Bluebells, witches and a family grave

The Common looked glorious as we walked towards the last parkrun of April. Everything was fresh, green and bursting with life. The air was crisp and rich with the smell of spring, freshly cut grass and damp earth. It was one of those mornings that make you glad to be alive. Of course, my main aim for the morning was visiting the dead, like I do most Saturday mornings. I was especially interested in the bluebells I’d heard were bursting out everywhere in the Old Cemetery.

No sooner had I walked through the gate than I saw the first of them, just a small clump, not enough for their heady scent to be discernible. It was a good start, though, so I smiled and walked on. Pretty soon, I realised they were everywhere, springing up between the long-forgotten graves, as if to make up for the lack of visitors. The graves here are mostly so old that no one is alive to bring bouquets or stand for a moment and remember.

Often, as I walk these well-trodden paths, I stop and read a name. Sometimes that name will make it into one of my stories in some form. A surname might speak to me and suggest a character, or a first name might be just the one I’m looking for. If I can make them out, the inscriptions often tell stories that set my imagination racing. Today, though, I wasn’t looking at names, only flowers. Well, flowers and anything else interesting that caught my eye, like the dried-out fungi on the gnarled bark of a tree. Something about it suggested a laughing face, but maybe I was being fanciful.

The further I went, the more bluebells I saw. The bluebell symbolises constancy, humility and gratitude, and bluebell woods are said to be enchanted. Fairies used them to lure and trap people in their nether world. Perhaps that’s why there were so many in the cemetery. They have also had many uses over the years. A starch made from crushed bluebell bulbs was used to stiffen Elizabethan ruffs, the feathers of bronze age arrows were glued on with the sticky sap and ancient herbalists used them to prevent nightmares. Although they are poisonous, modern scientists are researching how the toxic chemicals could be used to treat cancer.

I might not have been reading names, but I couldn’t help but stop to admire a beautiful angel standing guard over one grave I passed. She reminded me a little of the goddess Nike on the Titanic Engineers Memorial, a symbol of victory. Then again, she could have been a fairy.

Further on, a curly-haired statue put me in mind of Venus de Milo. It might have been because she was missing an arm. I couldn’t work out whether she was supposed to be lounging at the foot of the grave or if she had been standing and had fallen. Either way, she was lovely.

Time was getting on, so I headed for the main path to return to the parkrun. It’s the most familiar because it’s paved, so I can walk it even on the wettest, muddiest winter days. I’ve passed the graves here so often that the names on the stones feel like old friends. It was the last place I expected to find a family grave, but as I strolled back towards the gate, something made me look down one of the side paths between two yew trees. The name Woodman caught my eye. Commando’s great grandfather was called Walter Woodman. He featured in Seventh Daughter, the novel I was editing, ready for publishing at the end of the summer. Of course, it couldn’t be his grave, could it?

Puzzled, I walked between the yew trees for a closer look. The name Florence jumped out at me. Florence was Commando’s great-grandmother’s name. I read a little further, hardly believing my eyes. ‘Florence Woodman – the beloved wife of Walter Woodman.’ When I checked the dates, I realised I was standing in front of the grave of Commando’s great grandparents and his great aunt Nellie. I recognised the names on the surrounding graves. How had I passed this way so many times and never seen it before? All week I’d been editing a story woven around the few facts I knew about Walter, Florence and two of their seven daughters, Daisy and Lilly. Now I’d stumbled upon this grave. It felt a little like witchcraft, but that would hardly be surprising. Florence Woodman was the seventh daughter of William and Mary Weaver. Commando’s grandmother, Daisy, was Florence’s seventh daughter. The seventh daughter is supposed to have psychic powers. Everyone who knew Daisy said she was a witch. 

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