‘Thanks, Betty,’ William says, as they lean against the sacks with their tea and sandwiches. ‘It’s a big help, having you there.’
They sip whisky tea, tangy and oily. Betty blows ripples across the top of hers, but William lets his burn his throat.
‘She was a naughty little thing.’ For a moment William doesn’t know what Betty’s talking about. She turns and leans her hip into the sacks to face him. ‘Helen. She was in trouble last week for pinching a packet of Spangles from the newsagent, and last Christmas, in the chapel nativity, she moved the chair when Mary was about to sit down, and she hit the floor with one hell of a bump. Bruised her coccyx!’ All that’s left of Betty’s lipstick is a faint red line outlining her smile. ‘And she was a right little giggler.’ Betty stares past William and takes an other gulp of tea. ‘I hope she’s giggling now.’ The shine is back in Betty’s eyes. ‘There can’t be anything worse than losing a child.’ Her gaze drops to the ground, then she breathes in sharply and looks up at him again. ‘How old are you, William?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Well, I hope your parents know what a fine son they have.’
William shakes his head and looks down. God, he’s tired! ‘I should get back.’ He puts his paper cup down on the sacks. ‘You take your time, but I should go.’
‘Have I upset you, William?’ She stands up straight too.
‘No,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Come when you’re ready.’
9
‘Last push,’ Jimmy says, back at the chapel, ‘I’m assuming you’ll need to get back tonight?’
‘Not if I’m still needed.’ William walks to his station. As he passes the radio, he registers a murmuring voice. The heap of raggedy ripped clothes in the corner is now waist high.
‘There’s only three left to recover,’ Jimmy continues, washing down his table with a vigour that gives no hint of the exhaustion he must be feeling. ‘Harry can stay through the night and I’ll be here till it’s all done.’
‘Are you sure?’ William feels weak with relief. Soon, he can drive away, to his uncle’s calm mortuary, to a life with Gloria in it. Gloria who kissed him.
‘I’m sure,’ Jimmy says. ‘There’s one body in the chapel. Look after that, catch a few winks in the car first, and then be on your way.’ He turns to Harry. ‘Your turn for a break.’
‘Won’t say no.’ Harry walks to the door. ‘What have you done with Betty, William?’
The door swings open, nearly hitting Harry.
‘Whoops.’ Betty smiles at Harry who holds the door for her then leaves. She stands opposite William. He feels he ought to apologise, but her calm gaze lets him know she is not expecting anything from him.
‘There’s just one more for us to do,’ he says. ‘Can you get the buckets and sponges ready?’
‘Of course.’ She immediately turns to the wall against which the buckets are waiting.
Coffins, not blanketed bodies, now fill the pews; some are dirty, smeared with slurry, though they tried not to let that happen. It takes him a moment to spot the brown bundle. Feeling the give of flesh, the bend of a leg, he wonders what lies inside, worries he might not have it in him to go through this again, marvels at Jimmy and Harry’s stamina. At least with Betty, he has reason to keep his face calm, tell himself he can do what he has to do.
Two buckets and two sponges are ready. Betty stands as if to attention on one side of the table.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
‘You’re welcome.’
He gives them both a moment, time to breathe in and out a few times.
‘This is going to be one of three,’ Betty says plainly, ‘I’ve seen the parents left outside.’
William pulls back a blanket for the last time. They look. William glances at Betty. She shakes her head, lips pursed. ‘Can’t be sure.’
Almost in synchronicity, the two of them plunge their sponges in the water and set to work. A peace settles over William, knowing most of this is behind him. He and Betty work well together, intuitively knowing which parts of the body she can clean, and which need his expertise.
Next to them, Jimmy is hand-pumping the embalming fluid through a body. For a few seconds, the only sounds William’s aware of are the suck and hiss of the pump and the swill of dirty water squeezed from their sponges. Then, a plummy voice from over his shoulder: ‘… Chapel Choir, Cambridge, singing Allegri’s “Miserere”.’
William spins round and lunges at the radio, his gloved fingers grappling with the knobs until the noise stops. He turns, radio in both his hands. Jimmy and Betty are staring at him.
‘Sorry.’ He exhales quickly to imitate a laugh. ‘Can’t stand that poncy stuff’ – he puts it back on the ledge – ‘can I retune it to something else?’
Jimmy nods at William’s workstation. ‘Best just get on, there are parents waiting.’
? ? ?
The child’s silky black hair could have been recently combed, but the face is its own disaster zone. Betty rubs with the tired, soft sponge on the left forearm. William is glad that Betty doesn’t try to talk. She’s taken off her glove to scrape a stubborn patch of slurry with her fingernail. William glances at her every few seconds but she doesn’t look up.
When Harry returns from his tea break, the room is momentarily filled with the familiar thunder of a departing lorry. Jimmy, Betty and William are focused on the work and don’t notice Harry casually turn the radio back on. So when the simple plainchant of the tenors can be heard – Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me; ‘Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness: and cleanse me from my sin’ – Betty doesn’t notice the change in William. Neither does Jimmy, massaging formaldehyde through a wrist. And even though they are working in such close proximity, no one notices the sponge drop to the floor as William grips the edge of the table. But Betty does look up in time to see him put both hands over his ears, eyes tight shut. He takes a step back from the table. His head hits the wall, his knees crumple, and he slides down until he is squatting on the floor.
10