Graveyard Shift

Many moons ago, when I was but a seedling, my fascination with graveyards began. My parents ran a post office and stores in a small village in East Sussex. To get to school we had to catch the local bus to the nearby, slightly larger, village of Ticehurst. I was four years old, my elder brother a mature five. Even in those ancient times, this was deemed too young to travel alone, so a “big” boy named Gavin was employed to ensure that we arrived at school safely and conversely returned home again. For this he was paid 2/6 a week. He was seven years old.

I don’t remember our guardian being particularly attendant in his security duties, in fact there are glimmers of neglect. I do remember that each day we short-cutted through the graveyard, both to and from the bus-stop. And I also remember that our minder told us that if you peered into the large crack on top of one of the tombs you could see a green slimy man inside. I didn’t risk it.

A couple of weeks ago, on a restless leg day, I went for a saunter. After nosing over a few garden hedges and chatting to a couple of dog walkers I found myself once again in the local graveyard. Since moving here we have wandered the plots many times but, although much door rattling has occurred, never once managed access to the church. Of course if we had really wanted to see inside, I hear you shouting, we could have visited on a Sunday when it would certainly be open to visitors. Perhaps at Christmas, I do love a good singsong.

However, on this particular day the porch door was irresistibly open. Pushing onto the inner door, I was thrilled that it was also open and I stepped inside. Here I met a wonderful woman called Enid, which she pointed out was pronounced the Welsh Enn-id as opposed to English Een-id. As I asked about architectural features and pressed for historical facts she smiled sweetly and told me, repeatedly, “Fred would have been able to tell you all that”. Unfortunately, Fred died earlier this year. I am hoping he passed on all his knowledge before that sad day. Still, I enjoyed my visit and chat to Enid. Not knowing relevant dates and either perpendicular or gothic is hardly going to change the course of anyone’s’ history.

Whenever we visit new places we invariably seek out churches, chapels and cathedrals. In the case of the smaller, this has become increasingly difficult, as they are often locked against criminals. Instead we investigate their cemeteries, trying to interpret tombstones, wondering at fine sculpture, interpreting symbolism, identifying local traits.

Of course, if ever I spot a tomb with a large cracked stone atop, I am tempted to have a peep. I haven’t done yet, I’m never quite brave enough. Perhaps you will have a look for me?