Grandmamma and Grandpapa Olivier were buried in the City of London
Cemetery. A long time ago, so long that even Mark couldn't remember it,
Uncle Victor had brought Grandmamma in a coffin all the way from
Liverpool to London in the train.
On Saturday afternoon Mamma had to put flowers on the grave for Easter
Sunday, because of Uncle Victor and Aunt Lavvy. She took Roddy and Mary
with her. They drove in Mr. Parish's wagonette, and called for Aunt Lavvy
at Uncle Victor's tall white house at the bottom of Ilford High Street.
Aunt Lavvy was on the steps, waiting for them, holding a big cross of
white flowers. You could see Aunt Charlotte's face at the dining-room
window looking out over the top of the brown wire blind. She had her hat
on, as if she had expected to be taken too. Her eyes were sharp and
angry, and Uncle Victor stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder.
Aunt Lavvy gave Mary the flower cross and climbed stiffly into the
wagonette. Mary felt grown up and important holding the big cross on her
knee. The white flowers gave out a thick, sweet smell.
As they drove away she kept on thinking about Aunt Charlotte, and about
Uncle Victor bringing Grandmamma in a coffin in the train. It was very,
very brave of him. She was sorry for Aunt Charlotte. Aunt Charlotte had
wanted to go to the cemetery and they hadn't let her go. Perhaps she was
still looking over the blind, sharp and angry because they wouldn't let
her go.
Aunt Lavvy said, "We couldn't take Charlotte. It excited her too much
last time." As if she knew what you were thinking.
The wagonette stopped by the railway-crossing at Manor Park, and they got
out. Mamma told Mr. Parish to drive round to the Leytonstone side and
wait for them there at the big gates. They wanted to walk through the
cemetery and see what was to be seen.
Beyond the railway-crossing a muddy lane went along a field of coarse
grass under a hedge of thorns and ended at a paling. Roddy whispered
excitedly that they were in Wanstead Flats. The hedge shut off the
cemetery from the flats; through thin places in the thorn bushes you
could see tombstones, very white tombstones against very dark trees.
There was a black wooden door in the hedge for you to go in by. The lane
and the thorn bushes and the black door reminded Mary of something she
had seen before somewhere. Something frightening.
When they got through the black door there were no tombstones. What
showed through the hedge were the tops of high white pillars standing up
among trees a long way off. They had come into a dreadful, bare,
clay-coloured plain, furrowed into low mounds, as if a plough had gone
criss-cross over it.
You saw nothing but mounds. Some of them were made of loose earth; some
were patched over with rough sods that gaped in a horrible way. Perhaps
if you looked through the cracks you would see down into the grave where
the coffin was. The mounds had a fresh, raw look, as if all the people in
the City of London had died and been buried hurriedly the night before.
And there were no stones with names, only small, flat sticks at one end
of each grave to show where the heads were.