She had never travelled on a train before and, feeling timid and uneasy, wanted to make sure she did everything correctly. Grace stood back a little, watching as mourners approached the window of the booking office to buy their tickets. Here, away from the fogs and filth of London, their dear departed could rest in peace among pines, roses and evergreens. All were waiting for the train which would take them and their loved ones into the countryside, to the great garden of sleep at Brookwood. The few women whose nervous tension allowed them to attend wore heavy veils, their black crêpe gowns unrelieved by any bright jewellery, buttons or fancy trimmings, while the men wore top hats with a mourning band, formal frock coats and black bombazine cravats. The Necropolis Railway ran, just as Mrs Smith the midwife had said, on its own special line from Waterloo to Brookwood Cemetery in the county of Surrey, and it was at the London station, just before eleven o’clock, that the newly bereaved gathered, all dressed in the first stage of deep mourning. Grace, holding on tightly to her precious burden, found the station entrance without much difficulty.
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