A Friend from the Graveyard
Many years ago, there was an evening when my husband left to fetch some bits and never made his way home again. Wed been living with his mother for five years, our little ones under her roof, since times were hard and London rents were laughably out of reach.
I remember so clearly, going to the police the next morning, hands trembling, voice hardly above a whisper, only to be told I must wait three whole days before he could be considered missing. So, I waited for the world to right itself. It never did.
I filed my report. And then, the days began to pile on top of one another. Three years slipped quietly by, each day hopeful Id hear the key in the door and see him stroll inside. Wed been staying with his mother, though truthfully shed never taken to me. To be honest, she harboured a quiet malice towards me, and once my husband vanished, she lost what little reason shed clung to. Whispers started up among the neighbours: according to her, it was my string of lovers whod killed her only son and tossed him into a pit outside the city. Utter nonsense, of course yes, theres an old quarry on the edge of Ealing, terrifyingly deep, but even if men noticed me, Id never so much as entertained the thought of romance. Family was everything.
Day by day, things with my mother-in-law soured. Wed row over the daftest things: where I left a spoon, how I placed her favourite teacup. There came a day when my patience wore thin, and I began searching for a flat of our own.
Ill never let you move into a nice flat! she spat, eyes wild. Not a chancemurderess, you dont deserve it!
Whenever I found an exchange, she refused outright. If it was a third floor, she complained her legs were bad. A first floor? Too noisy, what with the youth. The second floor? Unacceptable, wrong district, shops too far.
At last, I found a place right opposite, second floor, close to everything, familiar streets. She found a new excuse: Id see my old flat from the windowhow could I bear it, after my son vanished in there?
She wore me down to breaking. I became desperate to move anywhere, so long as the shouting stopped and our children could rest. In the end, my little ones and I moved into a ground-floor flat in a tired old building, perched at the very edge of Kensal Green Cemetery.
We left as rivals, my mother-in-law and I, as if those years together had left no bond. Shed never had much for our children, it seemedher own grandchildren. Clearly, she didnt care that every day theyd hear funeral marches or pass weeping mourners when they came home. No playground for them, just rows of headstones and stone angels. A quiet vengeance, perhaps.
But Id no choice but to make a home from what life had given me. The first thing I did was buy heavy fabric to sew curtains; Id no wish for us to stare at the endless parade of hearses. By nightfall the curtains were hung, and we lived mainly in gloom, secluded from the sight of loss.
A month passed. One afternoon, as I was cooking porridge for the children, I heard a loud commotion in the corridor. I peered out to see my neighbour collapsed on the stairs, groaning in agony with a twisted ankle and scattered groceries. I rushed to her aid, steadied her to her sofa, then dashed outside to gather the strewn food. She sat sobbing when I returned. I offered to ring the doctor, but she refused, saying she wasnt crying from pain.
Through her tears, she muttered, This place is cursed! Theres not a day without trouble. Anyone living this close to the cemetery is bound to come to grief.
I tried to cheer her, assuring her it couldnt be so awful. Id been here almost a month, I said, and apart from the funeral music, it was perfectly bearableone grows accustomed to these things.
She paused, then said, I wont tell you anything. Soon enough, youll learn for yourself.
Her words lingered. Not long after, misfortune seemed to set upon us. My son dropped a weight on his foot and left hospital in plaster. Then my daughter came down with stomach painsdiagnosed with gastritis.
But the worst came within the week.
One night, I woke to a sound I shall never forgeta faint scratching at the window, like nails drawn across the glass. The clock read exactly two. Something drew me to the window, though I longed not to look. I drew aside the curtain. Just a pace beyond the glass stood a woman of my years, her face an eerie blue in the moonlight, stretched into a dead persons mask of sneering surprise.
Paralysed with terror, I couldnt scream or move, merely stood clutching the curtain. The woman turned wordlessly and drifted away towards the cemetery gates. I watched her go before collapsing in a heap, only able to fall asleep again when the morning light crept in.
I dared not mention it to anyone, for fear theyd think me mad. All day, my mind wallowed in wild explanations: perhaps, I thought, my spiteful mother-in-law had set up a cruel trick. Or maybe it was a scheme by a funeral company hoping to buy my flat for a song and set up shop there.
Yet, the troubles mounted: two days later, I learned at work I was to be made redundant. My having two small children was of no note to anyone. Offered the option to resign or be dismissed, I left with whatever pride I had left.
Then, two days on, returning home from the job centre, I found my pursemy last cashgone from my bag. Most likely pinched on the bus. I wept on my front step.
I dug out my wedding bands and trudged to the pawnbrokers, but the pennies I was offered were an insult. Deciding Id try my luck elsewhere, I left. Down the road I saw a man holding a sign: Gold Bought, Top Prices Paid. I approached, he offered much more, and I was grateful. I tucked the money into my coat and set off for the bus.
A young man bumped past, dropping a parcel. I called after him, but hed vanished. Curious, I opened it: a thick wad of fifty-pound notes.
Instantly, a Romani woman appeared beside me. Look at thatweve found a windfall together! she exclaimed, snatching the cash from my hands. No sense in calling the policetheyll keep it for themselves. Well share it, you and I! With that, she pressed a handful of notes into my palm and hurried away.
Dazed, ashamed but desperate, I pocketed the money, spirits briefly lifted. But my relief was short-lived. Turning the corner, I ran straight into the young man from before, now with a burly, bald brute at his side, wielding a cricket bat.
You found my parcel, didnt you? he accused. Outnumbered and unnerved, I handed over the money. Thats not all of it! he barked, refusing to hear about the Romani woman, insisting Id handed off the rest to accomplices. They took every pound Id got for the wedding bands as well.
I reached home in a daze, weeping anew. Remembering my neighbours wordsthat this house brings nothing but misfortuneI truly felt Id never known a darker time.
That same night, the scratching returned. As terrified as I was, my feet carried me to the window again. There she wasthe same dreadful woman. For a spell, we simply stared at one another. I muted my scream, so as not to wake the children, and finally, as before, she turned towards the graveyard. I slid to the floor and stayed in the corner till sunrise.
The next day, my neighbour knocked, a council bill in hand, and seeing my state, offered to pay it for me. I broke down in tears, poured out the whole talemy losses, illnesses, mother-in-laws cruel rumours, and the night-time visits from the spirit.
She listened silently, then suddenly embraced me. After, she told me to wash my face. Come with me, she said.
Within minutes, we found ourselves crossing the cemetery. She led me to a grave, and on the headstones photograph gazed the very woman whod haunted my nights.
Is that her?
I nodded, hardly able to breathe.
Taking my arm, she led me home and unfolded her own story: she, too, had seen the ghostsoon after which she lost her son in a car accident and her husband walked out. Shed become ill, more woes than one could count.
But as the days rolled on, the spectre did not return. Instead, a peculiar urge grew within me to visit the grave, intensifying with each sunrise.
Eventually I yielded. It was a bright day, sunlight warm, and fear seemed far away as I stood before the grave. It was overgrown and neglectedperhaps there were no kin to remember her.
I set to it, tidied and weeded, avoiding looking at the photo. When I finally looked, she appeared merely lovely: arched brows, refined features, and a grace to her.
There and then, waves of sorrow washed over me. I found myself whispering into the cold air, What have I done wrong to you? Why do you come? Im not happy either, you know. Her nameClara, as the stone readfelt oddly comforting on my lips. Quickly, I spilled out all my grievances, as though talking to an old friend.
Odd as it sounds, the more I spoke, the lighter my heart became.
When I left, I said farewell to Clara, feeling a strange kinship in our shared sadness. Her tragedy was her stolen life; mine, that Id let despair tighten its grip living.
That night, I dreamt. Clara entered my room, not as a ghost, but beautiful as in her portrait. She sat beside me and spoke in a kind, clear voice:
Listen: theres no sin on your soul. You must do as I saythen things will mend. Your husbandhe gambled away everything, owed too much. Hes been taken far away, wont return, and you will not find him. You must sell your home to the funeral company and find a place far from here. I will help. Soon, a good man will enter your life, loving you and your children as his own. Farewell.
When I woke, the scents of earth and faded flowers clung to my room.
On the third day, as Clara had foretold, a funeral firm arrived, offering to buy my flat for their office. I accepted and quickly found a new home, this time in a fine neighbourhood.
In time, a wonderful man did find us, and now he loves my children as his own. All unfolded exactly as Claramy friend from the graveyardhad promised. And to this day, I keep her memory close, in quiet gratitude.
