Bringing out my phone and blowing out apprehensively, I click on the Google app. ‘How do you find someone’s grave?’ I search. Worth a try, right? A few websites come up boasting and advertising about how they’re the best at chasing your ancestry before I click on one that looks legit. I enter his name and search Londonderry. ‘No results found.’ Fuck. After a few more frustrated attempts, I pocket my phone once more. Maybe they don’t have it on the internet in case someone would defile it? Lifting my hood up, I step out into the cool air, the rain now reduced to a light drizzle, but one that will leave you soaked right through. I best be quick.
Turning a full circle, I question where’s best to start. Spotting a white within all the black gravestones, I decide that is as good a place as any. As I get closer, I see the elements have made it more of a creamy colour and struggle to see the writing through the bird shit. This Ernest McBride has been dead for over thirty years. Looking from left to right, I decide to follow the incline up as the stones look a bit newer here. I meander down a random row and see that I must be on the right track, these ones are all from the late 2000s. Pushing my face deeper into my coat, the zip rubs aggressively against my chin. Looking at my new shoes going darker with the damp; I take five long strides before trying the next row on my left. 2013, much better.
I continue my journey before I halt suddenly. Two lights make their way towards me in the form of a Subaru. Shit. I face the ground once more and take the next row on my left. I count to six and turn with my back to the car, pretending to be observing a small charcoal grave. This little girl didn’t even make it past her fourth birthday. How sad. The sodden teddy bear battles with the wind as it presses its right side against the stone, threatening to fall over. I’m just about finished half reading the short bible verse engraved at the bottom when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the car creep past, but the driver’s attention is straight in front. When they reach the T-junction at the bottom of the hill, they indicate left and crawl past my car. It’s a tight enough squeeze. They’re almost at the end of that road too, before they unexpectedly park up. I don’t recognise the car or number plate, and from over there I’d be hard to distinguish anyway. I continue down the path and keep my back to them.
Now I’m at the very edge of the cemetery, with five or six rows left. I must be getting close. I’ll snake my way through each row with a customary glance at each name before – Oh, poor Stevie. My old driving instructor. I didn’t know he’d passed. Two years ago, awk bless him. A memory of him parking up outside my house and lighting a fag whilst demanding for me to book my theory test through his clenched teeth pops up. He was a lovely man. I pay my respects to him before continuing, my neck getting sore from checking every grave from left to right. Two rows later, he presents himself. I gaze around me at the car, but the driver is nowhere to be found. Probably perched in front of a gravestone yards away. Minding their own business. Turning back to his grave, I read the short paragraph with distain.
‘Aaron Parker,
Devoted daddy and loving husband.
Taken too soon.
Sleep well Papa Bear.
Your dream will be a reality one day.’
I sneer, upturn my nose and trod off in the direction of my car. Realising I felt more for my driving instructor than I did for him. What a waste of time. The hollowness in my chest hasn’t dispersed like the counsellor said it might. If anything, I feel more… Empty? As I reach my car, the back of the other visitor’s head pops up from behind rows of gravestones. I panic, rushing the last few steps and pull the door handle, cursing when I realise it’s locked. Scrambling around my coat for the keys, keeping my back to the driver, I drop myself into the seat and push the car into gear even before the key is twisted.
Whizzing back up the hill towards the entrance, I don’t even bother to give the row his remnants rest in a second glance as I turn the wipers back on as the rain worsens and comes down in sheets.
Chapter One:
2019
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“Ma, will you tell her to keep to her side the wee bitch?”
Nuala glances into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch Michelle sticking her thumbs in her ears, the other four fingers of each hand wagging and her tongue stuck out to annoy her sister.
“Michelle!”
Seeing she’s being glared at, she returns her hands to beneath each armpit and pouts, turning her attention to the window. Shaking her head at her immaturity, Nuala resumes her gaze to the road ahead. You’d never believe she’s turning 17 next month. Ever the baby of the family, they’d all spoiled her for too long. Now she can get a job and will be learning to drive. Maybe that will give her the kick up the arse she needs? She’d calmed down a good bit after starting big school, but since leaving in June, and Danielle’s return from uni for the summer, it’s like they’ve been transported
