‘And so we commit dearly beloved Ethel to the ground, her long journey ended. May she rest in the eternal embrace of our lord Jesus Christ. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ murmured the small crowd, following the pastor’s lead. Meek sobs filtered through the morning air joining the chirrups of birds echoing across the cemetery.
‘Amen indeed,’ said Seamus, leaning on a shovel stuck upright into the ground. He was by a tree a short distance from the mourners, watching them from under the wide brim of his hat. Smoke billowed from a cigarette hanging limply from his lips.
‘Now be off with you so I can put the old biddy in the earth.’
With the service complete, the crowd dispersed, slowly and haphazardly, as if no one knew where to go next. Seamus took a long drag from his cigarette then exhaled, the cloud of smoke catching a draught and drifting in the direction of the meandering mourners. A smattering of exaggerated coughs and pointed glares followed. He chuckled to himself and leant back against the tree just out of sight.
The cigarette spent, Seamus tossed it and twisted it into the ground with his boot. He took out another, placed it between his lips and whipped a lighter from his pocket, expertly igniting the fresh cigarette in one motion.
‘Seamus,’ came the voice from behind, thick with admonishment. Pastor Mark, his solemn duties complete, peered around the side of the tree.
‘We’ve spoken about this before,’ he said. ‘You need to be out of sight while the service is taking place. And for God’s sake put out that bloody cigarette.’
‘Now now, Marky,’ said Seamus, taking a drag and making no effort to divert the smoke away from the pastor. ‘Mustn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’
Some of the mourners craned their necks towards this conversation. Pastor Mark caught their eyes, smiled and stepped behind the tree, speaking to Seamus with lowered voice and serious tone.
‘Just be out of sight and out of mind in future.’
‘Can do boss,’ said Seamus, giving the pastor a salute. ‘Just wanted to get to it as early as possible. Don’t want poor Ethel there going off.’
Pastor Mark rubbed his temples and breathed in deeply, only to catch a mouthful of smoke.
‘That’s someone’s mother,’ he spluttered, then continued, after finding a breath of fresher air. ‘Show some respect, man, and no more of these on the grounds.’
He plucked the cigarette from Seamus’s mouth, stamped it into the ground and bent to pick it up. Noticing the bounty of butts already surrounding Seamus, he sighed and left this one to lay with its fallen brothers, shaking his head as he wandered off.
‘Respect,’ Seamus snorted, eyeing the pastor’s back. ‘Bah!’
Seamus lit another cigarette, closed his eyes and rested against the tree as the sounds of the crowd slowly disappeared.
***
The smouldering stub of the cigarette fell from Seamus’s mouth as his reverie was interrupted. Somewhere a dog was barking. The sun was higher in the sky and he squinted his bleary eyes, surveying the scene, but the cemetery appeared empty. The pastor and mourners had moved on and the grounds were as he liked them, his only company deep in slumber, six feet under.
Yet still the dog barked, punctuating the peace. With a scowl, Seamus collected his shovel and wandered towards his task for the morning, lighting a fresh cigarette on the way and hoping the dog would soon shut up.
It happened though that his first job and the canine commotion were at the same location—the gravesite of the dearly and newly departed Ethel. Next to the hole in the earth, barking and turning itself in circles, was a chubby Jack Russell terrier, wire haired and mostly white, but for a few brown splotches.
As Seamus approached, the dog sat and stared up at him, wagging its tail. It ceased barking and instead let out a whimper not unlike the sobs that emanated from this spot earlier in the morning.
‘Get on with ya,’ yelled Seamus, shaking his fist.
The little dog froze at Seamus’s booming voice then scampered away, disappearing between the rows of headstones that radiated in every direction.
‘Little bugger,’ said Seamus, looking into Ethel’s grave. ‘Hope it didn’t piss on ya my dear.’
Deep in the grave lay a pine coffin, gilded with gold, or at least the look of gold. Atop the coffin lay several single stemmed red roses and a larger bouquet of colourful flowers. Around this were clumps of scattered soil thrown in by the mourners during the service.
‘Kind of them to start for me,’ said Seamus, smiling at the sight and flicking his cigarette butt into the grave.
A small distance away sat a large mound of soil, ready to be returned to the earth. Seamus rolled up his sleeves, nodding to himself to begin. He grasped his shovel, slid it deep into the heart of the soil and scooped the first of many shovelfuls into the grave, the clods of dirt rattling like bones as they sprinkled over the coffin.
He returned his shovel to the mound of soil, ready for the next scoop, but was halted by the sight of the little dog observing him from behind a neighbouring headstone.
‘Oi,’ yelled Seamus, extracting his shovel and using it to flick dirt towards the dog. ‘Nick off.’
The dog ducked behind the headstone but quickly returned, staring once more at Seamus.
‘What yer want, dog? I gotta job to do.’
The dog moved out towards Seamus, creeping past the mound of soil, low to the ground and tail between its legs. Seamus stuck his shovel upright into the ground and leant on the handle, considering the little dog before him.
‘Don’t look short of a feed, mate,’ laughed Seamus, watching the dog’s rotund belly scrape over the ground as it slunk towards him. ‘Wastin’ yer time if that’s what yer after.’
The dog reached Seamus’s feet and rolled onto its back, little paws flapping like flippers in the air and Seamus noticed it was a girl. Her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth and she squiggled her back against the ground. Seamus caught the glint of a name tag, pink and heart shaped, on her collar.
‘Gem,’ he said, squinting at the tiny writing, engraved like the words chiselled on the headstones surrounding him.
At the mention of her name, Gem rolled right side up and sat, fanning the dirt furiously with her tail.
‘Go on, beat it,’ he said. ‘Someone’ll be missin’ ya.’
Gem cocked her head, then wandered over to the side of the grave and poked her nose over the edge as if ready to jump in.
‘Beat it, I said,’ said Seamus, moving towards the dog and herding her away with the shovel. ‘Nothin’ for ya down there.’
Gem sprang back at his advance and shuffled off to hide again behind the headstone, poking her face out from behind and peering at Seamus with big pleading eyes.
‘Whatever,’ he said with dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Jus’ stay outa me way.’
Seamus resumed the task of filling the grave. Back and forth he went, sweat bubbling on his skin as he toiled under the rising sun. His grunts of exertion were framed by the metronomic sound of his labour—the quick slice as the shovel pierced the soil, like a sword being drawn, then the pitter-patter as he let the shovel load fall into the grave. Gem watched from her place behind the headstone, kept silent and at a distance by constant glares from Seamus.
When the grave was half filled, Seamus stuck his shovel in the diminished pile of dirt and took out his pack of cigarettes. Gem looked at him and tilted her head.
‘Jus’ havin’ a break, love,’ he mumbled, cigarette flapping between his lips. ‘That alright with you?’
He sat on the grass away from the grave, lit his cigarette and lay back, tilting his hat to cover his eyes from the sun. Smoke drifted into the air and soon he drifted into daydream.
Curious sensations teased the edges of his mind. The ground seemed to reverberate beneath him. Somewhere just below the surface a desperate scraping was seeking a way through. The suffocating sound of crumbling dirt rumbled in his ears.
Something pelted against his hat and it shook him awake. Behind him a furious scratching was coming from the grave. From within, small clumps of dirt were flying over the lip in his direction. He shielded his face with his arm and scrambled to the side of the grave on all fours.
‘What the bloody—’ he began, but lost his words at the sight of the little dog digging determinedly in the half filled grave. Her feet and belly were brown and she was nose down, tail up, in a small indent she had dug herself into. She looked up briefly at his voice, her nose tipped with dirt as if dipped in chocolate.
‘Oi,’ yelled Seamus. ‘What yer doin'?’
Gem ignored him and poked her nose back into the grave, continuing to dig. Seamus stepped down to join her.
‘Cut it out!’
Still the little dog dug, dust and dirt spewing from behind, her little legs like machines. Seamus grasped the dog by the collar and yanked her upwards, legs flailing in the air. He shoved her forcefully to the ground beside the grave.
‘Enough!’ he spat, holding her collar tight.
Gem yelped and wriggled and the collar twisted in Seamus’s hand. She planted all four of her dirty feet on the ground and pulled back against his grip. Her little ears bent in on themselves as her head slipped from the collar. She circled defensively, eyes wide, before scampering away out of sight, lost among the cemetery’s stone sentinels.
‘Bloody dog,’ said Seamus, her collar swinging in his fingers.
Seamus stared at the small hole Gem had made in the grave. He wondered how far she would have gone if he hadn’t stopped her. As he looked down, the name tag on the collar glinted in the sunlight and caught his eye. There was more engraved on the side opposite to Gem’s name.
He held the collar close to his face, the pink tag twisting on its tiny chain to show the writing on the other side.
A phone number and a name—Ethel.
***
The next morning, the cemetery grounds were eerie with pale morning light and a thin mist clinging to the ground. Seamus arrived to find Pastor Mark waiting for him near the tool shed. It was early, but Seamus was still late. He stepped past the pastor and unlocked the shed, taking out his shovel. Clumps of dirt still clung to it from yesterday—he had finished filling Ethel’s grave but had not seen Gem again.
‘Morning Seamus,’ said Mark, friendly in tone then shifting to seriousness. ‘We need to have a chat.’
Seamus leant against the moist brick wall of the shed, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. Mark crinkled his nose and waved his hand in front of his face.
‘Mark,’ said Seamus, ignoring the pastor’s comment, ‘you didn’t see a little dog on the grounds yesterday did you?’
‘Dog? What? Here?’ stammered Mark. ‘Why would there be a dog here?’
Seamus patted his left breast pocket feeling the circular imprint of Gem’s collar inside.
‘No reason,’ he said, looking into the distance. Row after row of headstones peeked above the shining mist as if floating. ‘Thought I saw one is all.’
‘Well I certainly hope not,’ said Mark. ‘Now as I was saying—’
Seamus took a long drag of his cigarette, then tossed it to the ground. He grabbed his shovel and walked away, leaving the pastor with mouth agape.
Seamus made his way to where Ethel lay. The grass surrounding was wet with dew and in it Seamus saw a trail of small footprints snaking towards her grave. His eyes followed the trail to the deep brown rectangle of fresh soil he had shovelled yesterday.
In the middle of that rectangle, curled nose to tail in a small hollow, lay Gem. Seamus smiled and approached the grave, resting his shovel on a nearby headstone.
‘You miss yer Mum,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry love.’
Gem did not move. Her fur was still stained with dirt from her digging, but she looked blissful, as if curled once more at her mother’s feet.
‘I know little one,’ continued Seamus, kneeling at the edge of the grave, ‘but take it from me, there’s nothin’ down there for you now.’
Seamus took Gem’s collar out of his pocket, running his fingers over the worn fabric woven with small furs from years of use.
‘Gem?’
He placed a hand on her back. Her body was cold. Her little nose was dry. She did not stir.
Seamus withdrew his hand and tightened it into a fist. He let out a deep breath, staring down at the little white and brown dog, coiled like a wreath, lovingly lain in memoriam. Instinctively he reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, but instead his hand lingered on his breast, moving with the rise and fall of each breath.
‘Yer a better soul than me,’ he said, and gently picked up the dog, placing her on the grass beside the grave. The collar was still hanging from his hand and he gently slipped it over Gem’s limp neck.
‘Rest now,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you home.’
Seamus rolled up his sleeves, collected his shovel and slid it into the freshly formed grave. He began to dig.