“Will the urn on your family grave remind you of your mother-of what she was and what she wanted?”
“No, there is nothing of my mother on it,” Maude admitted. “If my mother were to choose her own grave it would have a statue of Mrs. Pankhurst on it and under her name it would read ‘Votes for Women.’ ”
I shook my head. “If your mother were to choose her own grave there would be no monument or words at all. It would be a bed of wildflowers.”
Maude frowned. “But Mummy is dead, isn’t she? She really is dead. She’s not going to design her grave.”
She was a remarkable young lady-there are few who could say what she said without flinching.
“And because she’s dead,” she continued, “surely she won’t care what happens to her body. She won’t be buried alive-we know that. It’s we who care-my father most of all. He represents all of us, and he must decide what is best.”
I leaned over and brushed away a spider from the Waterhouse grave. I knew it was not fair of me to make demands on her-after all, she was only thirteen years old and had just lost her mother. But for Kitty’s sake I must. “All I would ask of you, Miss Coleman,” I said gently, “is that you remind your father of what you know-of what he must already know-of your mother’s wishes. It is of course for him to decide what will then be done.”
Maude nodded and turned to go.
“Maude,” I said.
“Yes?”
“There is something else.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then looked at me.
“Your mother’s funeral”-I stopped abruptly. I could not tell her-it would be a breach of my professional duties, and I could lose my position for saying anything. But I wanted somehow to warn her. “It would be best if you spoke to your father sooner rather than later.”
“All right.”
“It is a matter of urgency. Perhaps more than you know.”
“I’ll speak to him today.” Maude turned and hurried down the path that led to the entrance.
I stood there for some time, studying the Coleman grave. It was hard to imagine Kitty being buried there. That absurd urn made me want to snort with laughter.
Richard Coleman
She came to see me in my study as I was going through papers. I stopped writing. “What is it, Maude?”
She took a deep breath-she was clearly very nervous. “Mummy said to me once that she wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered.”
I looked down at my hands. There was a spot of ink on the cuff of my shirt. “Your mother said a great many things that have not come to pass. She once said she wanted four children. Do you see any sisters or brothers about? Sometimes what we think and what we do are not meant to be the same.”
“But-”
“That’s enough, Maude-there is nothing more to be said on the matter.”
Maude shuddered. I’d spoken more sharply than I’d intended. These days I find it difficult to control my tone.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered. “I was only thinking of Mummy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You haven’t upset me!” I pressed my pen so hard into the paper that the nib suddenly cracked. “Damn!” I threw down the pen.
Maude slipped out without another word.
The sooner this week is over the better.
Lavinia Waterhouse
Purchased from Jay’s in Regent Street, 22nd June 1908:
1. 1 black dress in paramatta silk for me-for the funeral and for Sundays; my old merino dress is for everyday. There was an even lovelier silk dress, with crape all round the neck, but it was too dear.
2. 1 black bombazine dress for Mama. It looks so cheap and shiny that I tried to convince her to buy paramatta instead, but she said we didn’t have the money and she would rather I had the silk as it matters more to me. Sweet of her.
3. 1 black cotton petticoat for me, 2 pairs bloomers threaded with black ribbon.
4. 1 black felt hat with veil for me. I insisted on the veil-I look so awful when I’ve been crying and shall need to pull down the veil often to hide my red eyes and nose. Mama did not buy a hat for herself but said she would dye one of her bonnets. She did at least buy a few ostrich feathers to trim it with.
5. 2 pairs black cotton gloves for Mama and me. They have 4 lovely jet buttons up the cuff. Mama had chosen plain ones without buttons, but did not notice when I switched them. Also, pair of gloves, a hatband, and black cravat for Papa.
6. 7 black-edged handkerchiefs-2 for Mama, 5 for me. I wanted many more but Mama would not let me. She has not cried at all, but I insisted she should have a few, just in case she does cry.
7. 200 sheets stationery with medium-band black edging.
8. 100 remembrance cards on order that read as follows:
Ivy May Waterhouse Age 10
“A lovely flower, soon snatched away,
To bloom in realms divine;
Thousands will wish, at Judgment Day,
Their lives were short as mine.”
I chose the epitaph, as Mama was overcome in the shop and had to go outside for some air. The shop assistant said the epitaph was meant for a baby, not someone Ivy May’s age, but I think it’s lovely, especially the phrase To bloom in realms divine, and I insisted it remain.
I could have spent all day in Jay‘s-it is so comforting to be in a shop devoted entirely to what one is experiencing. But Mama refused to linger and became quite short with me. I don’t know what to do about her-she is very pale, poor dear, and hardly says a word except to be contrary. Much of the time she remains in her room, lying in bed as if she is ill. She rarely emerges for visitors, and so it has been up to me to see to the entertaining-pouring out cups of tea, asking Elizabeth to bring in more cake and crumpets. So many cousins arrived today that we ran out and I had to send Elizabeth to the baker’s for more. I myself cannot eat a thing, except for the odd slice of currant bread, which the King’s physician recommends for keeping the strength up.
I have tried to interest Mama in the letters of condolence we have received, but she does not seem to read them. I have had to answer them myself, as I worry that if I leave them with Mama she will simply forget, and it does not do to delay a reply.
People have said the most surprising things about Ivy May-how angelic she was, how she was the perfect daughter and such a support to Mama, how tragic for us and how much she will be missed. Indeed, I sometimes want to write back and ask if they thought it was I who died. But instead I make sure simply to sign my name large and clear, so that there will be no doubt.
Mama said to me at breakfast that she does not want me to go back to school, that I can finish the term by studying at home. Oust as well, as I am in no mood to sit in class. I should probably interrupt everything by weeping at the wrong moments.) And that next term I am to switch schools and attend the Sainte Union on the Highgate Road. My heart did a little leap, as the girls there have such smart uniforms. I was surprised, of course, as the school is Catholic, but perhaps I shouldn’t be-Mama asked for the priest from St. Joseph’s in Highgate to come and see her last night. Papa said not a word. If reverting to Catholicism is a comfort to her, what is one to say?
Papa has been kept very busy with the arrangements, and that is good, I think. I helped him when I could, as Mama is unable. When the undertaker came to see us it was I who chose the dress Ivy May is to wear (white cotton with puffed sleeves that used to be mine) and the flowers (lilies) and what to do with her hair (loose curls and a crown woven of white roses). Papa answered the other questions about the coffin and horses and such. He also met with the cemetery people and the vicar, and with the police.