IMMORTELLE

I saw one that day. I consider it an omen, a signal of the unexpected. It passed through the lights at considerable speed, and I stopped to marvel. Of course, no one around me paused. A penny farthing at eleven am on a Wednesday morning, perfectly normal behaviour. This didn’t merit even the slightest raise of an eyebrow.

I waited to cross as my eyes followed it into the distance. Traffic perpetually clogs the roads surrounding Fleetwood. Even at the height of lockdown, there was no shortage of motorised engine moving up and down the three lanes - cars, buses, police vehicles, ambulances, fire engines, delivery vans, electric scooters, and yes, the occasional penny farthing. The noise pollution from the roads surrounding Fleetwood can be heard at any given hour: horns beeping, emergency sirens shouting their need to move through the stationary traffic, people talking, singing, laughing, and shouting.

The traffic stopped, and I was able to cross the road and enter the park. I smiled as I noticed the new graffiti on one of the white stone gate posts. The jet washer would be put to use today. As I increased my pace, the traffic faded, and as I moved deeper and deeper into the park, the sound of a siren became only a faint irritation. Finally, I arrived at the chapel in the centre where only birdsong and the rustle of leaves were audible. As usual, I was early, loneliness driving me from the house long before the meeting time.

I sat on a bench in the shade and breathed. A smile crept across my face; it felt unnatural and almost naughty to be out of the house.

“Hello!” I beamed as I saw Henndrick’s huge frame cutting slowly through the greenery. He pushed a wheelbarrow filled with loppers, secateurs and, as I expected, the Jet washer.

I nodded at the tools, “Are there lots of people coming today?”

“Everyone, and we’ve had loads of new volunteers. Everyone wants to get involved with the cemetery since they’ve spent lockdown marching through it.”

I should explain. Fleetwood is not a park as a five-year-old might imagine. There are no swings or slides or climbing frames, no picturesque lake to walk around, and not even a cafe to buy overpriced coffee. Fleetwood Park is a cemetery. Hendrick could give you an extensive history, but I’ll just say that it was developed in the early Victorian era, when the capital’s population exploded. Then, by the early 1970s, the cemetery company went bust. There was no one to pay the gardeners to cut back and smarten the graves; nature was allowed to heal. The Cemetery became overgrown, and its monuments hidden by speed-growing ivy, nettles, wild garlic, daffodils, bluebells, and other greenery. Birds, foxes, owls, and rodents took the space as their own.

A few years ago, a group of plucky volunteers, led by Henndrick, formed the Forgotten Fleetwood. We began methodically recording grave after grave with the ambition of mapping the whole site. This was probably a misguided mission as parts of the cemetery were so deeply overgrown that it was dangerous to cut back the greenery for fear of falling trees or grave masonry.

Thirty minutes later, volunteers were scattered throughout the cemetery, and I was lying under a thick curtain of ivy—the very well-established kind, the darkest of green, holding years of dust and pollen. I’d been paired with an old friend, Mike. he had lost his wife in the middle of the pandemic, and we hadn’t seen much of him on our weekly Zoom quizzes since then. He had avoided conversation and insisted that we get started quickly.

He held back the greenery so that I could move forward to view the graves behind. I glimpsed something unusual, something not green. Was it white? It couldn’t be a flower; surely nothing could grow under there with no light or warmth. I stopped, suddenly remembering my training. ‘Move slowly to ensure that any artefacts found remain intact. ’ The ivy was not my only nemesis; I was to be thwarted by nettles and some other prickly greenery that clung to my hair. Through his facemask, Mike shouted and encouraged me to come back. I sighed, rolled my eyes, and turned.

In silence, he handed me a pair of gloves to protect my already scratched hands. The gloves swallowed me, coming up to my armpits. Mike smiled a very small smile. I reciprocated.

Always the gentleman, he held back the curtain of ivy again as I pushed through it.

His voice was muffled. “What can you see, Maggie?” I could hear his rising impatience. The desire to get down and look for himself was strong, but we both knew his arthritic knees wouldn’t allow it.

“It’s too dark.” I flipped on my head torch and shone the light downward. I glimpsed something floral. “It looks like flowers. I think I can reach it.” I bent and stretched, managing to touch the thing. I heard a crack as I pulled it towards me.

“Fuck.” I surprised myself with the swearing; lockdown had worn away my social niceties.

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

I ignored the second part of his question. “I told you. It’s something floral.” My tone betrayed my irritation.

Concerned but undeterred, Mike continued, “I mean, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’ve broken it,” I felt myself blush. “I’m going to try and get closer.”

I moved slowly from standing to lying down, feeling proud of my old bones. Those weekly Pilates classes had not been in vain. My face almost touched the floor. I crawled commando style until only the heels of my boots were sticking out of the bush. Holding my breath, I slowly pulled the object towards me. I waited, anticipating another crack, but heard nothing.

I began to wriggle backwards on my stomach, my arms outstretched with the object tenderly grasped by the huge gloves. Mike was still there. When we’d tell this story, I would refer to it as our find, but Mike would always say that he’d just held the ivy.

“Take it from me,” I whispered as if noise could do more damage. The facemask made my speech almost inaudible, but through a series of face mimes, Mike finally understood. He took off his gloves, gingerly removed the object, and gently used the gloves as a cushion.

He looked at me, lying on the floor, smattered with mud, ivy, and the other greenery stuck to my hair.

He began to laugh, a huge laugh coming from deep within his belly. It just kept coming. I couldn’t see him and shouted frustratedly, “You can stop now. Come help me up.” Then suddenly the laughing changed.

Slowly, I rolled over onto my back and sat up. Seeing him, I began to cry. He was rooted to the spot, his shoulders juddering as he sobbed.

He was crying, then crying and laughing at the same time.

“Oh, Mike. You must miss Gill so much.”

As he caught his breath, he began to cough.

Hendrick appeared. Mike looked mortified. He quickly pulled a large white handkerchief from the pocket of his gilet and blew his nose. Hendrick looked around and decided to focus his attention on me. “What happened? Can you get up? Mrs O’Donovan?”

I nodded mutely. Mike and Hendrick took one arm each and helped me stand. When I was upright, I shooed them off and walked over to sit on a nearby bench. I was breathing hard.

Now everyone wanted to know if the other was okay, particularly Hendrick, who knew he’d be the one to complete the health and safety report for the council.

“I’m fine, and Hendrick, how many times? Please call me Maggie.” I looked at Mike, and his eyes pleaded for me to say no more of his tears. I added with excitement. “Hendrick. Look what we’ve found!” I pointed like a child who’d completed a drawing. “Isn’t it beautiful!”

Mike tentatively picked up the object from its gardening glove presentation platter. Hendrick looked at it carefully. It was a dome of pottery with several large white roses on one side and smaller flowers on the other. Surrounding the base of the pottery were metallic leaves that were weathered and rusty but looked as if they had originally been green.

Mike spoke first, “It must have been some kind of wreath; It’s been crafted beautifully.”

Hendrick looked at it, “You’re not wrong. You don’t see many of them.”

I stared at him, saying expectantly, “Do you know what it is?”

“Oh yes. Remember, I went on that trip to Arnos Grove cemetery?”

“We remember.” I pretended exasperation. Hendrick smiled; his trips to cemeteries around the world were much documented.

“They have one of these there. It’s called an Immortal, you know, everlasting, never dies. It’s a forerunner of fake flowers. Amazing that it survived.” He examined it closely. “Unglazed ceramic, the weather should have done for it.” He paused. “The one in Arnos Grove was under a glass case to preserve it, and I think I saw one that was made for Louis XIV at Versailles.”

“Well, your cemetery trips have finally proved worthwhile.”

He chuckled, “Where did you find it? Which grave does it belong to?”

I got up suddenly. “I’ll show you.”

“Please stay put. I’ll go and look.”

I wanted to be annoyed, but I was tired and didn’t fancy getting back down on the floor. I nodded. “Let me show you where it was.”

The three of us walked back over to the ivy curtain, Mike lifted it once more, and Hendrick pointed a torch along the ground. He moved forward slowly. He came back with two additional pieces of porcelain. A small pair of clasped hands and a dove. They fitted easily onto the top of the wreath.

I smiled. “Definitely a wreath. It really is beautiful.”

“Now, which grave does it belong to?” Mike and I looked at each other. We hadn't thought to look. Hendrick shook his head. “Only interested in the pretty thing, weren’t you?”

Mike lifted the Ivy once more and shone his torch onto the grave.

“It’s really hard to read the name. Let’s cut back this ivy and get some light in there.” We chopped swiftly and excitedly crowded around to peer at the headstone. It was not overly ornate, a brownstone with a rounded peak; although the stone had worn, it was possible to see a decorative relief of small flowers in an arch. The ivy had left its marks, but the inscription was still legible.

Hendrick read “In memory of Louise Renault of Stoke Newington. Born 11th April 1832. Died 15 December 1880. What would that make her?”

“48,” Mike calculated quickly.

“Then it says, ‘Beloved wife, mother, and grandmother.”

“And look, there is space for another inscription; perhaps someone else was supposed to be buried with her? So young.” I sighed. We moved back to the Immortelle, and Hendrick began to examine the plaque.

“Adue, adue ma cherry. Poor toojois dans mon coer’’. It’s in French; you don’t see many inscriptions in French. What does ‘Adue, adue ma cherry’ mean?”

Mike jumped in, pronouncing the French correctly, “Adieu, adieu ma chérie. Pour toujours dans mon cœur. It means ‘Farewell, farewell, my darling. Forever in my heart.’

“Oh, Adieu,” Hendrick smiled, “like that song from The Sound of Music.” I laughed.

I wondered out loud. “What a beautiful inscription; perhaps it sounds more heartfelt because it’s in French?” My voice wobbled, and I felt a lump in my throat. I tried to hold back the tears, but they came again. “The ‘chérie’ was perhaps her husband?” I swallowed hard as Mike handed me another handkerchief.

“I think you’re right there.” Hendrick paused as he remembered to say “Maggie.” I felt a surge of pride; his approval of anything historical was a lovely boost.

“Will being French help us to track her down?” I wondered.

We looked at Mike. “Well, 1880. Let’s think. There were quite a few French immigrants in 1871 during the Franco-Prussian War, and they might have stayed on, so there might be more than you’d think.” He smiled. “But it’s a good clue.”

Hendrick patted Mike on the back. “You’ll want to take this one, won’t you? I suppose it’s only fair, as you found it.”

There was a friendly rivalry between Mike and Hendrick, but they always agreed not to tread on each other's research toes.

Mike smiled, “Maggie found it. But I'm happy to do some research. “He smiled a half smile at me. I’m looking forward to it.” Then turned to Hendrick, “What do we do with the, the… what did you say it was called?”

“It’s an immortal, or however you’d say it in French?”

“Might be Immortelle?” Mike suggested.

Hendrick took charge. “I’ll put it in the office safe. I’ll just go and get some bubble wrap. But before I do that, we need to mark the location, or we’ll never find it again.” Mike and I dutifully marked the spot on the paper maps we always carried.

Hendrick gently wrapped the pieces and placed them in his wheelbarrow. The rest of ‘the Forgotten Fleetwood’ volunteers began to gather, and the bubble wrap had to be opened again to much excitement. Everyone took pictures, but Hendrick asked no one to put the photos on social media until he’d spoken to someone at Hackney Museum.

I suggested a celebratory coffee, but Mike seemed to want to be alone. He said goodbye quickly and walked away with his shoulders drooping.

I wandered home, basking in the sun. For the first time in months, I found myself singing as I opened the door. I made some tea and immediately began researching ‘immortelles’. After a few false starts, including flowers and essential oils, I found a little information on grave offerings. I then began googling ‘Louise Renault’ and ‘Louise Renault Hackney’, but could find nothing.

I realised how tired I was. I put my feet up on the sofa and fell asleep almost immediately. I awoke around half an hour later feeling like a new woman. I reached for my iPad and found an email from Mike saying he’d found out something interesting and to pop over.

His house smelt of something sweet which I couldn’t place. I misjudged Mike when we first met. He was traditional in many ways, but had surprised me with his domestic abilities.

There was no time to ask about the smell; Mike ushered me in; and straight to his study. His PC was open on a page from the Hackney Archives.

He began. “So, we think Louise Renault was French. I was hoping that would help me find where she lived, and I had a stroke of luck this afternoon.” He paused, obviously enjoying the drama. “Have you ever seen the Church Road Google sheet?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a comprehensive list of all the properties on Church Road from 1849 to today. It was created by that Hackney History man. The one who tweets all the time.”

“I know the one.” I had vaguely heard of him. “And you have a copy of this list?”

“Yes, I have access; it’s a really useful resource.” He hurried on, finally anxious to get to the point. “I was looking through, just out of interest, when I found a shop owned by a Jacques Renault.” He paused and looked expectantly.

I opened my mouth, “Louise Renault…you think Louise had something to do with that shop?”

“Yes, perhaps Jacques could have been her husband? It’s a French name from around the right period.”

I wanted to believe it, but I was not convinced. “Could we really be that lucky? We could have found the man who dedicated the inscription to her. What sort of shop was it, where was it?”

“It was a Milliner's shop at...,” He paused to check the spreadsheet, “129 Church Road.”

“What’s there now?”

“Oh, one of those shops that sells things no one needs. £15 candles, that sort of thing.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.” We both laughed

Mike opened the spreadsheet and scrolled slowly. “Abode Aesthetic. What a ridiculous name.” We laughed louder.

“Come on, let’s celebrate. I’ve just had some tea delivered from Sri Lanka.”

I followed downstairs and watched him carefully measure the leaves into what I guessed was a Wedgwood teapot. He poured milk first into china cups with saucers and then the tea with a flourish. He looked at me; we chinked our cups as I raised a toast: “To Louise and the Immortelle.”