through to repair communication lines. Everything became blurry around her.
The minister offered his condolences and began his shortened service. The last thing Clara could remember was “earth to earth,” followed by thumping sounds as clumps of mud hit father and son’s boxes. Overwhelmed, she collapsed forward and toppled into the grave. Miff immediately stepped down onto the coffin, trying not to lose his footing in the slippery mud. The vicar reached down, and together they hauled Clara up into Addy’s arms. Di began to sob until Miff pulled her away. Overwhelmed with anguish, Clara leaned on the men for support. Streaks of clay mixed with blood smeared her face. Di climbed into the hearse beside her, and Clara was taken to hospital, where they cleaned the deep cut on her forehead.
A young man, balancing himself on crutches, stopped in front of Clara, “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“Oh, thank you for your concern. I suppose being in the graveyard has brought back some terrible memories. My husband and son are buried here.” Clara motioned to the plots not far from a giant yew tree.
“Was it the flu?” the man asked.
“For my son, yes.”
“My brother would be almost seven,” Ivy said, tears glistening on her eyelashes. “We’re moving to Canada now that my daddy is dead.”
Seeing the look of pain on Clara’s face, the man said quietly, “Death doesn’t mean the same to a child.” After a quiet moment, he asked, “And your husband?”
“Died in the service of his country.”
The man, not more than twenty years old, smiled as Ivy stared bug-eyed at his useless-looking legs.
“We all lose something to win a war,” the young man said, tapping his leg. “Want to see how fast I can go on these things?” He set out, swinging his legs through the crutches. “C’mon. I’ll race ya to that big tree.”
Ivy trotted beside him toward the enormous yew and Clara followed. The eight-hundred-year-old tree attracted visitors from miles around, and, according to the vicar, had even increased attendance at church.
“I must leave ya here,” the man said, turning along another path.
“Thank you for cheering us up,” Clara said.
“Good luck, ma’am. You have a pretty little daughter.”
Whistling, the man swung away in another direction. Clara began to walk on, then stopped abruptly and broke into a grin. Di Shaw was leaning back against the wide trunk of the old yew, reading a book. Ten years earlier, Clara had walked out of St. George’s Hospital with Di, both proudly holding their nursing diplomas. They had, however, followed different paths; Di married immediately upon graduating and soon had a family. How life’s circumstances change, she thought.
“You look elegant just sitting by a tree,” Clara said. Di jumped up and rushed over with her arms extended. She was wearing a grey wool coat, a beige silk head scarf, matching gloves, and fashionable stockings. Despite the war, she had retained her taste for fashion.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Clara said, looking happy and surprised.
Ivy wrapped her arms around Di’s middle. “Can’t I live with Auntie Di?” she asked.
Clara covered her hurt with a smile. “Miff said you would meet us at the pub. Now that you’re here I can show you the headstone.”
They stomped through overgrown grass to the grave. Beyond the church hedge there was a meadow filled with late autumn flowers. “Such a peaceful place,” Di said, resting her hand on the granite. “This must have cost a fortune.”
“My parents helped me. It was the least we could do for Billy and George.”
“What is this black stuff?” Di asked as she traced the inscription with a finger.
“It’s molten lead. The village blacksmith did the lettering as a favour to my father. It will last several lifetimes.” Clara handed Di a handkerchief. “No more tears, Di. I’ve been asked so many times how I could still go to church after God dealt me such a sorrowful hand. He has his reasons. And if I’m lucky, the day will come when He will reveal them to me.”
“Sorry,” Di said as she sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I want to be a comfort.”
“You are.”
Ivy buried her head in Di’s chest. “Why do people have to die?”
“People are like trees,” Di said. “Some trees live for a long time and others die early. Billy and your daddy are like trees that died early, especially poor Billy, a mere sapling.” Di led Ivy away from the grave and back to the yew tree.
“Will I die like Billy?” Ivy asked.
“Don’t be silly. You’re going to live to be as old as this tree,” Di said.
Ivy grimaced, looking back at the grave.
“Canada won’t be at all like my gentle old England,” Clara said wistfully, glancing at the blooming meadow beyond the hedge.
“Don’t be a dreamer,” Di said with the confidence of an old friend. “This class-bound country would be rough on a widow with limited funds. It takes money or extreme luck for a young girl to succeed socially in England.” She put her hands on Clara’s shoulders. “Clara, it was sheer good fortune that you got to nursing school. Do you want Ivy to be a tweenie?”
“I wasn’t a real tweenie,” Clara said. Her goal as a young woman had always been to avoid the fate of being a tweenie, a job that was higher than a scullery maid, but lower than a cook. “Whatever I was in the Pinks’ house,” she said defensively, “I received an excellent education as Harold Pink’s niece.” She regretted having told Di that her mother, Lydia Pink, had run off with the family blacksmith, Clara’s father, and had a daughter four months later, whom she named Amelia.
Lydia’s brother, Harold Pink, had visited when Clara was eight years old, and, admiring her brightness, invited her to live with his family. He had long since forgiven his sister for her indiscretion and wanted to help. He was impressed with Clara’s intelligence and industry as she scurried around organizing the messy cottage. He offered to provide her with a proper education. He gracefully made no comment on what he thought of the ne’er-do-well blacksmith, who called himself a gentleman farmer. Addy had been too young at the time to be of interest to Harold Pink and had stayed with her parents.
Di hugged Clara. “You’ve made the right decision to emigrate. Take a few minutes to reflect on your good fortune, and I’ll go ahead with Ivy.”
Clara leaned against the yew tree and waited for the calm to come. She let her mind drift into the little patch of garden Billy had so energetically cultivated. She could feel the sting of the nettles he had weeded from the beds. She imagined him holding up his muddy hands as he entered the house for her to wash them in the bucket by the back door. Many nights, it was the memory of Billy in the garden that helped her fall asleep.
Remembering her family’s circumstances when she was a child, Clara began to think again that she might try to find her older sister. A pharmacist can’t be hard to find, she thought. Feeling more relaxed and quite excited,
