Even so, I abandoned the hole and began to dig a new one a little farther away from the first. I paused with the tip of my trowel in the soil. The man didn’t make a sound, although for a split second I thought I saw his lips curve in what could have been a smile.
I’d brought eight plants to the cemetery, and there was a great deal more throat clearing and unspoken gardening guidance as one by one they were set into the ground beside my mother’s grave. I got to my feet when I was done, brushing the soil from my hands and turning to face him. I gave him a quizzical look, not sure ifI should be thanking him for his help or buying him a box of Strepsils. ‘Thank you,’ I said softly, taking a seat at the far end of the bench not looking at him but at the row of neatly spaced-out, vibrant-coloured plants that my mother would have loved. ‘I’m not really much of a gardener.’
‘They look pretty good to me,’ the man said.
‘Thanks to your advice.’
He gave a charming shrug. ‘I don’t know what you mean. You did all the hard work.’
I smiled, turning more fully towards him. There was definitely something familiar about him which I couldn’t pin down. It came to me a moment later when he inclined his head politely towards another early morning visitor who had passed by our bench. He was the man who I’d seen at the gates on my last visit... when I’d first remembered that my mother had died.
Those words still felt like a kick to the stomach, and it was hard to hide my instinctive flinch.
‘Are you alright? You suddenly look a little queasy.’
He was certainly observant; I’d give him that. But I found his interest kind, rather than intrusive.
‘Just a little overwarm,’ I said, gathering up a handful of my auburn hair and lifting it free from the back of my neck.
For a moment the old man’s eyes flickered strangely. Then he blinked and the bland, friendly expression was back, making me wonder if I’d imagined it.
‘Have you brought water with you?’
‘I’ve got a can of cola in the car,’ I told him. ‘I’ll be fine with that.’
He chuckled softly. ‘Actually, I meant for the plants. You need to water them in.’
I flushed in embarrassment.
‘Oh. No. I didn’t think.’ I glanced around the rows of neatly maintained graves. ‘Is there a tap or something nearby?’
‘Not that I’ve seen. But don’t worry. I can bring in a five-litre container with me tomorrow and water them for you.’
I’m sure my cheeks were still more pink than the peonies I’d planted when I swivelled to fully face him.
‘That’s very kind of you, but I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t ask, I volunteered. There’s a difference.’ His voice was firm and in a blinding flash of intuition I felt certain that this man had once been a teacher, because he reminded me of every good one I’d ever had.
‘It really is no problem, Miss ...’
He paused for me to fill in the missing surname. I skipped past it.
‘Ellie. My name is Ellie Harker.’ And then, before I could stop to think why I did it, I nodded towards the black granite gravestone beside us. ‘And this is my mother, Elizabeth Harker.’
His eyes softened with sympathy as he nodded slowly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both.’
His name was Henry. He was seventy-two years old and a widower. And apparently, he visited the cemetery on a daily basis.
‘You’re here every single day?’ I repeated, as though there might have been some different interpretation to those words.
He nodded.
‘Who is it that you come to visit?’
His eyes were faded blue, but they darkened at my question until they looked even deeper than mine in colour.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said hurriedly, realising I’d probably broken every rule of cemetery etiquette. ‘That’s far too personal a question to ask a stranger.’