mountains, simply used them as a funnel, and Alice rode the whole way with her chin pressed into her collar, wondering what she could say when she reached the little house, and wishing she had an appropriate greetings card, or perhaps a posy to offer.
In England a house in mourning was a place of silence, of vaguely whispered conversation, shaded by a cloak of sadness, or awkwardness, depending on how well the deceased was known or loved. Alice, who often managed to say the wrong thing, found such hushed occasions oppressive, a trap that she would no doubt fall into.
When they reached the top of Hellmouth Ridge, though, there was little suggestion of silence: they passed cars and buggies dotted lower down the track, abandoned on the verge as the passing became impossible, and when they reached the house, strange horses’ heads poked out of the barn, whickering at each other, and muffled singing came from inside. Alice looked over to a small bank of pine trees, where three men were digging in heavy coats, their picks sending clanging sounds into the air as they hit rock, their faces puce, and their breath pale gray clouds. “Is she going to bury him here?” she said to Margery.
“Yup. His whole family’s up there.” Alice could just make out a succession of stone slabs, some large, some heartbreakingly small, telling of a Bligh family history on the mountain stretching back generations.
Inside, the little cabin was full to bursting. Garrett Bligh’s bed had been shoved to one side and covered with a quilt for people to sit on. Barely an inch of space remained that wasn’t covered with small children, trays of food, or singing matriarchs, who nodded at Alice and Margery as they entered, without breaking off their song. The windows, which, Alice remembered, had contained no glass, were shuttered and carbide lamps and candles lit the gloom so that it was hard to tell inside if it was day or night. One of the Bligh children sat on the lap of a woman with a prominent chin and kind eyes, and the others nestled into Kathleen, as she closed her eyes and sang too, the only one of the group to be somewhere far from there. A trestle table had been set up on which lay a pine coffin, and Alice could just make out within it the body of Garrett Bligh, his face relaxed in death, so much so that, for a moment, she wondered whether it was him at all. His hollowed cheekbones had somehow softened, his brow now smooth under soft, dark hair. Only his face was visible, the rest of him covered with an intricate patchwork quilt and strewn with flowers and herbs that scented the air. She had never seen a dead body, but somehow here, surrounded by the songs and warmth of the people around him, it was hard to feel shock or discomfort at its proximity.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Alice said. It was the only phrase she had been coached to say, and here it seemed sterile and useless. Kathleen opened her eyes and, taking a moment to register, smiled vaguely at Alice. Her eyes were rimmed pink and shadowed with exhaustion.
“He was a fine man, and a fine father,” said Margery, sweeping in and holding her tightly. Alice wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Margery hug someone before.
“He’d had enough,” Kathleen murmured, and the child in her arms looked at her blankly, her thumb thrust deep into her mouth. “I couldn’t wish him to stay any longer. He’s with the Lord now.”
The slack of her jaw and her sad eyes failed to mirror the conviction of her words.
“Did you know Garrett?” An older woman with two crocheted shawls around her shoulders tapped the four inches of bed-space beside her, so that Alice felt obliged to squeeze her way in too.
“Oh, a little. I—I’m just the librarian.”
The woman peered at her, frowning.
“I only knew him from my visits.” It came out apologetically, as if she knew she shouldn’t really be there.
“You’re the lady used to read to him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, child! That was such a comfort to my son.” The woman reached out and pulled Alice to her. Alice stiffened, then gave in to her. “Kathleen told me many times how much Garrett looked forward to your visits. How they would take him quite out of himself.”
“Your son? Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.” She meant it. “He really did seem the nicest of men.