Falling Angel

Jenny Whitby

It were a right nuisance, that was sure. We’d got into a routine, he and I. Everyone was happy-the missus, the girls, him, and me. (I always come last on the list.) I’d take the girls up the hill once a week or so. I’d my bit of fun, they’d theirs, and her ladyship didn’t have to do nothing but sit at home and read.

But then she got it into her head to take them to the cemetery herself. In the summer she started going up there two, three times a week. The girls were in heaven, but me, I were in hell.

Then she stopped, and started sending me again, and I thought: It’s back on. But now it’s winter the girls don’t go so much, and when they do she wants to take them again. Sometimes she even takes them when they ain’t so keen on going. It’s cold there, with all that stone round the place. They have to run to keep warm. Me, I know how to keep warm when I’m there.

Once or twice I’ve convinced the missus that I should go instead of her. Rest of the time I’ve to sneak out of an afternoon. He ain’t there evenings. Gardeners work shorter hours than maids, I like to remind him.

“Yep, an’ we get paid twice as much,” he said. “It’s a dog’s life, innit?”

I asked him what it is with the missus-what she goes to the cemetery so much for.

“Maybe the same reason as you,” he said.

“She never!” I laughed. “Who would she go for, anyhow-a gravedigger?”

“The guvnor, more like,” he said.

I laughed again, but he were serious-said everyone saw ‘em together, talking over in the Dissenters.

“Just talking?”

“Yep, just like us,” he said. “Fact is, we talk too much, you an’ me. Just shut your mouth an’ open your legs, now.”

Cheeky sod.