White Horses On The Bay

St. Peter's Cemetery

~

"This is such a lovely place," Jenny said, stepping gingerly around the sacred mounds. The spongy ground cover, still frozen in a few places crunched beneath her feet. White gravestones, set in almost perfect rows, stretched across the fenced rectangular field and flowed down to the edge of the land like frothy waves on the open sea. The stones faced east toward the town and the morning sunrise. Beyond the cemetery edge, the land abruptly ended at the cold grey Atlantic.

Jenny approached a simple obelisk near the centre path not far from where Fisher leaned on his rake. The marker's inscription ran from its top point right down to the ground. The words were spaced so tightly together Jenny found it difficult to read. She stepped closer to pull a bit of the soft moss away from the marker's bottom edge. She read the inscription aloud.

"Erected by James Marshall to the sacred memory of his beloved children: John, died Aug 25, 1882, aged 11months, William M. died Aug 29, 1885, aged 8 years, Grace, died Dec 12, 1888, aged 13 years, Elizabeth, died Dec 13, 1888 aged 10 years, Mary, died Dec 16, 1888, aged 4 years, Edward E., died Dec 24, 1888, aged 8 years. Also, to the sacred memory of Jane, cherished wife of James, died Dec 31, 1888."

"My God, there are six children listed, and the poor man's wife, too. It's staggering!" Jenny raised her hand to her mouth.

"Diphtheria." Fisher said. He moved closer to Jenny and touched the point of the Marshall marker. "I'm afraid that disease wiped out entire families, my dear. There's another marker in the back row just like this one."

"I can't imagine how that man could carry on with his life." Jenny said. She stood and walked to the end of the narrow plot and took a photograph. " What about the father, James Marshall? Where is he buried?"

"I'm not sure. He may have gone back to England or wherever he came from, I guess. I never really thought about it before. Perhaps he went mad and was put away in an asylum. I know I would probably have gone mad."

"What about this one?" Jenny walked toward the tallest monument in the field, an impressive grey granite cross, twice the size of every other marker. It was almost exactly in the middle of the cemetery. "This person must have been very important or well to do, no?"

"That's quite true, my dear. This is the final resting place of Miss Georgina Stirling. She was Twillingate's most famous resident." Fisher ran his gloved finger over the edge of the horizontal part of the cross. He wiped a bit of dried guano from the polished surface.

"She must have recently died, then, right? Looks like this monument is brand new." Jenny took another photograph. She looked up from her viewfinder and read the inscription. "In memory of Georgina Stirling. Mille. Marie Toulinguet. Prima Donna. Died April 21, 1934. Age 68 years. Songstress of Newfoundland. The Nightingale of the North sang fairer than the larks of Italy. She entertained royalty by the sweetness of her voice and the poor by the kindness of her heart."

"This was placed here just this month. Nearly 30 years since Miss Stirling passed away." Fisher looked at Jenny's soft long fingers as she turned the focus knob on her camera. He felt the urge to reach out and touch her again.

"I hope it's alright to take photos. You don't have a problem with it, do you? I mean religiously or something like that? This is fantastic stuff for my research." Jenny advanced her film and moved aside to capture another angle without waiting for his answer.

"No, I don't mind at all," he said. "I suppose it is a fascinating story. The life of Georgina Stirling was quite unusual. She was a friend of my grandmother's, actually. I have lots of newspaper clippings and photos of Georgina's life I could show you.. At my home. I live in my grandmother's house." Fisher looked away. His face began to flush. "Sorry, you probably don't want to know where I live."

"I'd love to talk to your grandmother about Miss Georgina. Nightingale of the North. Do you think I could meet her, your grandmother, I mean?" Jenny moved her camera strap to her shoulder and pulled a small notebook and pen from her coat pocket. She wrote a few words and then glanced up at the darkening sky.

"Well, she's moved up to Memorial Hospital. She's not very well these days. Being 90 now," Fisher said. "I could take you there to visit if you'd like. She would probably enjoy meeting you, as I have." He blushed, again.

Jenny scrutinized the Stirling monument. "You said the marker was just recently placed here. What did Miss Stirling have before this one?"

"To be honest, my dear, she didn't have one at all. I mean, she lay in an unmarked grave over there by the fence for nearly 30 years." Fisher lowered his head. "It was a local embarrassment to be honest, but out of the blue, this radio man decided it would be a good idea to pay tribute to Georgina, the famous opera singer from little Twillingate. So there it is, her big granite cross. Now she really stands out in this crowd." Fisher laughed awkwardly.

Jenny took a few more photographs including one of Fisher as a few drops of rain began to fall.