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Retreat
(published in Aesthetica, October 2004)
Most mornings I stop at the inscription on a black-marble grave: 'Mary Copling, Died 7 March 1866, aged 80 years.' I love the tranquillity of the quiet dead in the churchyard of St John's Church, Hackney. Squirrels tunnel through the fallen leaves, of beech, London plane and horse chestnut.
Mary's husband, James Copling, who died in 1856, lies beside her. They shake to dust like salt from a salt-cellar, clasped together in their shiny block of history. Permanence at last. My mind is adrift on change. This Monday morning I linger. The world begins at the other side of the graveyard. I listen to the buses that rumble like tanks.
My eyes sweep across the square of grass, felled of the gravestones that are now stacked in neat rows against the high wall of the bus garage. I gaze at the church, the largest parish church in London, built in 1790. Its small-bricked structure and rendered, squat white tower gives me a sense of security.
Mums with kids and dads with kids pass me on the narrow York stone path. No one smiles. The grey sky spreads like a poisonous blanket.
I turn right and stay in the graveyard. There is a fine tomb on the corner with a brass plaque added at a later date: 'Rear Admiral Sir Francis Beaufort, hydrographer for the Royal Navy, 1829-1855'. The Portland stone casket on lion's feet is finely crafted.
I know the names of many in these tombs and graves. They have become my friends. They have histories and biographies, for example: 'The relict of Edward Sheffield of The Grove in this parish, died 1859, aged 81.'
I have often imagined visiting Edward at The Grove as he grew old and frail (his wife died in 1849. She was taken ill on a journey to Colchester where Edward's brother was a magistrate).
I have pictured myself drinking tea with Edward, a grandfather clock in the hall, as we sit in the dark drawing-room, the thick brown velvet curtains drawn back by Jane, the young maid ....
But I hear noises from now: men shouting; people babbling into mobile phones; jack hammers from a building-site.
'Susannah Taverner, died 1884, 59-years-old.' Her life was modest, a governess.
The assertive marble column of John James Ronaldson intrigues me. He had a large property, Halse Hall, in Jamaica. Was his wealth from sugar, rum and slaves? The modern world is crammed with noise as solid as concrete slabs. I circuit the square. I am amongst my friends. And my closest is Mary Copling. I stand next to her. The world has grown too loud.
I have long planned this sojourn. Next to Mary is a small Mummy-shaped coffin, popular with Victorians during that period when all things Egyptian were high fashion. I kneel down and from the end of the coffin I take out the two large bricks I had loosened last month. For a moment the graveyard footpath is free of pedestrians.
On my belly, I slide in to the coffin. I had previously managed to tie garden twine round the two large bricks, and left a length of twine dangling at the side so that I could pull the bricks into position behind me.
My Heath Robinson idea works. I raise my stomach. With my hands, which are wedged under me, I pull the twine and manoeuvre the bricks. I am sealed from the world. At the other end of the coffin I uncover two small holes (I had gouged these out with a chisel last month). I watch people stumble through the graveyard.
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