The Joy and Hope
The
white marble of the tomb looked soft in the morning's rain. He gazed at it
unseeing, lost in thoughts which queued up to ask him what had gone wrong so
suddenly that here he was sitting in a cemetery in Rome on his own in the wet.
The
constant tooting of Italian cars and epilepsy-inducing sirens of Italian
Ambulances were muted here. The high walls (raised to their current height by
kind gift of Constance Wilson in memory of her beloved sister) did a great job
of that. The place was an oasis of calm away from the city's relentless traffic
noise. Parasol pines and azaleas leant an air of quiet solitude and in the grey
damp of this morning they loomed dark and green around the pale gravestones.
Gravestones
of the great and the good and the ordinary who had come to Rome on their Grand
Tours, as Consuls or on military commissions. Their careers and plans cut short
by consumption, fever and lead shot.
The
memorial in front of him was an eight foot high tour de force. A rectangular column,
engraved with some sad story while an equally sad angel drooped over the top of
it.
Wrapped
in his worries he hadn't noticed a girl sit down at the end of the
bench. He'd put his head down rubbing his eyes for a few seconds thinking
about Rachel and when he looked up he saw her in the corner of his
vision.
He
turned his head to acknowledge her and saw she was dressed equally
inappropriately for sitting in a persistent drizzle. Her long cotton dress
bunched up thickly round her legs. Blonde hair, now slightly lank in the rain
curled from under her sun-bonnet.
'Buongiorno'
he said. And that was all he intended to say apart from Goodbye which was the
other Italian word he was fluent in.
She
turned her head and he could see she was only a teenager.
She
nodded and smiled faintly at him.
'Good
morning sir, how are you?'
'Oh
you speak English?'
'Yes
I was born in Herefordshire. Do you know it?'
She
had an English accent but not one he could place. It was somehow filtered. He
wondered how long she'd lived in Rome for that to happen.
'Sort
of. I'm from North London myself, not that far really.' He paused, 'It's
a long time since my daughter called me Sir. If ever. '
'You
have a daughter? How lovely! I hope you cherish her.'
(Cherish?)
'I...think
I do' he replied and then he blurted out
'But
not today. Today I don't know where she is. She got very cross with me. Now
she's gone off I don't know where.'
'Is
she with her mother?'
'Her
mother...we split up, her mother isn't here'
'I'm
sorry'
'Don't
be. It was a few years ago now. One of those things y'know. But Rachel, that's
my daughter is still cold with me sometimes and I can't always deal with it.
Today... sorry! Telling you all my woes...'
'No,
go on, go on...' she flapped a delicate hand at him.
'Well...she
wanted to go shopping and I said maybe as we're in Rome we should see the
sights rather than buy more things, and she argued and I lost my temper and so
did she and she just walked off. And I was so angry I let her go... she's just
15. I shouldn't have let her but...' he tailed off; wondering how or if to
continue.
'I'm
sure she is safe and loves you. Young girls are sometimes...' she paused to
search for a word '...spirited?'
'Yeah,
that's Rachel right there. Spirited! I just...struggle sometimes not to get
angry. Why can't she see things from my point of view. Just once would be
nice!' He smiled and shook his head.
'It's
the burden of youth I think. Each generation knows better than the one
that came before.'
Now
she turned to him on the bench, sliding closer and he suddenly saw how very wet
she was, her pale skin glistened, there were dark circles under her eyes. She
looked young and very tired.
'Sir'
there she went again 'you must enjoy what you have now. Don't let it go. Don't
let your anger with your daughter cloud your sky. The sun still shines above it
and all will be well as long as you cherish each other.'
She
finished, still staring intently at him. He felt a weight lift inside.
'You're
right. So right of course. Thanks'
'You
are welcome' she faced forwards again.
He
gazed back the same way at the column with its sad angel.
The
marble's letters were worn and faded:
Beneath this Stone are interred
the Remains of
ROSA BATHURST
Who was Accidentally Drowned in the
Tiber on the
20th March 1821 Whilst on a Riding
Party Owing
To the Swollen state of the River and
her Spirited
Horse taking Fright. She was the
daughter
of BENJAMIN BATHURST whose
Disappearance some years since
was as Tragic as Unaccountable. No
positive account of his Death ever
having been
received by his distracted Wife. He
was lost
at Twenty Six years of Age
His Daughter who inherited her
Father's
Perfections both personal and mental
had completed her Sixteenth year when she perished by as
Disastrous a Fate.
Reader
Whoever thou art who may pause to
Peruse
this Tale of Sorrows Let this awful
lesson
of the Instability of Human Happiness
sink Deep
in thy Mind. If thou are young and
lovely
build not thereon for she who sleeps
by Death
under thy feet was the loveliest
flower ever
in its bloom.
The Joy and Hope of her
WIDOWED MOTHER
who erects this poor memorial
of her irreparable loss.
Coldness
swept over him.
'That's
you isn't it.' he said softly.
The
dead girl made no reply but stared mutely ahead.
'I'm
so sorry. Thank you for helping me. I'll go back to the hotel. I'm sure Rachel
will have come back. And I will cherish her. Can I...do anything for you in
return?'
She
turned slowly again to look at him fully. Then smiled.
'No
thank you. I have to get back to work.' She waved a laminated pass at him 'At
the hospital. This was a break for a cigarette.'
'I
thought...I mean...' He started again 'You are older than you look.'
'Yes
I know sir. I get that a lot.'
