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TitleFalling Angels
LanguageEnglish
File Size1.1 MB
Total Pages262
Table of Contents
                            Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
JANUARY 1901
Kitty Coleman
Richard Coleman
Maude Coleman
Kitty Coleman
Lavinia Waterhouse
Gertrude Waterhouse
Albert Waterhouse
Simon Field
DECEMBER 1901
Richard Coleman
MARCH 1903
Lavinia Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Gertrude Waterhouse
JUNE 1903
Maude Coleman
Jenny Whitby
NOVEMBER 1903
Kitty Coleman
MAY 1904
Maude Coleman
Kitty Coleman
Lavinia Waterhouse
Edith Coleman
Simon Field
JANUARY 1905
Jenny Whitby
OCTOBER 1905
Gertrude Waterhouse
FEBRUARY 1906
Maude Coleman
Kitty Coleman
APRIL 1906
Lavinia Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Simon Field
Jenny Whitby
Lavinia Waterhouse
Richard Coleman
Kitty Coleman
MAY 1906
Albert Waterhouse
JULY 1906
Edith Coleman
Maude Coleman
Simon Field
Jenny Whitby
SEPTEMBER 1906
Albert Waterhouse
OCTOBER 1906
Lavinia Waterhouse
Gertrude Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Kitty Coleman
Simon Field
Lavinia Waterhouse
NOVEMBER 1906
Jenny Whitby
Edith Coleman
Richard Coleman
FEBRUARY 1907
GertrudeWaterhouse
Jenny Whitby
JULY 1907
Maude Coleman
FEBRUARY 1908
Kitty Coleman
Dorothy Baker
MARCH 1908
Simon Field
Lavinia Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Richard Coleman
MAY 1908
Albert Waterhouse
Kitty Coleman
Richard Coleman
Edith Coleman
JUNE 1908
Lavinia Waterhouse
Gertrude Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Simon Field
Kitty Coleman
Lavinia Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Lavinia Waterhouse
Jenny Whitby
Ivy May Waterhouse
Simon Field
Maude Coleman
Kitty Coleman
Simon Field
John Jackson
Richard Coleman
Lavinia Waterhouse
Gertrude Waterhouse
Edith Coleman
Jenny Whitby
Albert Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Dorothy Baker
Simon Field
MAY 1910
Lavinia Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Simon Field
Gertrude Waterhouse
Albert Waterhouse
Richard Coleman
Dorothy Baker
Simon Field
Lavinia Waterhouse
Maude Coleman
Simon Field
Acknowledgements
                        
Document Text Contents
Page 131

Her laughter rang out like a clarion call, sending a jolt up my spine that made
me open my eyes wide. I had thought it was another foggy, muffled day, but
when I looked around for the source of the laughter, I discovered it was one of
those crisp, windy autumn days I love, when as a girl I wanted to eat apples and
kick at dead leaves.
Then I saw John Jackson across by the gate, and I had to stand very still so

that he wouldn’t see me. He did nonetheless. I had tried to walk up the hill a
number of times to see him, and to explain. But I had never managed it. I
suspected he understood—he understands most things.
I heard the laugh again, right at my side. Caroline took my arm, and I knew

nothing would ever be the same.

Page 132

I’m down the grave standing on the coffin when she comes along. The
procession’s just left, and I’m shifting dirt so it fills the cracks round the coffin.
Then I’ve to knock out the lowest shoring wood with a hammer and our pa and
Joe’ll pull ‘em out with a rope. It’s twelve feet deep, this one.
Our pa and Joe are singing:
She’s my lady love
She’s my dove, my baby love
She’s no gal for sitting down to dream
She’s the only queen Laguna knows.

They stop but I keeps on:
I know she likes me
I know she likes me
Because she says so
She is the Lily of Laguna
She is my Lily, and my Rose.

Then I look up and see Livy standing at the edge of the grave, laughing down
at me.
“Damn, Livy,” I say. “Wha’re you doing there?”
She shakes her hair and shrugs. “Looking at you, naughty boy,” she says.

“You mustn’t say ‘damn.’ ”
“Sorry.”
“Now, I’m going to get down there with you.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can.” She turns to our pa. “Will you help me down?”
“Oh, no, missy, you don’t want to go down there. ‘Tain’t no place for you.

’Sides, you’ll get your nice dress and shoes all dirty.”
“Doesn’t matter—I can have them cleaned afterward. How do you climb

down—with a ladder?”
“No, no, no ladder,” our pa says. “With a deep un like this we got all this

wood stuck in, see, every foot or two, to keep the sides from caving in. We
climbs up and down it. But don’t you go doing that,” he adds, but too late, ‘cause
Livy’s climbing down already. All I can see of her is her two legs sticking out
from a dress and petticoats.
“Don’t come down, Livy,” I say, but I don’t mean it. She’s climbing down the

Page 261

The acknowledgments is the only section of a novel that reveals an author’s
“normal” voice. As a result I always read them looking for clues that will shed
light on writers and their working methods and lives, as well as their connections
with the real world. I suspect some of them are written in code. Alas, however,
there are no hidden meanings in this one—just an everyday voice that wants to
express gratitude for help in several forms.
Sometimes I wonder if acknowledgments are even necessary, or if they break

the illusion that books emerge fully formed from a writer’s mind. But books
don’t come out of nowhere. Other books and other people contribute to them in
all sorts of ways. I used many books in the making of this one. The most helpful
were by James Stevens Curl (Stroud: Sutton
Publishing, 2000), by Pat Jalland (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1996), by John Morley
(London: Studio Vista, 1971), and, best of all,

by J. C.
Loudon (1843; facsimile published Redhill, Surrey: Ivelet Books, 1981).
It is a novelist’s privilege to make up what she likes, even when real people

and places enter the story. The cemetery in this book is made up of a lot of fact
and a fair bit of fiction—concrete details and flights of fancy interwoven, with
no need to untangle them. While a real cemetery exists where this book takes
place, I have not tried to re-create it completely accurately; rather it is a state of
mind, peopled with fictional characters, with no resemblances intended.
Similarly, I have toyed with a few details in the suffragettes’ history in order

to bring them into the story. I have taken the liberty of putting a few words into
Emmeline Pankhurst’s mouth that she did not actually say, but I trust I have kept
to the spirit of her numerous speeches. Moreover, Joan of Arc and Robin Hood
did march in a procession, dressed as I have described, but it was not the Hyde
Park demonstration. Gail Cameron at the Suffragette Fellowship Collection of
the Museum of London was very helpful in providing me with useful resources.
Finally, thanks go to my quartet of minders—Carole Baron, Jonny Geller,

Deborah Schneider, and Susan Watt—who remained steady when I wobbled.

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