Tasseomancer

Tasseomancer

Dee decided to do something positive in her old age: she bought a burial plot in the local cemetery.

“I’ve always had a horror of being burned,” she told the cemetery official. The woman gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Most people prefer cremation these days, it’s cheaper.” In the following minutes silence Dee heard, “silly woman! Cremation is the modern way-no fuss.” She parted with a large amount of money and was shown an anonymous plot on a hill. At least it was a grave with a view.

The sun was shining and the surrounding Somerset countryside looked gorgeous. Being of a poetic turn Dee remembered the old Irish saying about burying your loved ones ‘That they may face the rising sun.’ Then she realised that the grave was facing the wrong way. So, no view, no rising sun.

She shrugged; in a way it was the story of her life. Beautiful views were important to her. Travels to far off scenic places had occupied much of her life. She knew they were compensation in some way for the things that were missing.

Her grandmother, mad granny Annie as she had named her, was a tasseomancer, someone who told fortunes through reading tea leaves. Neighbours and friends-always women, popped in frequently to have the leaves read. It was one of mad granny’s sidelines. Strangely, she had never bothered to read Dee’s tea leaves. It would have been useful to know something about the future, how strangely and badly it had turned out. All that was past now, she thought. Who bothered to make tea the old- fashioned way in the age of tea bags?

People still did things like that in the 1950s. She had lived in mad gran’s rambling Victorian house with her parents and much younger brother. Her love of the Gothic and macabre had developed from trailing up three flights of stairs in darkness at night, lit only by the sinister flickering blue gas lights that appeared here and there. Mad gran’s frugality appeared at odd moments. She did not extend electric light to the stairways because it wasn’t important. Dee walked upstairs in terror every night past the ancient gas holders. People were definitely more eccentric in those days – or was it just HER family?

Standing by the grave that faced the wrong way her mind wandered back to her beloved grandfather’s death. He lay in state in his coffin in the front parlour, as was the custom in those days. Dee, a small child, was tasked with ushering in neighbours where they contemplated the deceased and made comments like, “he makes a lovely corpse.” Grandpa certainly looked a good deal healthier in death than he had looked in life.

‘The undertaker used too much rouge,” was her father’s comment. The modern fear of death had put an end to these customs.

As she walked back to the entrance Dee passed a flower covered grave hung with balloons and messages. It belonged to an eighteen- year- old who had been stabbed to death. Remembering the cost of her grave she considered that it was good value for the length of time she would be using it. The poor eighteen -year -old would be using his for a lot longer.

People were emerging from the crematorium area looking pale and tearful. Dee brushed aside unpalatable thoughts of bones and ashes. She was heading for the local coffee shop, passing the immaculate pet cemetery, another modern custom as strange as anything in her youth.

Her various pet cats had been buried in the garden when they met their end. There was the white cat that was attacked by other felines because it was an albino. Grandpa laid it to rest near the rhubarb patch. He was very proud of his rhubarb, a staple part of the post war diet. He maintained that the secret was using horse dung as fertiliser. Milk was still delivered by horse drawn carts, and the product was plentiful.

Heavens, she thought, it sounded like something from another era, but it was only a few decades ago. Much of it was due to the war and scarce resources. Soon after, milk was delivered in little electric trucks. Supermarkets were still some way off.

“Beloved Crackers,” she read as she passed the pets. “Always in our hearts.” Did Crackers feel the same way about them? There was a large pink heart and a picture of a cocker spaniel on the headstone. The official had mentioned that pets were a good source of income for the cemetery.

As she neared the entrance, she could see that the parking lot was a jumble of cars and an awkwardly placed hearse. Its driver and his assistant, in full mourning regalia, were leaning against the vehicle, vaping elegantly with their top hats perched rakishly on the bonnet.

Dee sought out her small silver car and sat for a while reading the receipt that promised her a numbered plot on a hill (without a view). After reading about the advantages of this resting place, it listed the famous and infamous people who were buried there. The cemetery dated only from the 1930s, and the list was brief.

While her mind was occupied with Fanny Burney and the novel Evelina, combined with the Brides in the Bath murderer, she heard a faint hubbub behind her, but scarcely registered it. Why had Fanny Burney’s 18th century remains been transferred to Haycombe? What were the Brides in the Bath killer’s connections with the place? She would have to look it up. Hadn’t the ballerina Alicia Markova been cremated nearby?

Dee always had to research things. It was her nature. A quick google revealed that the Brides in the Bath – or some of them, rested at Haycombe, not their killer. Her future resting place would remain uncontaminated by serial killers. By this time a larger group had emerged from the crematorium and a guided tour was departing from the main office. The hearse driver was back in his vehicle and moving off as Dee backed into the fray.

She had forgotten to look to the right until it was too late. There was no room for manoeuvre. She saw the look of horror on the driver’s face as the hearse bore down on her. Her last coherent thought was if only mad granny Annie had read her tea leaves this situation might have been avoided.

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