Deadlines

I am attracted to graveyards – especially those attached to churches and on my walks, I pass though my own church of St John the Baptist to have a little quiet time. I think about the lives that prompted the poignant epitaphs and sometimes find something different to puzzle over.

A year or so ago, on a break in London, we detoured with a trip to Highgate Cemetery. I know, I know - visiting a cemetery may seem a little odd to many. but I first went there some years ago after reading Tracey Chevalier’s book “Fallen Angels” and thought it may be therefore be worth a detour. The twists and turns in the overgrown paths in this beautiful wildness of a cemetery with the jumble of grave plots are very different to the organised parallel grave plots and paths of the necropolis of my home town of Preston cemetery.

There is a reason for this. The (initially commercial) cemetery was founded due to a high demand for grave plots, resulting in it becoming so crowded that a second part had to be opened up across the road to accommodate even more plots. At one point, it was common for multiple funerals and diggings to be taking place – you can imagine the consequent noise and clamour that are very different from the sombre, subdued experiences we are now accustomed to.

If you haven’t read this book, I would recommend you do. It is an easy read, drawing you into each character. It opens in January 1901, on the cusp of change, the day after Queen Victoria dies, when two very different families visit adjacent graves in a London cemetery.

Richard and Kitty are arguing about the Waterhouse’s angel, Kitty reflecting that “the excess of it all - which our own ridiculous urn now contributes to - is too much,” while Richard views the angel on the neighbouring Waterhouse plot as “sentimental nonsense.” The traditional Waterhouses revere the late Queen whereas the Colemans have a more modern outlook – but both families are appalled by the friendship that springs up between their respective daughters. Their lives intertwine over the next nine years, both families having to adjust to tragedy and changes in relationships.

Kitty believes the cemetery to be full of “utter banality and misplaced symbolism.” This is true - virtually every part of the cemetery you see today is drenched in symbolism – even the more recent modern stones Malcom McLaren, manager of influential pop group of the 1970’s Sex Pistols).

Others who have their last resting places in Highgate Cemetery, are Karl Marx, Lucien Freud, Douglas Adams, with a pot of pencils, presumably so that should he become bored while in the afterlife, he can take up a sequel to the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

In a shaded area, in the old cemetery, Alexander Litvenyenko lies in his lead lined coffin, this poem a salutary reminder to be careful about whom one chooses to sup with …

Tea with Putin

I'm known in Russia as the kind
Who's not afraid to speak his mind;
And so if Putin says to me,
"My friend, you must stop in for tea."
I'll do my best to put him off,
Clutch my throat and start to cough.
"My health'" I'll say, "is not the best
My doctor says I need some rest."
If he persists, as is his way,
And says, "Come by when you're okay."
I'll say, "Dear Vlad , I'd love to come.
It's just I find Polonium
When someone puts it in my tea --
It doesn't quite agree with me."
He'll answer sharply, "Don't be thick!
This is realpolitik.
You know with me at any venue
Poison's always on the menu."
I'll nod and back away a bit.
And fake another coughing fit.
Anything to keep me free
From sitting down with him for tea.

                                                      Colin McKim

I prefer the magnificent older gravestones – perhaps because of the stories behind each one. It is difficult to choose any favourite, some stark, many telling of heart break, others of a life well lived. One of the cemetery’s most unusual graves is that of menagerist George Wombwell (1777-1850), appropriately marked by an imposing sculpture of a lion, sleeping upon his grave, with echoes of Trafalgar Square and further north, Saltaire with its set of four lions we found adorning the corners of the streets there. George, began his collection of exotic animals by purchasing two boa constrictors at the London Docks - which thankfully don’t feature on the plot.

Interwoven throughout the book are interesting facts about Victorian preoccupation with mourning fashions and funerals. Don’t be put off - but it isn’t morbid despite Highgate Cemetery being at the centre of the story. And you too may be tempted to visit to search for the “fallen angel.”

I found the eeriest place in the West Cemetery to be ‘The Circle of Lebanon, so called because of a massive ancient cedar tree which long predated the Cemetery to be found at its centre, like a huge bonsai, its base surrounded by a circle of tombs. It was part of the grounds of Ashurst House, sold in 1830 and demolished to provide a site for the present St Michael's Church. The cemetery designers kept the great cedar as a key feature in the landscape – the original tree fell prey to disease, but has been replaced.

One of our sons lives in The Netherlands, told me that when a person dies but has no friends or family to attend their funeral, the town will arrange for a civil servant and a poet) who will read a custom written poem for the deceased, so that they won’t be alone that day.

The Netherlanders are big on poetry, this particular custom, named “The Lonely Funeral” project, was started by poet and artist F Stail. It is a lovely idea. Everyone should be remembered and their life celebrated, don’t you think? But I also feel sad as I realise that if there was no one else to be there at their funeral, they likely lived their last years alone. Perhaps by choice, but often likely not.

Lines for the Dead

She played roulette in Monaco,
With face aglow,
A belle with her beau
She danced a fiery tango.

With bloody war and bombing
She adapted to nursing,
Was loving and giving
And her zest made life thrilling.

Forgotten by the living, alone at the last,
Memory gaps vast
She dreamt of the past,
Slipping away to join those passed.

Yvonne.