Falling Angels. Tracy Chevalier

been carried out. But there have been crematoria for many years – the first was built at Woking in 1885.’

      ‘Who are you?’ Mrs Coleman demanded. ‘And what business is it of yours what I say?’

      ‘Pardon me, madam,’ the man repeated, with another bow. ‘I am Mr Jackson, the superintendent of the cemetery. I simply wished to set you straight on the facts of cremation because I wanted to reassure you that there is nothing illegal about the columbarium. The Cremation Act passed two years ago regulates the procedures and practice throughout all of Britain. The cemetery is simply responding to the public’s demand, and reflecting public opinion on the matter.’

      ‘You are certainly not reflecting my opinion on the matter, young man,’ Mrs Coleman huffed, ‘and I am a grave owner here – have been for almost fifty years.’

      I smiled at her idea of a young man – he looked to be forty at least, with grey hairs in his rather bushy moustache. He was quite tall, and wore a dark suit with a bowler hat. If he had not introduced himself I would have thought he was a mourner. I had probably seen him before, but could not remember him.

      ‘I am not saying that cremation should never be practised,’ Mrs Coleman went on. ‘For non-Christians it can be an option: the Hindu and the Jew, atheists and suicides, those sorts who don’t care about their souls. But I am truly shocked to see such a thing sited on consecrated ground. It should have been placed in the Dissenters’ section, where the ground is not blessed. Here it is an offence to Christianity.’

      ‘Those whose remains lie in the columbarium were certainly Christian, madam,’ Mr Jackson said.

      ‘But what about reassembly? How can the body and soul be reunited on the Day of Resurrection if the body has been—’ Mrs Coleman did not complete her sentence, but waved a hand at the cubicles.

      ‘Burned to a crisp,’ Maude finished for her. I stifled a giggle.

      Rather than wilting under her onslaught, Mr Jackson seemed to grow from it. He stood quite calmly, hands clasped behind his back, as if he were discussing a mathematical equation rather than a sticky question of theology. Maude and I, and the Waterhouses – Lavinia having recovered by this time – all stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

      ‘Surely there is no difference between the decomposed remains of a buried body and the ashes of a burned one,’ he said.

      ‘There is all the difference!’ Mrs Coleman sputtered. ‘But this is a most distasteful argument, especially in front of our girls here, one of whom has just recovered from a fit.’

      Mr Jackson looked around as if he were just seeing the rest of us. ‘My apologies, ladies,’ he bowed (again). ‘I did not mean to offend.’ But then he did not leave the argument, as Mrs Coleman clearly wanted him to. ‘I would simply say that God is capable of all things, and nothing we do with our remains will stop Him if he wishes to reunite our souls with our bodies.’

      There was a little silence then, punctuated by a tiny gasp from Gertrude Waterhouse. The implication behind his words – that with her argument Mrs Coleman might be doubting the power of God Himself – was not lost on her. Nor on Mrs Coleman, who, for the first time since I have known her, seemed at a loss for words. It was not a long moment, of course, but it was an immensely satisfying one.

      ‘Young man,’ Mrs Coleman said finally, ‘if God wanted us to burn our dead he would have said so in the Bible. Come, Maude,’ she said, turning her back on him, ‘it is time we paid a visit to our grave.’

      As she led away a reluctant Maude, Mr Jackson glanced at me and I smiled at him. He bowed for the fourth time, muttered something about having a great deal to do, and rushed off, quite red in the face.

      Well, I thought. Well.