Christmas Eve in the Graveyard
Where the Quick and the Dead meet
By Pamela Jo Keeley
Christmas Eve in the Graveyard
By Pamela Jo Keeley
Four-year-old Hugh wanted to be a villain. This puzzled my son Jack. If they played Star Wars, it was Luke vs Darth Vader, which made a convenient pairing since neither had to battle against an imaginary adversary. Nevertheless, Jack regularly argued with his friend on the merits of heroism. Hugh, chin set obstinately, refused to leave the dark side.
The Christmas Eve Hugh disappeared was the annual drinks after the All Saints carol service. The 5 and unders released like springs from the nursery played in the graveyard among the tombs and headstones. This included two Roman coffins on the side of the medieval, or even older some said, church. Its building stone came from the remains of nearby Londinium, now known as St Albans. No taller than today’s 12-year-old the rock coffins faced east awaiting resurrection, though the bodies they’d contained had long become dust. It was reckoned Boudicca’s final battle had been somewhere around our town of Leighton Buzzard. Or as the Normans had it, Layton Bossard.
Though we were blow-ins, the ancient church tied us to the village. On special occasions like this, a table, well-dressed with bottles and glasses, was set up in the chancery. Adults lingered in the candle lit church GT’s and sherries in hand incense, still heavy on the air.
The graveyard with its leaning headstones towering over playing children was starkly beautiful in bleak midwinter. As dusk fell a few little ones still carried lit candles from the service as they dodged around the graveyard’s sheltering yews. The flickering lights shone through the stained glass and shouts and shrieks let us know the next generation were running themselves tired. We all hoped they’d be ready for an early bed so we could get on with present wrapping, trifle building, new bike assembling.
Shadows had almost solidified into dark when glasses were drained and parents gathered hats, gloves and children. Hugh wasn’t discovered missing until half an hour later. The youngest of five boys, probably the source of his anti-hero obsession, the family was hanging coats in the foyer before the headcount fell short. We were just sitting down to boiled eggs for tea when we got the call.
Hugh was last seen with Jack. What did he remember? Our four year old shrugged and dipped a toast soldier into his runny yolk, “We were playing Hide n Seek, but I couldn’t find him. He vanished.” Jack liked words. Cavernous was one of his favourites at the time.
My husband immediately pulled his coat on and returned to the church for the search. He was back an hour later. No Hugh. The worried parents decided their youngest must have tried to walk home by himself and gotten lost. The family dog and brothers were out searching the town. We’d get a call as soon as he was found. Then there was silence. No word through excited Christmas Eve bedtime for our two sons. 6 pm. 7pm. 8pm.
We called again hoping there had been joyous a reunion and we’d been forgotten. No Hugh. The Thames Valley Police had been informed, but it was Christmas Eve. They’d been no use. At 10pm Hugh’s father phoned. Could my husband come for another search at the church? He was picking up Canon Anthony as well. No Santa playing tonight. The car that picked him up held grim faces and set jaws. The fathers had joined forces.
My husband and Hugh’s father volunteered as groundskeepers for the park-sized graveyard. They liked that the surrounding wall was knicked with bullet holes from Cromwell’s soldiers. Both men knew the tombs and crypts had to be treated gently lest they implode and crumble. That any bit of bone that came up while mowing had to be slipped quietly back underground. Canon Antony dreaded the long, tedious reburial rite. C of E had its own exorcism rituals.
That night the priest slipped on his gold robe to intone a blessing prayer before they began the search. Methodically dividing the grounds each man searched his section, calling the boy’s name repeatedly, then changed and the next man searched that space again. Only once did they hear a giggle carried on the wind. Nothing more.
Sometime after eleven, the missing boy’s father raised his head like a hunting dog catching a scent and his torch followed a path to one of the oldest crypts. He said later that maybe he heard a noise , but it felt more like following someone or thing. Flashing the torch light in through a crack by the broken door he reached in. It was met by a small ice-cold hand. “You found me, daddy.”
The opening had seemed too small for more than a fox, but the ingenuity of a small boy had been enough to get through. When asked why he hadn’t come out when he heard his name called, Hugh was indignant. “That’s not how you play Hide ‘n’ Seek.”
It was his next sentence that silenced us. “The man told me if I wasn’t found I’d go to heaven.” That was all he would ever say about that.
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Time and Head Space When I was teaching full-time, I found it difficult to fit in any writing. It’s definitely not a nine-to-three job! My evenings and weekends were taken up by planning, preparing and assessing, as well as various administrative tasks. Not to mention the demands of family and general life. However, switching to…
“He’s gonna stuff me.” “Don’t talk like that!” Collo grabbed my arms. “He’s just a twinkling fairy!” “Yeah, but look at the size of him!” “Don’t think like that! You can beat him… you’re representing ‘B’ troop. Remember your training! Don’t let him catch you… keep moving… you’re faster than he is.” “Yeah, but he…
In that heady, comforting, all-encompassing safety-net that is the deep love forged by a long life together, my soul-mate and I tried to find ‘our song’. Amongst all the haunting melodies and time-tested lyrics, surely we could find a single song that expressed the depths of our feelings for each other? He suggested some, I…
Who the hell do you think you are? I once heard that authors alternate between two perceptions of their work-in-progress. One is: ‘This is amazing! I’m a bloody genius!’ The other is: ‘This is the worst thing ever written! Ever! In the whole history of story!’ The truth, of course, is that it’s usually somewhere…
The International Children Books Illustration Exhibition opens its doors for six weeks every year at Sarmede, my home town, gathering the usual crowd of fans and supporters from various parts of the country. The Exhibition used to be held in the Town Hall of the village which has permanent mural illustrations done by the artists…
“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. That opening line is indelibly inked in my memory. Other fictional characters captured my childhood imagination before the March sisters: Anne of Green Gables, Black Beauty, Big Red. All great stories for children. But ‘Little Women’, Louisa May Alcott’s coming-of-age story set…
The Brother has a view on modern verbiage ++ Now, c’mere ’til I tell you this. I’m all ears. What is it? The brother has barred himself from watching television above in the digs. Excuse me? Barred himself for the foreseeable future on account of him having been roaring at the TV in the residents’…
We All Have Our Own Opinions Of course we do! Life would be very boring if we didn’t. But there are elements to story that seem to be essential and universal. I’ve listed some below but it’s not exhaustive and I’m interested to hear other ideas. Character I often hear authors talk about the…
Say What? Writing a novel with more than one point-of-view can be tricky. How can you juggle different personalities and motivations – and somehow use them to tell a balanced, coherent and compelling story? How can you ensure that each character has their own ‘voice’ (something that I find extremely difficult to achieve!)? But does…
There’s something about cats. Yes, in January I burst my eardrum trying to cure the ear mite infection I caught from our two. They wont be sleeping on the bed pillows after that. But I mean more. The truth encapsulated in this post from Jennifer Adcock, writer. “You know who doesn’t get impostor…
Sorry! I’ve been a tad disingenuous with this title because I’m not referring to the act of writing on behalf of others, but rather the literal act of writing about ghosts! Trick, or treat? Of course, there are many ghost stories, especially in the horror genre, but I’ve selected a few from other genres to…
The last few weeks, I have been replaying a video game from my distant past. An old favourite by the name of Final Fantasy VII. I used to play this game almost once a year; I kept going back to it again and again throughout my childhood and often used to inform my imaginative play…
“Do you still see the Bulgarian?” The question tumbled out. “Yes.” Her reply was instant, instinctive, intuitive. “His name is Krasimir.” “Sorry.” He stuttered his response. “I didn’t mean to pry… just a silly question. None of my business. Sorry.” “It’s OK.” She attempted to heal. “I have no problem with your question. It’s not…
Over achievers rarely herald from untroubled upbringings. Being born to a mother with low confidence in her own abilities wouldn’t have been so bad, had she managed an ounce of confidence in her own children. Such is life. The poor woman was bullied by her father. He, in turn, had been emotionally wrecked by the…
Ciao. Getting ready for our two-week trip to Northern Italy. Northern Italy you say. What about the rest of Italy? Well, in due course. A friend of mine recently went to Italy and did the typical, American 9 day, 10 night tour of Italy on a bus. “Bring down your luggage and be on the…
“Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” I shove the nagging question away. The computer will still be there when I return to it, cursor blinking patiently at the top of a blank page. It is Thursday, one of my two weekdays designated for writing. I am cradling a cup of coffee and standing in the…
An Issue of Trust I’ll admit, novels with an unreliable narrator are not everyone’s cup of tea, but I love them. You start off thinking the character is taking us on a believable journey and that we can trust their telling of the events, then unease creeps in. We start asking questions. We wonder where…
Mention the word Trope to us writers and we’ll recoil. Add the word Cliche and you’ll see us running for the hills. These two five-letter words are not what any of us want in our wonderful, new, original, works, right? But consider this: things only become tropes when they are overused, and they only become…
My three psychological novels have unlikeable point-of-view characters. Without balance, they can appear two-dimensional – and I’ve discovered that achieving that balance is rather tricky! What do I mean by balance? I suppose I’m talking in terms of the reader’s perception. Is the character’s dark side countered by a bit of light, or a reason…
I am made of regret, but not of sadness. During my brief and somewhat misguided youth, I spent my money and spoke my mind. I moved countries and continents. I learned languages, had adventures, and spent my life coloring outside the lines. I don’t recommend it unless you want to come back to where you…
A writer friend of mine and I have exchanged writerly encouragement to each other for many years. The most frequent reminder we bounce back and forth is that writing is really hard. We take baffling things in our life, in society, in the world, often stuff that strike us as chaotic, and we try to…
Dear Grandpoppypops Wish you were here? Look at the size of the stamps now! So much larger than the penny black you showed me from your visit. Not much has changed so far as I can see in human structure, society is still set on exploiting other sections of itself. Your industrial revolution really set…
Flann O’Brien’s much-loved character – The Brother – transported to the 21st century. What would he make of contemporary trends and fads? This episode imagines his reaction to Molecular Gastronomy, Nouvelle Cuisine, and the tampering of a subject very close to his heart. ****************** Now the brother has a thing or two to say on…
This is my first post on this forum, so I wanted to do something short and light. What types of distractions interrupt you when you’re hammering away at your keyboard? The phone rings? Your significant other shouts at you from the other side of the house? Your cat comes in and plops down onto your…
Go beyond the usual guide book notes of the Trevi Fountain and savour its unexpected pleasures.
PART ONE Walk through the heart of Rome and you will be lured in one direction and then another as instantaneously as a magnet does with a piece of iron… The Pantheon will attract you with its metaphysical force of the gods, the Foro Imperiale with its magnitude of power… while the Fountain of Trevi…
My first day as a professional writer, I lifted a police report from the pile at the Coffeyville station and read “Murder.” Now, this was a small town, and I was pretty sure this sort of thing was a rarity. I wasn’t sure there had been much in the way of this most heinous of…
First Things First I’ve never understood people who have a favourite song, book or film. Surely your choice depends on your mood. It’s the same with genre. Maybe today I fancy reading something light-hearted and fun. Tomorrow I might want to feel a shiver run down my spine. The next day I might be enticed…
Lucky seven they say, but the morning I had to load that many strong-minded mustangs onto a lorry at the top of the Swiss Alps with a 4am deadline, it seemed a doomed number. Especially when lorry drivers with ferry schedules and EU regulations have famously short fuses. They have been known to back out…
Hands up anyone who’s had a bit of writer’s block? Looking around I can see that’s pretty much all of us, right? Even you at the back, hiding behind your laptop screen, pretending you’re doing research into character types, whilst actually playing Royal Match and posting videos of your cat. Why do we have such…
I’m delighted to give you an early peek into this year’s Litopia Book Club selections, together with relevant purchase links. It’s a particularly strong and carefully-selected list, and as you’ll know if you’ve attended one of Jason’s riotous Zoom sessions, a good time can be guaranteed for all! For further information and exact dates, please…
Selling highly-priced, poor-value seminars and writing courses to aspiring authors isn’t just unethical – it’s also damaging to the publishing industry, says Litopia’s Peter Cox in this article for “The Bookseller” That old scoundrel Sam Brannan would have felt completely at home in today’s publishing business. Sam, you may recall, was the original promoter of…
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