I went back to Kingsthorpe Cemetery today to make one of my periodic attempts to find the grave of Lucia Joyce. This time, I found it; and ironically, it's not far away from the entrance. I've walked past it frequently.
It's a forlorn grave, given that it contains the bones of the daughter of one of history's greatest novelists. The names of James and Nora Joyce aren't even inscribed on the stone. It contains no hopeful bits of Biblical verse or fond sentiment from those she left behind either. Just her name,`and dates and locations of her birth and death.
Somebody has thoughtfully left a wreath, which rain and cold have had an inevitable effect on. Next time I go I will take a flower. Somebody has to remember and honour the dead, especially when they were poorly treated in life, as Lucia was.
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