Gatekeeping

Gate Keeping

She felt the breeze against her neck, felt the shades pressing in all around, those sibilant shadows flicking a cold shiver up her spine. Pulling the wrought iron gate shut was difficult, it’s rusted hinges squealed mightily. Gill listened for the latch to click into place, harbouring an admittedly silly fear that some other worldly creature might escape and begin drifting through the adjoining subdivision, doing what she wasn’t sure. Hitching her worn, leather knapsack higher on her shoulder, she pulled out a tattered paper map. She unfolded it gently, its creases so deep she feared the paper would tear.

They were all around her now, not frightening exactly, but pressing in, sharply curious. “Why is she here?” they muttered, “what does she want?” Gill made it a rule to always be respectful, and she smiled in the general direction of the graveyard, whispering apologies for the intrusion. Finger on the map, she traced a route to the oldest section of St. Paul’s Cemetery. It sat directly behind the beautiful,18th century church, it’s dressed grey limestone walls softly warming in the morning sun, stained glass windows gleaming. It’s steeple was newly clad in bronzed copper not yet turned green, and rose above the cemetery’s old maples, their iridescent leaves rustling in the light breeze.

She stepped carefully down the rows, assuring the assembled company, invisible as they may be, that she meant no harm and thanking them for their patience. “I am here to do some research, to find out about Miss Pearl May Chesterton, late of Breezeway,” she whispered, glancing around surreptitiously to see if anyone, living at least, might hear. She surely looked slightly loopy to any passersby but this ritual grounded her work. The spectres seemed to recede, to give her some space. Or perhaps, she thought, they didn’t give a fig about the life of one Pearl May Chesterton.

Arriving in the south west corner, she was pleased to find a slightly skewed stone bench, placed in the memory of Ida Brown, by her loving family, 10th April 1870. She swung her knapsack down, and seating herself, pulled out her laptop and research journal. She turned to a new page and taking out a pencil, did a quick sketch of the surrounding area, the large oak behind her, the long grass surrounding her bench and the assortment of grave stones laid out in rows, facing the rising sun, many now off-kilter and marred by moss and lichen. Some had been repaired, iron rods cemented to the back of cracked stones, while others lay broken in the grass, illegible and forgotten.

She paused for a moment, feeling the warm air pushing in behind the crisp breezes, then she stood, and beginning with the graves nearest to her, she worked a systematic grid pattern, trying to locate Pearl. Pearl had died in February, 1872 at the tender age of 22, a house maid in the household of James Robert Saunders, a wealthy landowner with seven children from two wives. His life, and that of his household, was at the centre of her research, a project focused on the historical importance of the Saunders family in the development of Whister County. Pearl was a bit of a tangent, but Gill was dogged in her quest to account for all members of the household, no matter how lowly.

An hour of careful searching did not turn up any grave marker with Pearl’s name. A bit surprising but certainly not unusual. In her experience, the archival record was always suspect, especially when it related to the working class. She returned to her bench, making notes about her ministrations. Her supervisor was always harping on about the importance of ‘demonstrating proper research methodology.’ While a dull task, she had developed a good system, which at this point included taking pictures of the site with her small Polaroid.

Putting down her pen and journal, she surveyed the section she had just searched, asking herself what she might have missed. The archival record, although over 140 years old, had been meticulously kept by The Reverend Marcus Brand, a priest at St. Paul’s from 1860 to 1883. Fortunately for her, he was a stickler for record keeping although many of his parishioners found him somewhat supercilious. Reading journals and correspondence from the period, she had built a good image of the priest, a man of deep faith and commitment to the salvation of his flock that sadly manifested as controlling and judgemental.

So, confident in the record of Pearl’s existence and her burial in St. Paul’s, she decided to widen her search. Proceeding to the south-western corner marked by a four foot high stone wall, she again did a quick sketch and began her review of each stone, moving along the westerly wall. After a few minutes, she came across the family plot of Robert Saunders, an impressive memorial at its centre, surrounded by a low, wrought stone fence, the grass carefully cut and the fence in good repair. A slightly drooping bouquet of tiny pink flowers stood against the elaborately carved, granite monument standing some eight feet tall.

This gave her pause. The last relative known to be buried here was, she consulted her notes, 1948. Who was maintaining the plot now, she wondered? A relative? The local historical society? She made a note to check. She examined the impressive granite monument, pointing to the heavens in case the occupants lacked a sense of direction, noting the names of Saunders’ two wives and their dates. Methodically, she noted the stones surrounding the monument, marking the beginnings and endings of all seven children along with their wives and children. All of the information, except for a couple of dates, matched her notes, three generations, thirty seven lives all buried neatly in a 20 foot square.

And then, Gill saw it, a small, nondescript marker, lying on its side in the back corner. She walked over, careful to step between peoples’ final resting places and squatted down to get a better look, assuming it was an infant’s grave, given its small size. With a jolt of both shock and elation, she read the name of Pearl May Chesterton, 1882 - 1904. For some inexplicable reason, Gill felt tears fill her eyes. Here lay Pearl, second house maid in the Saunders household, employed for just over one year, her cause of death unknown. Standing, she noted the location on her site sketch and took out her camera, snapping a number of photos. And then she paused for a moment, thanking Pearl for letting herself be found, promising her she would find out more about her.

Finished, Gill stepped over the low railing and retrieved her knapsack. As she stood contemplating the site, her mind already planning her next move, Gill felt the shades return, quite a crowd in fact, and she smiled to herself. They often did this as she was preparing to leave a graveyard, seemingly wanting her to take an interest in them, wondering if she might be persuaded to tell their story. Yet, this seemed a particularly pushy lot.

And then she suddenly froze, spinning around to stare at the Saunders family plot. Since when, she asked herself, was a housemaid buried with the family she served, particularly a second maid with such a short tenure? And she heard, or more properly, felt the approving rustle of the wraiths around her as though pleased she had discovered the anomaly. Well, she was glad they were happy. While really a sidebar, or worse perhaps distraction to her research, she pulled open her note book and scribbled a reminder to follow up.

Gill packed up her things and threaded her way between the stones to the entrance, absently searching her pockets for her car keys. She struggled to close the gate behind her, too distracted to realise it hadn’t clicked shut. She was halfway to her car, key in hand when the sound of the latch falling into place startled a flock of crows into raucous flight. Gill didn’t notice.