A Secret Meeting at the Old Graveyard
On a chilly autumn morning, Eleanor and her cousin Katherine made their way to a forgotten cemetery on the outskirts of Whitby to visit the graves of their loved ones. Thick tendrils of mist coiled between weathered headstones, and the cawing of ravens lent an air of eerie mystery. The sisters stepped into a small wooden chapel, where the scent of candle wax and frankincense clung to the air. They lit candles for the departed, and Katherine, exhaling deeply, wrote her first prayer note for her grandmother, Margaret. Then they walked to their parents’ graves, clearing away dead leaves, wiping the tombstones, and placing humble bouquets of chrysanthemums in glass jars.
“Ready, Kathy? Shall we find your grandmother Margaret’s grave?” Eleanor suggested, tightening her scarf.
“Let’s,” Katherine murmured, her heart tightening with an inexplicable dread.
They wandered among the ancient graves, where moss blurred the inscriptions and stooped trees bore the weight of time. At last, Eleanor paused before a modest stone.
“Here she is, Kathy! Margaret Evelyn,” Eleanor said, brushing dirt from the photograph. “Look, someone’s already tidied up. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Hello, are you here for Margaret Evelyn?” A deep voice startled them.
Eleanor spun around, frozen. Her eyes widened in shock, thoughts racing—*This can’t be!*
“You had such a grand garden,” the man continued, as if oblivious to their surprise. “Your grandmother always let us in. The raspberries were sweet as honey, cherries as big as walnuts—and white raspberries, no one else had those! Peas hung in long pods. Margaret Evelyn spoiled all the children, letting us pick as we pleased. Then you were born, Kathy, and soon after, she passed. Fancy a cuppa?”
Eleanor gaped at her cousin, who stood rigid, silent.
“Kathy, what’s wrong?” Eleanor asked, pouring tea into chipped cups.
“It’s nothing, all fine,” Katherine replied, though her voice trembled.
After her husband’s death, Katherine had grown closer to Eleanor. Her daughter lived abroad, and the ache for family warmth gnawed at her. Of her grandmother Margaret, her father’s mother, she knew almost nothing. The house where she was born lingered in fragments—they’d moved from that crumbling cottage when she was barely five. Her mother, Anne, had despised the place and never forgave Margaret for disapproving of her birth.
“Your grandmother was kind,” Eleanor said, sipping her tea. “Your father, William, was her youngest, her favourite. The older ones—George and Mary—left early, built their own lives. Some went abroad for work, others settled far off. Margaret rarely saw their children. But William stayed with her.”
At first, Margaret hadn’t wanted him to marry. Said he was too soft, and what use was family if life pulled them apart? “Live for yourself, son,” she’d insisted. William hadn’t rushed—perhaps never met the right woman. Until, nearing forty, he saw Anne visiting her sister and fell instantly in love. She was delicate, poised, girlish even at thirty-five.
To everyone’s surprise, Margaret approved. Perhaps she’d weakened, fearing William would soon be alone. Hoped a wife might care for them both. But children? Too late, she’d said. Yet against her wishes, Anne bore Katherine almost at once. Joy lit William’s face—fatherhood had rejuvenated him.
Then Margaret took ill. William’s focus shifted to his wife and child, not his mother. Anne, too, neglected her. A pity, Kathy, how it ended. Age hardened Margaret; disappointment gnawed at her. By the end, she was wretched. Time and frailty had done their work…
“Thank you, Ellie, for telling me,” Katherine whispered. “About the garden, about her. Dad’s long gone, and Mum refused to speak of her. My memories of that house are just fragments. I was so small. Remember the barrel?”
“Of course!” Eleanor laughed. “I worried sick for you. Me and the neighbours—Alex and Sophie—saw a frog in that barrel. You, barely three, couldn’t see. I lifted you—miscalculated—and *splash!* Thank God Danny, old Mrs. May’s grandson, was there. He fished you out.”
“Some sister!” Katherine smirked. “I recall Danny comforting me while I sobbed. Not from fear, no. That ridiculous green bonnet with chin straps—I *hated* it. Danny, this tall lad, swung me on the gate. Mortified, dripping wet in that bonnet! Never even saw the frog.”
“Kathy, let’s visit our parents’ graves soon,” Eleanor suggested. “The memorial’s nearing. Margaret’s buried close by. Ever been?”
“No,” Katherine admitted. “Dad died young; I was a child. Mum wouldn’t speak of her. Just griped about that drafty cottage—frigid winters, damp summers.”
“A shame,” Eleanor sighed. “Could’ve made peace. So, shall we go?”
On the memorial morning, Eleanor and Katherine set off early. First, the chapel—candles lit, prayers scribbled. Katherine left her first note for Margaret Evelyn. Then they tended their parents’ graves, scrubbing stones, arranging fresh flowers.
“Ready, Kathy? Let’s find Margaret,” Eleanor said. “It’s the old section—been fifty-odd years.”
“Alright. I’ve already spoken to Mum and Dad while cleaning. Told them I want to find her grave, pray for peace between them.”
“This way. Look, the weathered stones, overgrown. Here—’65, ’67… Wait, isn’t that Mrs. May’s?”
“No idea, Ellie. Barely recall her,” Katherine murmured. “But there—Margaret Evelyn, 1901–1985. Must be her.”
“It *is!*” Eleanor gasped. “Let me clean the photo—barely visible. Odd, though… The grave’s tended. No weeds—lilies, irises growing. Let’s add our flowers.”
“Hello, visiting Margaret Evelyn?” A voice startled them. A tall man, silver streaking his dark hair, stood nearby.
“I’ve tended this plot for years,” he said. “No visitors—thought her forgotten. Then I saw you.”
Eleanor stared, breath catching. *Impossible.*
“Danny? Is that you?”
“Ellie?” The man grinned. “Fancy meeting here! I came for mine—Mrs. May, my parents. Then I spotted… And Kathy? Little green bonnet?”
Katherine flushed. That *bonnet*—etched in memory!
“Well, this is a reunion!” Danny laughed. “Let me tidy up, then we’ll walk? The old house site’s near. Three families once—where we were born.”
Now a park, yet among saplings, Katherine spied gnarled apple and cherry trees. Her heart lurked—*Could they be from Margaret’s garden?* Danny took her arm.
“See? Your apples, cherries. And under that willow—where we kids napped, leaves rustling lullabies. We all sprang from here—me, Ellie, you, Kathy…”
“Thank you, Danny,” Katherine said softly. For a moment, beyond the orchard, she glimpsed her father—young, grinning in a white vest—and her mother in a floral dress. Margaret sat in the arbour, spooning cherry jam into bowls.
The wind sighed through the garden, rustling ancient branches as if whispering the past. *They’ve made peace,* Katherine thought, tears pricking. *I saw it—they forgave each other.*
“Had your fill, girls?” Danny asked. “Fancy tea at mine? My bachelor’s digs aren’t much, but we’ll toast our parents. You’re chilled—bitter wind… Kathy, you’re crying?”
“No, just the wind,” she smiled. “We’d love to, right, Ellie? Thank you, Danny—for everything…”
