He couldn’t help but register the intrusive and, yes, even though done by his gentle uncle, the violent nature of some of it. So once the P for packing (which, he was shocked to discover, meant shoving wodges of cotton into every orifice) was done, and they got to the H and C, he felt a sense of relief. It had quickly become very natural, standing next to Robert, to say, ‘All done now, Stanley,’ or June, or Terrence, ‘all finished.’
Doing this quiet, intimate work in the peaceful morgue, and with no audience, was enormously appealing. The simplicity and privacy of it won him over. No performance, no audience, no humiliation. As the distance between him and his chorister days increased from days and weeks to months, his future as an embalmer acted as an anchor for his present and some kind of hope for his future.
He let the routine of his days carry him. From one lesson to another, to lunch, usually on his own if he got his way, though sometimes he put up with someone’s small talk. Then straight home, his bag heavy with textbooks, to a warm, quiet welcome from Robert and Howard, who carried on around him, delivering tea and biscuits and taking a quick glance at the work he was doing. Sometimes, looking up from his books, William imagined Evelyn at work in a very different environment; moving lightly amongst polished pianos, hulking double basses and cellos, glinting trumpets and flutes. In those early days, when she still thought he was going to join her there, she wrote to him about it; ordering obscure sheet music for customers, recommending local teachers to parents, stock-taking. Yesterday a man had come in to buy a kazoo and asked her to recommend a good teacher, and the piano tuner’s young guide dog had cocked its leg on a drum kit. It impressed him really, her persistence in trying to entertain him, but it was now ingrained in him to brace himself against her, hold her responsible, never forget. So no, he didn’t write back to her, even though sometimes he felt a twitch of humour, the urge to respond, to continue with a piece of nonsense she had started. But he always managed to resist. While his mother knew from practical, matter-of-fact letters from Robert that he was healthy, going to bed on time and doing his homework, she had absolutely no idea that William had been helping in the mortuary and was often entrusted to take sole charge of the H and the C of Pack Her Cotton Dress Clean Today Please. She had no idea of the growing resolve that he wasn’t going to Swansea at half-term. But then neither did Robert and Howard.
35
‘William!’
As William folds his morgue clothes ready to place in his locker, his heart plunges at the sound of Ray’s voice. It’s Monday, week two. After a full day of working alongside Arthur, he’s looking forward to getting back to the Finches’. He wonders what the question in the envelope will be and whether Gloria will be wearing her checked slippers tonight, or if she’ll be barefoot, with those small toes that wriggle about in their stocking covers as she sits on the counter swinging her legs. He hopes the envelope he’s just slipped into his briefcase will give him something to talk about with her. She enjoys anatomy as much as he does.
‘What?’ he says, without looking up from folding his plastic gown.
‘Can I come to your digs tonight so we can work together on the theory?’
‘That might be awkward.’ William finally looks Ray in the eye, but continues folding. ‘I live with a family and I don’t know what the deal is with visitors.’
‘No worries’ – he remains upbeat – ‘you could come to mine. I’ve got beers.’
William glances at his watch. 5.05. Dinner at 7.00. If he goes to Ray’s, helps him as quickly as he can, he could be back for tea, and the rest of the evening wouldn’t be disrupted. If Ray comes to the Finches’, he might never get rid of him.
‘I can come for an hour now, but that’s it. They’re expecting me for tea.’
Ray’s smile is genuine, a rare showing of his even teeth. ‘Thanks, William. I could do with a hand.’
It’s the truth. Twice this week William’s heard Ray’s tutor say they’ll need to spend more time together on his assignments.
‘I live just round the corner.’ Ray stuffs his gown into his bag in a big ball.
‘If you fold it, it won’t look such a mess when you put it back on.’ He’s sick of looking at Ray across the embalming table in his gown that’s so rumpled it doesn’t even hang straight.
‘I’ll do it later.’ He grins, patting William on the back. ‘Let’s get this bloody homework out of the way.’
‘It’s not much, but it’s home – isn’t that what they say?’
Ray holds the door for William, who is out of breath from the three-flight climb. It took them twenty-five minutes to walk ‘just round the corner’, so it’s already 5.30. The soles of his shoes stick to the lino that curls up in the doorway. Ray flings his bag across the room onto the unmade bed. In the corner is a tiny sink. Against the wall to their right, a camping stove sits on a table, surrounded by dirty plates and dishes. There’s a clothes rail with one jacket on a hanger, but trousers and shirts are draped over the rail. A yellowing net curtain hangs from a wire halfway down the window.
Ray takes off his tie as he kneels next to the iron bedstead that reminds William of boarding school, with its skinny mattress. Ray pulls two bottles from under it, drops them on the blanket, and gets a bottle opener from a basket on the small Formica table. He pops the lids off and passes one to William before he can say no. He’s not a fan of beer, and he doesn’t want the Finches to smell it on him when he returns.
‘Take a seat.’ Ray gestures to the rickety wooden chair next to the table as he sits on the bed and lights a cigarette. Straightening one leg, he pulls a brown envelope from his pocket, bent now into the curve of his thigh. With the cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, he pulls out the question, drops the envelope on the floor, and reads, squinting his eyes against the smoke.
‘I hate this.’
‘What?’ says William, noticing it is now 5.45.
‘Doing this. I thought that’s what I was paying for. They want to get us up to speed as fast as they can to do their dirty work, but we have to learn the difficult stuff on our own.’