1
Some clear spells in the east, clouding over later in the evening
YOU KNOCK FIRST before you go in. You don’t wait of course.
Good morning, Mr Gillespie. Lee here. Nice day.
Everyone is known by their formal name: Mr, Mrs, Miss. We have not yet had a Lord or Lady, but we had a Doctor and a Major. Babies and kiddies are their first name. Everyone is someone. They have status, the dead. Derek said that. It’s true, you’re somebody when you’re dead, you get respect.
Derek has started on Mr Gillespie, but I must take over, as Derek’s off to the crem for a two o’clocker. I pull on latex gloves. Three out today, Mr Gillespie, I say. We’ve got our skates on, I say. I find a bit of chat breaks the ice. I thread up and open Mr Gillespie’s mouth. Here at Shakespeare & Son it matters not what you did when you were alive, we don’t look back. What matters is the here and now. Your status as a deceased individual makes you important, a VIP. True to say for some it’s a first taste of VIP treatment. Death is an egalitarian state, red carpet all round. All are equal at Shakespeare & Son, no one is better than.
A great leveller, death, Derek says. He tends to talk through his nose. Derek Locklear has been an undertaker for nigh on eighteen years. He fell into it when his establishment, The White Stag, near Junction 4 by the flyover, went bust. You never know what’s around the corner, he says. On day one he tells me, Lee, you’ve got an old head on young shoulders. I took it as a compliment; I’m twenty-five next birthday. Granted he rabbits for England, but Derek is chock-full of wisdoms. A waste really, as most of it falls on deaf ears.
Derek’s still got his mutton-chops and waistcoat, but he took to funeral care like a duck to water. Derek is not the boss; Howard Day is our funeral director, he runs the shop. He speaks poshly, which is important when you’re dealing with the dead, people expect it, it gives them faith.
Lee Hart is a knob. Someone wrote it on the bus shelter. I know who. Sticks and stones. You have to rise above it. I no longer use the bus service, I walk everywhere, it’s better – get out and see the world.
Some people reckon there’s not much to funeral care, but there’s more to it than meets the eye. I am learning at Derek’s elbow, as he’s been there and back. I am Derek Locklear’s apprentice. Some people call him Del. I didn’t expect to wind up in the trade either, funny. I had my eye on Communication Technology, a pipe dream, as it turned out. We all enter these doors in the end, think on. At my age I am what you call the early bird here, but still. Basically it helps to have the right personality, death doesn’t suit everybody; lucky I was born for it.
Hang on while I fetch my scissors, Mr Gillespie. Nearly done, I say. I don’t see the need to work in silence, it’s not a library. Derek has Radio 5 on.
Everything sinks after death, Mr Gillespie has loose folds. Funny how bones rise up as deterioration begins, but it’s natural as. Everything dissolves in the end, it’s the process. A face shows its skull, a challenge for us. No point dwelling. The trick is be positive, be respectful, even when you’re pushed for time. Mr Gillespie has all his own teeth, not a full set, but still.
Here we go, Mr Gillespie, I say. I tilt his jaw and go through the soft palate with my long needle; there is a little pop – same as when we needle-threaded our paper mâché sculptures at school for hang and display – a million years ago seems.
* * *
Shakespeare & Son Funeral Services is situated between the old council estate and the playing fields. A pebble-dashed single-storey, you wouldn’t look twice. Mind you, when the sky is blue the roof looks red, when it is in fact brown. At the other end of the street is a pub called The Ship. We don’t drink there.
I tend not to vary my route. Often you don’t see another soul, just the birds calling, sound of your shoes on the lane. Animals raise their heads when they see you. Just me, Lee, I say. Same old. Harvest time you might meet a giant contraption coming the other way. The combine is wider than the road, hung with choppers, spreaders, you name it. You have to step in the ditch for it to pass. Contractors nowadays, strangers in the cab; everyone knew everyone when we were at school. I’m not saying it was better.
Takes a minute to get out of the ditch without making a mess of my trousers. I wear a suit for work. It’s a question of respect. I have two suits and I rotate them. I have three self-ironing shirts off eBay. I bought them with a pinch of salt, but they have proved to be worth their weight in gold.
On clear mornings you can see the forest from the bridge over the dual carriageway. It sweeps to the left, widens, curves around to the right. I hadn’t realised a forest could do that, turn like a river. Not a natural forest of course, but still. Sometimes there is mist on the carriageway. Cars hurtling blind, dangerous. I catch the face of a driver looking up, seeing me, afraid I might jump. Funny. I wave but they’re already gone.
My friend, Rob Avon, works at Gatwick Airport. The Red Lion is our local. It is your average pub, a few hundred years old with a resident ghost and subsidence. Rob Avon, aka Raven. The name harks back to his Goth phase – he still dyes his hair black, but he’s left the eyeliner behind.
Local ale we do partake of. We sit in the corner beside the grizzly bear; a feat of taxidermy, the landlord calls it, which is fine if you speak good English. The bear was a performer, once upon a time, he still wears the collar and chain. You could feel sorry for him, except that he’s roaring his head off, even now he’s dead. Not to worry, he won’t hurt you.
You don’t have to be mad to work here. Someone’s crossed out mad and written dead. A stab at humour. It was Derek who brought the word foible to my attention; I try to use it in conversation, without wanting to come over as a ponce. I also find per se creeping into my everyday speech. I was wary but so far no one’s said, Don’t be a knob, Lee, that’s French.
Amazing what people take with them. Ancient Egyptians, all of us. You couldn’t make it up. They say you can’t take it with you; you can. So long as it’s not cash. If the family requests it, we do it, within reason, nothing flammable obviously. Personal Effects are the items accompanying the deceased inside the coffin. First time I tucked a cheque for a million between the fingers of one of our gents I thought, nice one. Brilliant, basically. I’d like that for myself. Who doesn’t want to die a millionaire? Tax free.
It’s the little things, the in-jokes, the ironic touches that lift people’s spirits. Death can leave a person’s sense of humour intact, it’s not all doom and gloom.
Any coffin details for these?
On the side, right in front of you. Mr Keegan’s done. Other two need doing. Is that kettle on?
Mr Keegan is going to wear his own clothes. Winchester coffin. White lining. No crucifix. Personal Effects: Panama Slim Panatellas 6 Pack. Omega watch, initials engraved. Letters. Photograph of a smiling woman. Everything must be recorded in the big book. Everything is written down.
Mr Tomlinson is wearing his own clothes, to include a PJ Brown construction helmet. Embalm yes. Viewing to be arranged (TBA) but yes. Cremation. He will lose his hat in that case. Health & Safety v. Health & Safety, ironic. But not as ironic as the cremation of the fireman last year. Death is full of irony.
Mrs Ferguson: Oyster gown. Oyster frill. The Ripon. Embalm no. Ashes Casket: Standard. Personal Effects: Musical box. Photograph of canal boat. Packet of Bird’s Custard Powder. Viewings: TBA. Jewellery: TBA. I wonder if the boat was owned or rented. I’ve never tried Bird’s custard.
Mr Muldarney is causing a stir. The Basic Coffin. Blue frill. Gown. Embalm no. Viewing: TBA. Awaiting crem details. Personal Effects: A photograph of a little boy, smiling. Set of teeth. An onion.
Yours truly despatched to Somerfield for said onion. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. I said that to Derek. I produced the onion from behind my back. He said, Don’t piss about, Lee, there’s three still to do.
Nil effects it says on Mrs Parkinson’s column. Derek puts her in the basic pink and matching coffin frill. No viewings. Derek brushes her hair out of respect, but he doesn’t fetch his make-up box. I check her sheet and tuck it under her plate. All done and dusted.
* * *
Two funerals out. Four in their boxes. Three out tomorrow, two Thursday, two Friday; busy but not murder. Five out is madness, happens now and then, total insanity. Getting from one to the next, it’ll turn your hair grey, it did Mikey driving the hearse, fact. You can’t put your foot down.
*
WE LIVE IN the end cottage on Cinders Lane, where it meets Lye’s Cross. Our mum remarried: Lester has been ill of late. He is on medication. He has to write down his dosages, or else he gets muddled. He had to take early redundancy from his work at Dinnages. Downhill ever since, worse after she died. Our real dad is a plant operator; currently we are not sure exactly of his whereabouts.
As I raise my door key, I catch sight of my brother, Ned, stepping out of his bedroom window on the first floor. Ned is not everyone’s cup of tea. I hear the twang of springs. Ned appears over the hedge in mid-air, frog legs, then drops out of sight again. Twang. I let myself in. I am the eldest.
She used to say, Lee, if you can’t love your own blood, then who?
We got the trampoline second hand: an Emperor twelve-footer (no safety net), thirty-nine pounds off eBay.
I put the tea on, sausages. I boil water for spuds. I open a tin of peas.
Cup of tea would be nice if you’re making, Lester shouts at the TV. I’ve only got one pair of hands, I say. I put the kettle on. Extreme Makeover, he watches it around the clock. She would’ve switched it off. Different since she died.
Ned seems to step out of the wall, gives me a jolt.
F*ck! Fright you me, I sign him. He laughs.
My brother was not born deaf. His deafness arrived in disguise when he was four months old. His deafness is my fault, this has been proved. I don’t dwell because you can’t turn back time.
Ned looks at the steam coming off the spuds, hair in his eyes, sweat on his nose.
Gravy? Gravy? he signs.
Patience, I sign back. Bollocks, I think to myself.
He is breathing through his open mouth, air whistling through the gap in his teeth, his long bare toes are splayed, his back slightly curved. In the old days I used to imagine him with a tail. He spins out, slamming the door. Ned’s got a temper, always did. She used to say he got it off the elves. Whatever.
You wouldn’t think we were brothers. Ned has a mole below his lip, like a girl, his hair belongs to our mother, thick, shiny; if it wasn’t for his stubbly Adam’s apple you might be fooled. I have someone else’s hair entirely, frizzy, our dad’s probably. If I knew his whereabouts I would complain. I have no moles or free gifts from nature. I have thin legs and high eyebrows, like I don’t know what the hell’s going on. I have a long back which Lester says will turn against me in later life; he takes co-codamol for his.
We learned to sign together, she taught us. Ned’s hands are two birds: tap, bounce, glide. My hands are slow, even now. His hands can tell you any story, plus exaggerations, in seconds. The beads on his wrist make a noise like rain: it is the sound of Ned, like a human black cloud pouring down. He will never know.
I have a photo of her: me and Ned under each arm, two chicks, she called us. Back then I used to put our old washing line in his mouth and whip him with a birch. We were ten and eight. This was our carriage, Ned was the horse. I steered by pulling left or right. If he disobeyed he got a tap, if he was slow he got a tap. We went all over, lanes, fields, woods. He never whinnied and no one saw our carriage because it was invisible. I don’t ask him if he remembers it.
He was a gifted child. She told me that. I believed her. She was terrified he might wander on to the dual carriageway: Ned was drawn to electric fences, lightning, canals, traffic. I thought about that. I told him deaf people couldn’t die. I thought it would cheer him up. I led him to the dual carriageway. Not to hurt him, on the contrary, I wanted to watch him survive, use his gift, see how he did it. A gap in the traffic, off he ran, arms out like a bird. No fear. Halfway across he stood at the crash barrier, waving, watching the cars rocketing. The horror on the drivers’ faces made us laugh, the brake lights flashing as the cars slowed. Result! I was proud, the effect he had, definitely a gift. What a laugh. I waved. He waved. And when he sprints back, the blare of horns. Magic. We scarper before someone calls the police, change our clothes so we won’t match any description.
We screamed, it was blinding. We were Samurai.
Where our garden ends by the barbed wire the field starts. Crop in there, oilseed rape. Clackety-clack it goes in the wind, like applause in a giant stadium. Good evening, Wembley. I take a bow. Split the pods with your thumbnail and black seeds fall out. A knob comes on a tractor and does it. I watch him smoking his fags, taking his breaks, staring at his mobile phone. He’s got a big red ear that doesn’t match the other. Who’d text him? His sister probably. Dead romantic. The phone mast is on the west side. One of them with sponge fingers. They give you cancer apparently. Not sponge fingers, phone masts. Maybe sponge fingers do too, I wouldn’t like to say.
On the east side ridge is oak and elm in a line like they’re waiting. Everything waits. Crows sleep there at night, fifty million judging by the sound.
From her bed she watched this field: the weather, the mechanical sprayer, the red-eared knob. She liked it. We put her ashes there. We waited till the wind dropped, around March time.
This morning from the landing window I catch sight of Ned running in the field along the set-aside. He is wearing flip-flops. I watch. He stumbles, runs on. Must have seen a hare or something, he likes hares. He won’t get close flapping about like that: unaware of the noise he makes. I try to imagine what someone not related to him would think. I know what I’d think. I don’t know how he got this way. I try to rewind in my mind but I just go around in circles.
I used to carry him on my back. He liked it, bit of a laugh. Started when he was a nestling and I was six or seven. We still do it on a special occasion. Dog, he called me when he was learning to sign the alphabet, but he got it wrong. Gog, I was instead. Gog I remain to this day. He signs it as a shape now, a finger drawn across one eye, like I’m half-blind, when in fact I see everything, clear as. One of his foibles.
The JobCentre have Ned’s details. He’s hoping for BSL interpreter work. He could teach but he won’t do the exam. Problem is he won’t travel any distance on his own. He lip-reads fine, but. People shout, make like he’s stupid. More than likely he’s lost his self esteem. Les will look for work once his health is on track. Plan is to sell the cottage. Get solvent. Get a flat nearer town. It is for the best. This is our motto. We should have it over the door, we should have it strung in fairy lights at Christmas. I aim at Ned, a single head shot with my bare hands. Down he do go.