A Cryptic Tale
When I decided at sixty-something to take my headmistress’s advice from 1972 and write a novel, I hadn’t expected to spend my time wandering around cemeteries. But then, it’s an historical novel, and that’s what you often do, right?
I’d already done my apprenticeship with my mother, who spent the last few years of her life searching Auckland cemeteries for my great-great grandmother, Miriama Potiki.
To cut a (very) long story short, I discovered Miriama in a tiny cemetery in Awhitu Central, just down from the Manukau Heads lighthouse. She had been there since 1888. Unfortunately, my mother went to her own grave without this knowledge.
A world away from Awhitu, in Highgate Cemetery, London, lies Captain Joseph Greenwood. Although married at the time of his stint as a Fencible in Auckland in the 1850s, he fathered a son to fifteen-year-old Miriama. What follows is a record of my visit there in 2023:
‘I stepped off the 143 bus at Waterlow Park on Highgate High Street and took the path down to the cemetery gates. It was steep, although that’s to be expected in this part of town.
Three blocks later, I arrived at the cemetery gates—large, imposing, almost daring me to enter. If those cobbles could talk, they’d have a few stories to tell!
I walked past the ticket office and up to the information booth to meet withClaire, the registrar of the Highgate Cemetery Trust.
The young woman behind the window laughed. “I’m sure Joseph will be happy to see you. He’s been waiting a while!”
Claire,a tall, athletic-looking woman in a yellow high-visibility jacket, carried a torch and a set of enormous keys. “In case you’re wondering, this jacket makes me stand out as staff, although it can come in handy in the darker places!” she said.
It started to drizzle.. That was fitting.
We set off at a brisk pace, past graves and tombstones, some of them almost two hundred years old, and many completely covered with vines and tree roots. There’s a larger-than-life English Mastiff guarding the tomb of his master below, and, next to that, lovers are entwined in a perpetual embrace atop the resting place of their earthly remains.
Claire waitedwhile I caughtmy breath in front of a simple white plaque, out of place in this gothic environment.
“Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou,” I read aloud.
“George Michael. He was a local.”
This place was full of surprises and we were not even up the hill yet!
Amid the crumbling headstones stands a 2001: A Space Odyssey-like monolith, bearing the inscription ‘We once paused where you now stand, reflective in the sun’s long rays, and here we’d trace the path of life, from our headstone to the grave.’
Not surprisingly, several movieshave been shot here. Horror, of course, and Harry Potter’sFantastic Beasts, the Crimes of Grindelwald.
On the way up the hill, we passed many more gothic monuments and tombstones, woods and thick foliage. A squirrel darted out in front, finding refuge on the other side of the path.There’s certainly no shortage of cover, even up there amongst the brick and stone catacombs that dominate the landscape with their intricate entranceways.
The pathway to the Greenwood family crypt winds around to the right, with occupied places on either side, like a nineteenth century Coronation Street.
When I told Clara I wouldn’t go there after dark, she said, “You’d be surprised how many people do. Goths and other marginalised groups manage to find their way in,especially at Halloween and World Goth Day on May 22nd.” Who knew?
Just then the path straightened out, and at the end of the rows of crypts the sun shone in. like the light at the end of a tunnel.
Claire released the cumbersome collection of keys from her belt to unlock the steel and mesh door which secures the entranceway to the Greenwood crypt.
Slowly, with a low-pitched groan, the enormous ‘front door’ swungopen and invitedus to enter.
Once inside, oureyes adjusted to the darkness while we breathed in the cold, musty air kept prisoner by the thickness of the walls.
Clairethen appeared to strugglewith her torch.
“Perhaps Joseph’s trying to tell us something,” I said with a nervous giggle.
Fortunately,the torchfinally burst into life,to reveal a hallway of many arches, ancient brickwork and the odd fallen slab.I assumed very little maintenance had been done over the years, hence the number of exposed coffins.They’re intact and lead-lined, so the deceased is well preserved, according to Claire.I took her word for it.
We soon came upon Catacomb Compartment Number 11211, Square 40a, Joseph Greenwood, Captain of the 31st Regiment.
I knelt down and ran my fingers along the yellowing stone. The cement has crumbled between the compartments, but the stone is still strong. Joseph was just in there, within touching distance, which I found both fascinating and disconcerting.
Once outside, we breathed deeply, displacing any residual mausoleum air, and walked down the hill to the ticket office. At a pop-up tent we ordered a cappuccino and scone, made by the cemetery volunteers. I smiled as I licked the jam and cream. Afternoon tea in the cemetery. A fitting end to an unusual day. Highly recommended.
About the Author
Donna Goodacre, who is of Tainui descent, is a retired high school/correctional centre/vocational school English and Foreign Languages teacher. Her career spanned some forty years in New Zealand and Australia. Finding Miriama is her first novel, having started it in 2018, when family members convinced her that her ancestors’ story, if told well, could make an interesting read. Five years of historical research later, coupled with a little poetic licence and imagination, the novel was completed. The sequel, Of Greenstone and Violins, is due out in 2025.
Donna still divides her time between her birthplace in Tauranga, New Zealand, and Brisbane, Australia, where her close family lives. In both places she can be found on a beach or somewhere small and intimate listening to live jazz.
See Donna’s Author website: www.donnagoodacre-writer.nz
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Email: info@donnagoodacre-writer.nz