Elegy in a country churchyard

‘I love this old watering can,’ said my sister, sprinkling the miniature rose. ‘Though I do worry about soaking Mum. How far down is she? Do you remember?’ I said I thought about five foot.

The country churchyard is sheltered by hedges and trees and the graves are decently spaced. On Mothering Sunday mown grass was scattered across the gravel path and graves and a chill sea mist billowed like smoke off the sea. Two months before Covid struck, I’d thrown my handful of soil in after her. This was my first visit since that day. The earth was still broken and heaped but now there was a grey headstone with her name and dates, her maiden name, and the phrase ‘Alive in Christ’.

She lay down at the far end, near an old apple tree, a stone wall and a wooden bench hoary with lichen. Hers is still the second newest grave. The graves go back through the centuries in roughly chronological rows. It’s a peaceful spot. You can’t see the sea but the light says you’re on the coast.

We didn’t get on, my sister and I. But our mother’s passing changed that

‘Why don’t you book a plot?’ said my sister. ‘It’s only £400 and it couldn’t be a nicer place to lie. You could even go in with Mum if she’s far enough down to make room.’ I said I thought it would be prohibitively expensive to fly my corpse back from the south of France. My sister wondered whether, to save money, I couldn’t somehow get myself on a flight back to Britain when I knew I was on my last legs.