A few days ago, I stood in the graveyard of an 1100 year old church, getting damper and damper in the drizzling rain.
A woman walked into the graveyard, waved, said hello, and, as we had previously arranged, handed me a paper bag full of human bones.
The life of a churchwarden is a strange one…
The story begins, as so many stories do, with me walking home from the pub. It was early evening, but dark and rainy.
I pass the church I’m responsible for looking after, and I see the local gas company is beginning to erect barriers around an area of pavement outside the churchyard.
I am filled with a sense of foreboding. I know this church. I know this place. I know that area of pavement used to be graveyard, before they re-routed the road.
I consider going over and saying “hi. If you find a body, don’t worry, just give me a call”
And then I think about that for a second, and how they would absolutely phone the police if a stranger in a hoodie walked up to them in the dark and said “don’t phone the police if you find a body, call me.”
So I go home.
And, as anticipated, a few days later, I get a message. I need to phone the police. An “object” has been found near the churchyard, and they want to speak to me.
I ring the number the police gave me. I know exactly what’s happened. The officer goes “we wanted to speak to you about…” And I just go “where the gas workers were digging used to be graveyard.” And I hear her yell “sarge! I’ve got a guy from the church on the phone! It DID used to be graveyard!”
I have to go down to the church. A team of detectives in plain clothes turn up. They’ve got plans from the record office but they can’t read them. I pull out old papers from our files. I show them what they’re looking at. The line of the churchyard wall over time. The shrinking of the graveyard.
We go outside, so I can show the police the old plans in context. I look into the hole the workers dug. See the pavement blocks, the sand they laid them on, and below that, rich black dirt. I exclaim “Oh! That’s graveyard dirt! I’d know it anywhere! That’s well fed dirt, if you know what I mean.”
I talk for a while to these detectives, about graveyard dirt. How to identify it. How the graveyard size and shape fluctuated over time. How, when they made the new road, they dug a foot or so down, took the bones they found, and then stopped. How the ground was filled with bodies for meters around.
Somehow, I do not get arrested.
As the detectives are going to leave, to take all they’d learned back to hq, I say, “look, I know nobody is confirming you’ve found bones. But I know it’s bones, and you know it’s bones, and you know that I know it’s bones.”
And they say “…yes.”
And so I say to the detectives “look, I know it’s a weird question, but when you’ve confirmed they’re old graveyard bones, not murder bones, can we have them back?”
And the detectives say “… We’ve never been asked that before…”
I say to the police that it’s important to us, to have the bones back. That whoever they belonged to wanted to be buried, here, at this church. That even though time separates us, time is nothing to God, and they are still part of our community. I say we want to bring them home. To rebury them.
I say there’s church law, and other considerations, of course, but that, all that aside… It’s the right thing to do.
The police promise to ask and let me know. And they head off to continue their investigation.
For the rest of the day, a rotating cast of police officers visit the church. They say they’re doing “reassurance patrols”. I tell them that they’re more stressed than we are. That human bones are an everyday occurrence here, with our ancient graveyard. Then I offer each of them a cup of tea.
Finally they lift the scene. They decide, as we knew all along, that the human bones found inches from the wall of an ancient graveyard, were, in fact, graveyard bones, not murder bones.
I email the police, reiterating my desire to have the bones returned.
And they come back, offering to drop them off in about a week.
I arrange a meeting, and, standing in the garage in the drizzling rain, am handed a police evidence bag, full of human remains.
I ask the police if I have to sign for them? Show ID? Anything? After all… This is a person. They say… No.I take the bones inside. Kneel before the altar. Carefully open the evidence bag, lift out the skull, the femur. The vertebra. Still cold and damp from the earth. Most of the bones we find work their way to the surface, and so I’m shocked by how delicate these feel, wrenched from their resting place.
I gently wipe the mud and dirt from the bones. Wrap them in white linen. Place them in the wicker basket where we keep all the bones that escape our graveyard. Pray.One day soon, we’ll hold a service and rebury them. A priest will lead the service, and I will dig the hole, and we will lower these fragments of person back into the rich black earth, in this, the place they chose to be.
After all this disturbance, we will, once again, pray them to their rest.
Writer: Jay Hulme
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