Chuck ’em out, William, they’re only a pair of bleedin’ shoes.
At this, the first conscious thought of Gloria since he’s arrived, his stomach flips at the remembered sensation of her confident, full lips on his. The slide of her red lipstick, the brief tick of her teeth against his, bone against bone amongst the warm softness of lips, mouth and gum. William considers finding a phone box to call her, but he hasn’t seen one yet and hasn’t got any change. Stop it, he thinks. Eat, drink, get back to work.
The smell of tannin and the rising steam from the urn balanced on stuffed brown sacks remind him how physically depleted he is.
‘Want something stronger with that?’ The tall uniformed man hands him a cup. ‘Some like a drop with their tea?’
‘Maybe. Yes.’ William passes his cup back.
The man unscrews the flat bottle and amber liquid slaps into his tea. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’ The man points to a fold-up seat a few yards away.
William realises how tired his legs are once he sits.
‘You must be one of the embalmers,’ the man says, handing him an egg and cress sandwich.
William nods, chewing.
‘You look young though.’ The man takes the empty cup back from William and pours him another one.
‘I qualified this week.’ William reaches out for a second sandwich, the white bread heavy and bending under the weight of the filling. His body is so greedy he barely tasted the first.
The man drinks his own cup of tea. ‘Family business?’
The cold is starting to affect William. His legs are trembling. He puts the tea on the pile of sacks and flicks up his coat collar. ‘Yep. I’m third generation.’
‘So you always knew that’s what you’d do?’
He shakes his head. ‘Dad was keen but Mum was against it.’
Two miners arrive, silent, before the urn. William eats another sandwich while they are served. They nod their thanks and walk away, shovelling the food in just as William had.
‘So your dad got his way, then?’ The man opens a packet of Kit Kats and hands one to William.
‘Not really,’ he says, ‘he died when I was eight.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He pauses. ‘Your mother must be proud of you now, though?’
‘Wouldn’t know.’ He stands, gulping down the last of his tea and handing the mug back. ‘I’d best go. Thanks for the food.’ He turns back momentarily, wanting to ask the man to call Uncle Robert and say he’s doing just fine, but he simply raises his hand and nods his head.
‘All the best, young man, God bless.’
‘Thank you.’ William waves again before plunging his hands into his pockets and walking as quickly as he can through the people and muck and lorries, back to the chapel, promising himself afresh with every step that he will not shed a tear, not a single one, until he has left this place.
7
William is laying a blanketed body on the table mid-afternoon, when the vestry door whooshes open. William, Jimmy and Harry look up from what they’re doing. A policeman stands before them, his hand on the shoulder of a plump, short woman in a red dress swamped by a man’s jumper. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s just run here. She makes eye contact with each of them, but her gaze rests on William for the longest.
‘This is Betty Jones,’ the policeman says. ‘She’s asking—’
‘I can’t settle,’ she interrupts, clasping the thick handle of her bag. ‘My home’s buried under this murderous filth, so we’re staying with family.’ She turns to the policeman and then urgently back to them. ‘Gentlemen, please let me help. I’ll do anything, anything. What I can’t do is spend one more minute at my sister-in-law’s and not do something!’
Her hair sits in neat, brown curls. The strip of red hem below the green wool is pretty fabric, the sort his mother would wear, but the way she’s thrown on that big jumper, and the wellies on her feet, make her look childlike. Her legs are stocky, her body brimming with energy. ‘Please,’ she continues before Jimmy can answer, ‘let me help.’ Her face creases.
‘Thank you, Betty,’ Jimmy says eventually. ‘Any job in here is extremely harrowing. Especially if you know any of them.’
‘I know all of them,’ she replies immediately, ‘and their parents. If this had happened twenty years ago, it would have been my two on these tables.’ Her voice drops. ‘I want to do something for those poor parents.’
‘William?’ Jimmy nods at him. ‘Let Betty help you prepare them for identification.’
Betty puts her bag in the corner next to the coffins, then reaches into it for some yellow rubber gloves.
‘I’ve come prepared.’ She stands opposite William and looks at him with a brave, business-like smile. ‘So, love, tell me what to do.’
Betty is nothing like his mother; she’s older, smaller, there is no flow or elegance to her movements, but he recognises a quality in her. She is terrified, traumatised, but she is also courageous and determined.
‘This’ll be hard,’ he says, taking a light hold of the grey wool, wondering how long he should give it before removing the blanket. He finds her direct gaze easy to meet. ‘First there’s the slurry, and then we’re working on the last ones to be recovered. They’re in a bad way.’ Betty’s red lips are a firm, straight line, her eyes on him unwavering. She nods once and swallows, and William notices a pulse at her throat. He needs to show her he knows what he’s doing, give her confidence in him. ‘We’ll take off the clothes. I’ll check the state of the body. Then we’ll clean it. Together.’ Betty’s eyes shine suddenly; two sapphires. ‘I’ll show you how.’ She nods again, blinking at him. ‘Right then,’ William says.
He pulls back the blanket in one swift yet gentle move, letting it fall off the end of the table. Betty’s compact body starts, but William doesn’t show he noticed. Together, they look. Together they smell blood and tar and the beginning of something putrid.