Rubbing along nicely

Daisy laid the flowers on the grave and dusted the top of the headstone. A small tear came to the corner of her eye and she blinked it away. Harry had been dead three years now and tears wouldn’t bring him back, no matter how many she cried.
She shook herself and smiled, knowing Harry would think her silly for getting in such a state over him. He’d always said, ‘When I’m dead and gone, girl, you get on with life. There’s no use moping about things you can’t change and that’s that.’ Somehow, though, Daisy just couldn’t bring herself to move on.

She tucked her hands into the pocket of her winter coat and leaned back on the heels of her best black shoes to look around. The spring sunshine seemed weak and thin, making optimists of the budding trees and crocuses. Pale gravel paths wound their way through the trees and plots. The graveyard was built on a slight hill, angled towards afternoon sunshine. In the early morning, some mist still hung in the hollows, evaporating quickly as the day got under way. A well-kept graveyard, she thought. Every week she’d visited had proven the diligence of its care-taking staff. It was a good resting place. Daisy turned to walk home.


‘Why you pesky thing!’ a strange man was frowning at the gate as she approached the exit. He was dressed in well-worn tweeds and carried a stick, which he shook at the wrought iron bars. He looked a little younger than Daisy and was, by turns, preoccupied with his right elbow, the gate and a loose sheaf of papers he was carrying under the apparently injured arm.

As she stepped up to see what was wrong he turned, startled, noticing her for the first time. ‘Hum, oh. Ho, well. Hello there,’ he replied, flushing. Rather embarrassed, she thought. And who wouldn’t be, caught talking to a bit of iron like that!

‘Are you all right?’ she asked with a small smile.

‘All right? Well of course I am. Not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking, just mad at this blasted death trap. Nearly ripped open an artery on the thing. Ruined my favourite jacket.’ He suddenly halted, paled a little. ‘Oh goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said about it being a… You know. Trap. Just rather agitated, that’s all. Not thinking straight.’

A slight breeze caught his paperwork and flapped some of the sheets loose, scattering them down the path to the road. ‘Well that serves me right, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Never rains but…’ He turned and bent over, using his stick and started grabbing at the paper, dropping some more and getting more bothered each time.

‘Here,’ Daisy chuckled. ‘Let me help. I’ll hold the ones you catch.’ She eased his load out of his arms and smiled at him. ‘It’s the least I can do for all this entertainment you’ve provided!’

‘Yes, I suppose I am rather a sight, aren’t I?’ He was smiling too now and looking into her eyes. He was quite handsome really, in a country gentleman sort of way. A bit bushy about the chops, she thought, but he’d scrub up nicely. As he got on with his gathering, she tried to sort out the bunch she’d got into some sort of order. It was all very strange, rather thin paper really, very large, with thicker squares about 6” square attached to one corner, all of them blank.


‘I expect you’re wondering about my paraphernalia, eh?’

‘Well it is rather…’ she shrugged. ‘What is it for?’

‘Some people find it rather morbid I’m afraid. You’ve heard of brass rubbing I
suppose? I used to do a bit of that, but then I noticed how all the really famous brasses were to people dead and gone a long time ago and there’s the risk of damaging the old ones anyway. It was when Lord Mountbatten was killed in 1979 that the last proper brass was made in this country, you know.’ He paused, to shuffle his papers into a better order and looked appreciatively about him at the day, and at Daisy herself.

‘Well a few years later,’ he continued, ‘a close friend of mine passed away. He was a stonemason and had a wonderful monument erected for him by his pals in the trade. Some wonderful craftsmanship had gone into it and it occurred to me that it justified a brass rubbing. That way, as well, I’d have a memorial of him at home.’
She nodded, understanding.

‘After that I noticed that other people had impressive headstones, and most have touching or poignant epitaphs on them. I did some rubbings for friends whose relations passed away and wanted something to look at when they couldn’t be at the graveside, but mostly for myself. It’s developed into something more than a hobby. I like to think of it as adding to the memory of the dear departed. Now I suppose you do think I’m mad.’ Wistfully, he smiled.

It was certainly unusual. And yet…

‘No, not mad exactly. In fact it seems rather sweet, to be honest. Don’t the families ever mind though? I wouldn’t like to think of just anyone fiddling around with my Harry’s marker.’

‘That’s why I always make sure to get permission from the vicar or at least the caretaker. And I never rub a recent stone, unless I’m asked to. That’s why I’m here today actually. One of the stonemason fellows was buried last week and his widow wanted me to do a rubbing for her sister in Australia.’

‘Listen, did you say you have a loved one here? I’d be honoured to do a piece for you, if you’d like.’

Daisy was taken aback. ‘But I – I don’t even know your name!’ She halted, aware that she was getting a little flustered over this strange offer. ‘Well I don’t know. I’d have to think it over.’

He smiled and did a little bow. ‘Madam,’ he said, with exaggerated formality, ‘My name is Stan, why don’t you call me? My card.’ And he fished in a pocket inside his jacket to pull out a rather battered business card.

Stan Fellows, master carpenter, it read. She held out her hand, feeling a little more comfortable and introduced herself. ‘So you were a carpenter?’ she asked.

‘That’s right. 30 years under the chisel,’ he said. ‘Now you must phone me to arrange a meeting - I’m afraid that’s my only remaining card and I’d rather like it back eventually.’ He smiled, eyes twinkling. It was an infectious smile, full of life and enthusiasm, Daisy was grinning herself as she walked away. She thought how funny life is, really.


Later, at home with a good cup of tea, she sat looking out on the garden she and Harry had planted and tended together, so many years and so much love had been poured into it. Here and there weeds were creeping in. It really was too much for her to keep up with alone. In her hand was the business card Stan had given her; she rubbed its softened edges with her thumb and thought of his silly flapping at the ‘pesky’ gate, his honest and direct attitude, but most of all, his twinkling smile… He was just the sort Harry would have approved of, they would have been great mates, she was sure.

Daisy reached for the phone, feeling rather like a teenager again.