five years the gravestone was still as clean and well-tended as on the first day, a tribute to somebody’s loving care. At the top it read:
MARK ANDREW SELLON,
9th April 1915—7th October 2003 A much loved husband and father
A space had been left below, filled three weeks later by the words:
DEIRDRE SELLON,
18th February 1921—28th October 2003
Beloved wife of the above
Together always
‘I remember how you insisted on leaving that space,’ Pippa murmured as she tidied away a few weeds. ‘Even then you were planning for the day you’d lie beside him. And the pictures too. You had them all ready for your own time.’
A family friend had returned from a trip to Italy and mentioned how Italian gravestones usually contained a picture of the deceased. ‘It really makes a difference to know what people looked like,’ she’d enthused. ‘I’m going to select my picture now.’
‘So am I,’ Dee had said instantly.
And she had, one for herself and one for her husband, taken when they were still in robust middle age. There, framed by the stone, was Dee, cheerful and ready to cope with anything life threw at her, and there was Mark, still bearing traces of the stunning good looks of his youth, when he’d been a daredevil pilot in the war.
Below them was a third photograph, taken at their sixtieth wedding anniversary party. It showed them standing close together, arms entwined, heads slightly leaning against each other, the very picture of two people who were one at heart.
Less than two months later, he had died. Dee had cherished the photograph, and when, three weeks after that, she had been laid beside him Pippa had insisted on adding it to the headstone.
Finishing with the weeds, she took out the flowers she’d brought with her and laid them carefully at the foot of the stone, murmuring, ‘There, just how you like them.’
She rose and moved back, checking that everything looked right, and stood for a moment in the rich glow of the setting sun. A passer-by, happening to glance at her, would have stopped and gazed in wonder.
She was petite, with a slender, elegant figure and an air of confidence that depended on more than mere looks. Nature had given her beauty but also another quality, less easy to define. Her mother called her a saucy little so-and-so. Her father said, ‘Watch it, lass. It’s dangerous to drive fellers too far.’
Men were divided in expressing their opinion. The more refined simply sighed. The less refined murmured, ‘Wow!’ The completely unrefined wavered between, ‘Get a load of that! ‘ and ‘Phwoar! ‘ Pippa shrugged, smiled and went on her way, happy with any of them.
Superficially, her attractions were easy to explain. The perfect face and body, the curled, honey-coloured hair, clearly luscious and extravagant, even now while it was pinned back in an unconvincing attempt at severity. But there was something else which no one had ever managed to describe: a knowing, amused look in her eyes; not exactly come-hither, but the teasing hint that come-hither might be lurking around the corner. Something.
A wooden seat had been placed conveniently nearby and Pippa settled onto it with the air of having come to stay.
‘What a day I’ve had!’ she sighed. ‘Clients talking their heads off, paperwork up to here.’ She indicated the top of her head.
‘I blame you,’ she told her grandmother, addressing the photograph. ‘But for you, I’d never have become a lawyer. But you had to go and leave me that legacy on condition that I trained for a profession.’
‘No training, no cash,’ Lilian, Pippa’s mother had pointed out. ‘And she’s named me your trustee to make sure you obey orders. I can almost hear her saying, “So get out of that, my girl.”’
‘That sounds like her,’ Pippa had said wryly. ‘Mum, what am I going to do?’
‘You’re going to do what your Gran says because, mark this, wherever she is, she’ll be watching.’
‘And you were,’ Pippa observed now. ‘You’ve always been there, just out of sight, over my shoulder, letting me know what you thought. Perhaps that was his influence.’
From her bag she produced a small toy bear, much of its fur worn away over time. Long ago he’d been won at a fair by Flight Lieutenant Mark Sellon, who’d solemnly presented him to Deirdre Parsons, the girl who later became his bride and lived with him for sixty years. To the last moment she’d treasured her ‘Mad Bruin’ as she called him.
‘Why mad?’ Pippa had asked her once.
‘After your grandfather.’
‘Was he mad?’
‘Delightfully mad. Wonderfully, gloriously mad. That’s why he was so successful as a fighter pilot. According to other airmen that I spoke to, he just went for everything, hell for leather.’
To the last moment, each had feared to lose the other. In the end Mark had died first, and after that, Dee had treasured the little bear more than ever, finally dying with him pressed against her face, and bequeathing him to Pippa, along with the money.
‘I brought him along,’ Pippa said, holding Bruin up as though Dee could see him. ‘I’m taking good care of him. It’s so nice to have him. It’s almost like having you.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last visit, but it’s chaos at work. I used to think solicitors’ offices were sedate places, but that was before I joined one. The firm does a certain amount of the “bread and butter stuff”, wills, property, that sort of thing. But it’s the criminal cases that bring everyone alive. Me too, if I’m honest. David, my boss, says I should go in for criminal law because I’ve got just the right kind of wicked mind.’ She gave a brief chuckle. ‘They don’t know how true that is.’
She stood for a moment, holding the little bear and smiling fondly at the photos of people she had loved, and still loved. Then she kissed him and replaced him in her bag.
‘I’ve got to go. ‘Bye, darling. And you, Grandpa. Don’t let her bully you too much. Be firm. I know it’s hard after a lifetime of saying, “Yes, dear, no, dear”, but try.’
She planted a kiss on the tips of her fingers and laid them against the photograph of her grandparents. Then she stepped back. The movement brought something into the extreme edge of her vision and she turned quickly to see a man watching her. Or it might be more exact to say staring at her with the disapproval of one who couldn’t understand such wacky behaviour. Wryly, she supposed she must look a little odd, and wondered how long he’d been there.
He was tall with a lean face that was firm almost to the point of grimness. Fortyish, she thought, but perhaps older with that unyielding look.
She gave him a polite smile and moved off. There was something about him that made her want to escape. She made her way to a place where there were other family graves.
It was strangely pleasant in these surroundings. Although part of a London suburb, the cemetery
