‘Costs nothing, but earns you a lot,’ he said, surprised at how readily his mother’s words trip off his tongue.
Gloria’s green eyes shine as she laughs again. She pushes herself up onto the counter and William is struck by how athletic and light on her feet she is. She is a good four inches shorter than him. He also notices her padded curves; how nice it would be to rest his hands on that gentle bulge of her hips through her pretty dress. ‘That’s yours there.’ She nods at a green cup and saucer. ‘And help yourself to biscuits out the tin. I’m Gloria.’
‘Nice to meet you, Gloria,’ he says. The cocoa is strong, with small, petroly bubbles on top. ‘Thank you for this.’
‘My pleasure,’ she says. ‘What was in your envelope tonight?’
She’s obviously used to Thames College students in her house, so he responds in kind.
‘I’ve been naming the branches of the carotid arteries and tracing the arteries and veins a particle of fluid from the big toe to the left ear would use.’
‘You look as though you’ve been enjoying yourself.’
‘I have.’ He laughs at himself. She joins in; her giggle is rich and textured.
‘Gloria! Close the door,’ shouts Mrs Finch, ‘your father’s already in a muddle.’
‘Sorry,’ Gloria shouts, jumping down from the counter and crossing the kitchen.
‘You don’t have to stop talking,’ Mrs Finch shouts, ‘just keep it down.’
‘Why are they kissing?’ Mr Finch says. Gloria keeps her hand on the door; head inclined and a warning finger held to her lips, she winks at William. ‘I thought she was married to the lawyer,’ Mr Finch says.
‘She is!’ Mrs Finch replies. ‘That’s the point, he’s her bit on the side. Keep up, you daft bat.’
Having gently closed the door, the two of them laugh as quietly as they can. Some cocoa slips down William’s windpipe and Gloria has to pat his back as he splutters over the sink.
That night, lying in bed, remembering, William smiles. He likes how Gloria makes him feel. Even coughing over the sink with cocoa stinging his nostrils, he was enjoying himself. And still now, he can feel the sensation of her hand on his back.
It’s Friday and it feels very natural sitting opposite Gloria on the counter at 9.30 in the evening, with Mr and Mrs Finch watching TV in the next room. As the week has progressed he’s found out that Gloria is one year older than him, has an older sister who’s married with two children, living in East London. Last night William asked if her father had ever put pressure on her to join the business.
She looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. ‘Think about it. Have you ever met a female embalmer? Have you ever seen a sign outside a funeral home that says, Blah Blah Blah and Daughters?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re right, I haven’t.’
‘I’m not complaining. It got me off the hook – I’d rather save lives than pickle bodies. Mind,’ she added, ‘you’ll not find better people than in the funeral business. And if I ever have a daughter, and she wants to follow in her grandfather’s footsteps, I won’t have a problem with it.’
Then they’d talked about Egyptians pulling brains out through the nostrils, but he found his mind kept jumping back to the thought of Gloria with a baby daughter.
‘You’ve painted your nails,’ William notices now. ‘Nice colour.’
‘Thanks!’ she says, smiling at her splayed fingers. ‘I always do them if I’ve got two days off in a row.’
‘I used to paint nails for my uncle in the morgue.’ He’d never offer this to a normal girl, but he’s confident she’ll understand. The risk pays off.
‘I did too!’ She grins. ‘For Dad. I loved it! Especially how when you hook their hands over the edge of the coffin they don’t budge an inch.’ She laughs. ‘I used to think it meant they really wanted it doing, the way their hand just stayed put. I was only thirteen.’
‘I was fourteen,’ he says, and they laugh again. ‘Actually, that’s still my favourite bit; the cosmetology.’ Encouraged by her warm delight in anything he says, he confesses, ‘I love it all: hair, make-up, nails.’
‘Maybe you should be a beautician.’
‘No.’ He laughs. ‘It’s after we’ve gone through all the other stuff, I like being able to say it’s all over now, we’re just going to make you lovely for your family.’
Gloria stretches her leg out to gently kick his shin. ‘You’re a talker, then. Dad natters his way through an embalming.’
‘So does my uncle,’ William says. ‘He tells them about the weather. I tend to stick to explaining what I’m doing.’
She tilts her head and a thick curtain of auburn hair falls across half her face. ‘What, everything?’
‘I sing during those bits.’
Her laughter is kind and William couldn’t feel more pleased with himself as he goes up to bed an hour later.
? ? ?
As early autumn had taken hold in Sutton Coldfield, William discovered that he found the presence of the dead calming, and the sight of his uncle quietly, skilfully looking after them equally so. He had five more weeks until half-term and his move to Swansea, but he found the more time he spent in the morgue, the more he liked it. There was a relief in looking at a corpse; nothing more could hurt them. Nothing more could be done or said. He’d yet to see a dead body that didn’t look peaceful.
He was relieved to find he didn’t mind the visceral nature of it either, wasn’t at all squeamish when the sharp trocar pierced a heart, or stomach or lungs, to drain off the fluid. He didn’t have to look away when the needle went through the roof of a mouth and into the nostril to keep the jaw from hanging open.