll try to stop too."
It has always stayed so clearly in my mind. I thought I would like to share it with you.
