Short Story: The Joy and Hope

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.'