Free Fogging Over by Annie Dalton

her hand and they walked on together to the church where their mother was buried.
    We thought it was better if the children visited the grave on their own so when we reached the church, we tactfully went off for a walk.
    The weather had improved though left-over wisps of fog clung here and there, wreathing atmospherically around the stone crosses and headstones. Some of the graves had statues of angels watching over them, which Victorians seemed to picture either as solemn girls with wings, or chubby little cherubs. Lola and I started doing angel statue imitations but then a funeral procession came through the gates, so we hastily stopped.
    The hearse was a horse-drawn coach, drawn by four black horses in blinkers. Through the window, the polished gleam of the coffin was just visible under heaps of white flowers. A father and his weeping littledaughter walked slowly behind, followed by grieving friends and relations. All the women wore long black veils.
    Brice was mooching around, examining inscriptions on headstones. I wondered what the mourners would think if they knew a dodgy angel in a Bruce Lee T-shirt was prowling around their graveyard.
    The funeral coach went slowly past us, and we all bowed our heads in respect, even Brice. The hollow rumbling of the wheels and the clipping horses’ hooves sounded dreamlike and muffled in the fog. One of the horses gave a nervous snort and tossed its ebony plumes.
    “I want my mama,” the little girl was saying. “Where’s my mama?”
    I can’t handle this, I thought. There’s too much death and dying in these times.
    I must have looked upset because Lola asked, “Are you OK, hon?” Then I heard her voice change. “Mel, look , there she is!”
    A little way off, under the trees, a young woman was watching the funeral. She held a tiny new-born baby in her arms. The mother and baby weren’t see-thru and sepia like the spirits in Minerva’s parlour. For people who’d so recently died, they actually looked spectacularly full of life. You could see that the dead woman really felt for her husband and daughter, yet her face was filled with utter peace and love.
    When will you get it into your head, angel girl! Dying is not the end, I reminded myself. It’s not a big hole or a terrifying bottomless pit or a cartoon cliff edge that characters vanish over for ever. It’s a portal into a totally limitless, indescribably beautiful universe.
    I noticed Brice giving me a funny look, almost but not quite a smile.
    “What?” I said. Brice has this annoying habit of spoiling my mystical moments.
    “I think our kids are almost finished,” he said gruffly.
    Georgie and Charlotte had pulled up the weeds growing over their mother’s grave. Now they solemnly laid down their flowers. Charlotte said a prayer, stopping once to cough into her handkerchief. Georgie just chewed furiously at his lip, but when his sister finished, he obediently muttered “Amen.”
    The dead woman waved to us serenely as we left and we waved back.
    The children said their goodbyes outside the churchyard. Charlotte wanted her brother to come back to Milkwell Yard, but he said he had something to do. I guessed Georgie planned to drop in on his uncle.
    It was a long walk, even with Georgie’s impressive knowledge of shortcuts. I cheered up once I realised that Portman Square, where Georgie’s uncle lived, joined on to Baker Street. I was walking down the actual street where Sherlock Holmes and Watson hung out solving mysteries! I didn’t mention this though. Brice would only try to make me look small.
    Sherlock Holmes just lived in a flat. I don’t think he was really into worldly goods. Uncovering the truth, that’s all he cared about. But Georgie’s uncle and aunt had a big posh house, set behind iron railings.
    The maid who opened the door looked about nine years old. She must have just started working there because she obviously didn’t recognise Georgie. When she saw him on the step, she clasped her