Liverpool 2April 1912
Dressed in the now beloved black pea coat, I went to Kirkdale Cemetery conveniently, where Henry's wife and two twin sons are buried. I thought it was important for me to go there.
Cemetery was located very close to Gray Road. All I had to do is go from my short street to Rice Lane, which for Walton was the local Hollywood Boulevard with shops, pubs, photography studios, houses richer than on Gray Road. Then walk a couple of miles and turn right.
Having no idea where to find the main entrance, I just climbed over a low fence.
The cemetery was not very large, as of 1912.
The monuments are different from those that are usually placed in modern American cemeteries.
Another significant difference in traditions: the inscriptions on the monuments. In England people write entire poems about the past of the deceased: who he was, reason he died from, contribution to society etc. There are almost no short lines with dates of birth and death. As if someone is interested in reading all this graphomania. If a person was outstanding during his lifetime, he will be remembered without epitaphs. If he did not distinguish himself in any way, what difference does it make what written about him? Anyway no one remembers.
I understand why we don't write like this in the 21st century. What to write "Ate, drank, went to shopping centers, had no interests. Died of apoplexy"? It's better to have only dates. Without knowing anything about a person, you can imagine his unjust death ahead of time due to circumstances beyond his control than to know the truth.
I didn't find Mary's grave right away. Stone was in the middle of the cemetery. A column of red granite, slightly higher than a man, with a typical stone vase covered with a stone mantle. I don't know what it is supposed to symbolize. Perhaps the fragility of life.
There was a whole novel: IN
LOVING MEMORY OF
MARY CATHERINE
(POLLY)
THE DEARLY BELOVED WIFE OF
LIEUT. HENRY T. WILDE, R.N.R.
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
24TH DEC. 1910, AGED 38 YEARS
ALSO THE TWIN SONS OF THE ABOVE
ARCHIE AND RICHARD
WHO DIED IN INFANCY DEC. 1910
A LOVING MOTHER
AND A FAITHFUL FRIEND
Why so many words? Would be better to write how much the husband's salary was, preferences in music and attitudes towards Lady Gaga's music.
In a hundred or two hundred years, all the monuments will be overgrown with grass. The descendants will be absolutely indifferent whose bones rest under a layer of earth.
Polly, Polly... why did you leave so early, in terrible agony, on a cold winter night, leaving your children?
I put flowers on the grave. Taking a sip from a small flask of whiskey, I was about to leave when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman walking towards me. The stranger was middle-aged and in an elegant dress, despite the cold weather. Shivering, I took another sip of whiskey and turned up the collar of my pea jacket. A heavy sea wind blew through every nook and cranny of Liverpool.
The woman stopped next to me.
-Hello!
- Good afternoon? - I replied, not too politely.
- Drinking is a bad idea, - the woman nodded at my flask, - this is not the way.
- If you knew what a nightmare I've been living in for the last week, you wouldn't judge me.
- According to your logic, then I should have started drinking from birth.
- Are you so bad, madam? - I giggled stupidly.
- It was bad, but it doesn't matter now.
I shrugged.
- Impossible not to drink at all. Self-flagellation begins. Bad thoughts about own failure come into head.
-Which ones exactly? - the woman looked from me with interest, surprised by my self-criticism.
-For example, that I am a complete nonentity who does not know anything about the real world. I don't understand how to raise children. Because I am a terrible example for them and there is no one around who would throw me a lifeline. This gray city is killing me.
- You are alone and you are afraid. I understand, but you have to go through with it. I will say a banality, but God does not give anyone more than a person can bear. When you do, you will become stronger.
-I don't believe in God for a long time. And you, indeed, speak in clichés - I again sipped an alcohol.
- Your main problem is yourself. Without loving people, it is impossible to be happy.
- Sorry, I'm a misanthrope.
- This word is convenient to justify. Accept your current life. There won't be another one. Maybe you will like it, - a strange woman stroked my head, jokingly disheveled my hair, - everything will work out. Believe in yourself.
I lit a cigarette, closing my eyes for a second. When I opened it, no one was around. How could the mysterious lady leave so quickly? However, what's the difference. A cold light rain began to fall. Time to go home.
I can't say that I was delighted with Walton, a former village that fell into the city limits. Low two-three-story buildings made of dark brick or plastered. There were churches. It is convenient to go after the pub to pray. Everything is at hand. Residential buildings are also almost all the same. In England they are called the strange word "terrace house". In our concept, a townhouse. A common wall with neighbors and own private backyard. Why terraces? I do not know. There were quite old houses with orchards. Moreover, the farther you move away towards the exit from the city, the more provincial and shabbier the buildings are. A simple area, but, knowing about the eternal high cost of real rstate in England, Henry can be considered a very successful person. Having a house of his own at his age, even if it's in Walton, is pretty cool.
I didn't use the tram. I wanted to get a better look at my new area. Won't say that it's completely sad, although there is no complete delight. Like an old photograph come to life. Clean, noisy. Maybe in some time, I'll get used to it, but for now I'm just looking at every little thing.
I didn't want to go home. It's hard to pretend like I'm still the Henry they love.
And then on my way I see a real English pub. The day is no longer boring..