Grave

By Richard Spurling

Ghosts only come out night. The darkened hours form the haunting zone. Anything unusual happening before lunch is more the result of too much spirits than the action of spirits of the dead.

I took another swig from my hip flask.

The man didn’t go away.

Nor did he stop watching me.

Nor did he become any less translucent. If this was a drunken hallucination, it was a goody ... and I tried to remember what it was I’d put in my flask.

“Bugger off. I work here.”

He didn’t of course – work here or ‘bugger off’, just stood there, about six inches off the ground with that stone angel looking at me through his midriff.

I shook my head, picked up my long handled shovel and went back to digging the new grave. It hurt, having to do it by hand, but we couldn’t get the digger into this corner, not without driving over a couple of other graves. Not that I minded. It was a big hole but the loam in this yard is moist and soft. Easy digging. Forms firm walls. I just didn’t need one of the residents watching me.

The first rock flew past my ear as I stepped into the shallow trench. It was the full eight foot long and four foot wide, but only six inches deep – the trench that is, not the rock. The rock was one of those small, quartz things that we cover the paths with.

I turned to face him, just as he reached down to pick up another rock. “Oi. Cut that out.”

He straightened and hoicked a handful of gravel at me.

I threw my shovel to the ground, stepped up from the trench and marched towards him. “Now what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m trying to work. Got another housemate coming in this arvo. How about you wait to annoy him rather than picking on me.”

The ghost vanished ... of course. They always do when confronted. So I snarled under my breath and turned back to the job, just in time to see my shovel lift out of the trench and break itself on a nearby headstone.

“That does it you bastard. I’m going to see the Rev.”

An empty threat that. Well, I did mean to go to see ‘the Rev’, but it was empty because I knew he wouldn’t believe me. If nothing else though, he could issue me with a new shovel. A chuckle escaped my lips as I pictured me trying to explain how the other one had been broken. For a minister of religion, Reverend Hackett had always been remarkably reluctant to believe in the afterlife. Perhaps he was just concerned about the afterlife the lived in his graveyard, but as we, the groundsmen, had discussed him since he’d arrived, we’d more or less decided that he didn’t believe much of the bible either. Strangely, this wasn’t a draw back and the old church had been full of patrons ever since that first sermon, the one where Old Sam Jessup had stood by him to turn the pages of his sermon notes. Old Sam was a favourite of the congregation. He’d been the church sexton from 1845 to 1894 when he’d died from drinking too much communion wine and had fallen into a freshly dug grave. They used to dig them the day before in those days, but not since Old Sam took his tumble. He’d been keeping an eye on the place ever since, particularly the pastors and this new bloke had tickled him.

Typically, the Rev wasn’t around. He never is when needed, so I broke into the store shed and took another shovel.

Back at the gravesite, that ghost started to stare me down again. This time though, Old Sam joined us.

“Oi, Sam, what is it with this bloke,” I said, and offered him a swig of me flask. He didn’t take it of course, but he always seemed to appreciate the offer. Today though, he just looked angry.

I was in the wrong.

It was one of those revelations that just pops into your head without conscious thought. Pity of it was that it didn’t come with any explanation, so I laid down my shovel and walked over to the pair of them.

“Now don’t go vanishing on me,” I said as I approached them. I stopped about ten paces short, this being the distance we’d worked over the years was the minimum they’d accept. “What’s the story? I’ve been asked to dig this grave and you don’t want me to. What gives?”

Sam started to talk ... and I heard none of it. It really peeves me when that happens but there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Now take it easy Sam. I can’t hear you.”

It appeared he could hear me because his lips moved in a way that suggested creative obscenity and he turned away in an attitude of disgust.

“How about you trying?” I said to the other bloke.

“I’ve been swearing at you all morning,” said the ghost.

“Great. I heard that. Sorry, but I didn’t hear you earlier.”

“That’s because you weren’t listening,” said Sam in a tone of utter disgust with an undertone of anger.

“Hey. Settle down a bit willya? I just work here. Do what I’m told. What’s the problem with that new grave?”

Both ghosts started talking at once, and waving their arms and pointing and generally being agitated. I didn’t hear a word of course and threw my hands up in the air in frustration.

The first ghost vanished.

Sam looked ... let us say ... annoyed.

“I’ll put a hold on the job until the Rev turns up,” I said. “But I can’t leave it too long. They want to plant this new bloke at four.”

“Yeah. You do that,” said Sam and vanished.

Grumpy old sod.

I went back to the hole and picked up the shovel. A handful of gravel flew past my ear. “I wasn’t going to dig,” I said, eyes to the sky but without turning. I leant the new shovel against a gravestone and then picked up the broken one. As I walked back towards the tool shed, I got a whiff of death as I passed through a cold spot – it’s not often they leave a pong.

Fortunately, the Rev turned up soon after, smelling of perfume with his shirt buttoned incorrectly. He parked his Volvo in its spot and made a dash for the vestry. I followed, but not in too much of a hurry. Sure enough, when I stepped into the vestry after him, he had slipped behind the changing screen. The perfume was a new scent, so she wasn’t one of the congregation. I waited until he reappeared, hair brushed, clean shirt, guilty look on his face.

The look of guilt vanished as I explained the problem.

“Well just go back and dig the grave,” he said. “We need it.”

“But they don’t want me digging it.”

“Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

I took a deep breath and looked up towards the ceiling – this used to be known as appealing to god but as I don’t believe in god, it was just a gesture intended to convey frustration.

It worked.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll come out with you.”

“And you’ll talk to them?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to them.”

And with those words, blew apart his reputation for not believing in the afterlife.

I quickly leaned just how unfounded that reputation had been.

Old Sam Jessup met us on the path towards the new grave.

“What’s the problem Sam?” said the Rev.

Sam didn’t miss a beat. “It’s like this Jim, we don’t want this new bloke going in that hole.”

“It’s his family plot. He’s had the thing booked for years. His daughter is buried in that plot.”

This last bit of news surprised me – I hadn’t been told to watch for another coffin. Simkins, the current verger, would have some explaining to do later on.

“That’s the point,” said Sam. “She doesn’t want her murderer sharing the hole.”

And fair enough too, I thought before the words really registered. Then a sort of cold crept over me – a bit like when one of the ghosts is playing games with you, trying to freak you out by leaving a cold spot. This time though, the coldness was emotional. “He did what?” I said.

“He killed her,” said Sam.

“Rubbish,” said the Rev. “She drowned. Boating accident.” He didn’t sound too sure of that though and it occurred to me, as perhaps it had to him, that boating accidents are rather easy to stage.

“Rubbish nothing,” said Sam. “She’s still around. Just too quiet to come out much. He’d been messing with her for years and when she finally threatened to expose him, he took her out in the boat and tossed her in.”

I’ll give the Rev his credit, he didn’t miss a beat. “Okay. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll move him.”

“Be better if he wasn’t in here at all. This sort of thing can destroy the peace of a place you know.”

“I can’t do that,” said the Rev. “It’s not my choice or decision. And his sister was rather insistent that he be buried in the family plot.”

They argued for a good half hour. I took the opportunity to fill in the partially dug grave. Just as I smoothed the last of the sods, the Rev came up behind me, swearing. “Get the digger out and dig a hole in the new section. Anywhere. Dunno how I’m going to justify this.”

“Tell them I hit something horrid but don’t tell them what it is,” I said.

He snorted. “Yeah, and they’ll think it’s the daughter’s coffin and have hysterics. Just do it. I’ll think of something.”

He did too.

The graveside ceremony went well. Tears at the appropriate time. Any arguments among the family were suspended during the service ... and resumed at the gate. The grieving widow did the grieving bit rather well and looked real sharp in tight, black knit and veiled hat. You couldn’t see a scrap of flesh but you thought nice things about it just the same. Old Sam kept an eye on things but at a distance.

The Rev excelled himself, though he’s always done a good burial. Nice tone. Appropriate comments. Suitably attentive to the grieving widow, he supported her elbow as he led her from the graveside.

They passed within a few feet of me but I doubt they noticed me – too interested in their conversation. Sam joined me as I watched them walk towards the front gate where the first of the fights had just started. “I don’t think the Rev knows what he’s got himself into there,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That woman. The wife. She’s buried over at St Michael’s.”