Page 134 of Fire Must Burn

‘Ah, that,’ he said. ‘Forgive my appearance. It must come as a shock.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not referring to that,’ she said. ‘I’m given to understand that you lost all of your books in the fire. It must have been terribly upsetting.’

‘There have been many upsetting events in my life,’ he said. ‘Not being able to read is certainly one of them.’

‘Then, with your permission, I would like to read to you,’ she said, sitting by the bed and pulling a book from her bag. ‘I was also told that you are a devotee of Thucydides. I took the liberty of bringing my copy with me. Would you like me to read it?’

‘That—’ he began. Then he started to cry. ‘That would be lovely. Which translation?’

‘The Crawley, of course,’ she said, opening it. ‘I think it’s the better one. Don’t you?’

‘I do,’ he said.

Sparks, listening outside, heard Barton begin: ‘Thucydides, an Athenian, wrote the history of the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, beginning at the moment that it broke out, and believing that it would be a great war and more worthy of relation than any that had preceded it …’

She left them there, and walked out of the hospital to the railway station.

London, 1947

They entered Brompton Cemetery through the north gate, then looked down the long main road.

‘Emmeline Pankhurst is buried over there somewhere,’ commented Iris as they headed south. ‘My mother took me to the funeral. I was maybe ten years old. She kept telling me about the Suffragists and all that they endured. Yet here I am in 1947, and I still don’t have an official degree from Cambridge.’

They walked along, yew trees towering over them on both sides. In the distance, the dome of the chapel poked up.

‘This section on the left,’ said Iris. ‘There should be several rows of Spurlocks there.’

They walked among the graves as the stones became newer and newer.

‘There she is,’ said Gwen, pointing to one.

It was a simple stone, with the inscription readingNancy Spurlock, 1917–1936. Underneath were the words,Neither can they die any more: for they are equal unto the angels.

‘What is that from?’ asked Iris.

‘Luke, chapter 20,’ said Gwen.

They looked down at the grave for a moment.

‘Do you mind if I pray for her?’ asked Gwen.

‘By all means,’ said Iris.

Gwen put her hands together and closed her eyes, her lips moving. Iris waited, idly watching an iridescent golden-green beetle land on some wilting flowers on an adjacent plot. A rose chafer, she thought.

Gwen opened her eyes and said, ‘I’m done.’

Iris knelt by the grave and placed a bunch of white lilies onit, then placed her palm on the grass over it for a moment. Then she stood back up.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

They walked back towards the gate.

‘A point of clarification,’ said Gwen. ‘As an atheist, you don’t believe in an afterlife, correct?’

‘Correct,’ said Iris.

‘Then why put flowers on Nancy’s grave if you don’t think there’s any chance of her knowing?’