21
Dry overnight with long clear spells. Mist and fog patches will form in places
NED IS ON the trampoline. He is attempting to take a photo of himself on his phone in mid-air. I could probably get him sectioned for that. Not that I would, obviously.
I put the kettle on. Ned has forty-seven friends on Facebook. Out of those he has met eight in person: Raven, Nell, Jock and Dianne from the kennels, Eileen from the medical centre, Mr Gupta’s son from the Tesco Express Garage, our fifteen-year-old cousin Corrine from Margate, and me. I don’t bother with it these days. You grow out of it, I reckon. Ned posts images of himself on his personal page, mainly wearing disguise. Ned in hats, Ned in sunglasses, Ned pouting like a fish. There’s one of him laughing. At what?
When my mourning rig went missing I had my suspicions. Denies it, well he would. Following day there it is on Facebook for all to gander, top hat too big of course. One of his eyes blown up giant through our mum’s old magnifying glass. I did not give permission for that. It’s easy to mock, but. Death is a skilled business. Important to get it right. People depend on it to mend their grief. A dead man’s dignity comes from the slow hearse, the polished handles, the top hat and tails. No one is ready. Not me, not even Derek. Especially not Derek. Everyone is immortal till they’re not.
Who will prepare the deceased when Derek is gone? You might think Dereks are ten a penny, ditto Howards. I for one would rather be dead with Derek than alive with some people. Only joking, but I know what I mean.
Spaghetti we’ll have with grated cheese. I turn on the tap, fill the pot.
Derek says you grow accustomed to the job one body at a time. I wouldn’t disagree. People are people, alive or dead, some speak to you more than others, simple as. I wait for the water to boil. I take a load off in the chair.
You won’t last a week. So sayeth Lester when I got the job at Shakespeare’s. I don’t blame him, most people wouldn’t last. I didn’t think I’d last. Same with trawler fishing apparently, a lot of people just can’t take it. You could call it a vocation more than a job, I like that. I was only after a job and I ended up with a career. Nice one. It only has one drawback after all, not that it bothered me for long. Within the week I was talking to dead men and thinking, I know living people less interesting than these. And that’s when I knew. Now I look forward to coming to work. Once all the jokes about a dead-end job were out of the way I realised, in fact, I had it made in the shade.
I lay the table. Set our giraffe salt and pepper grinders at the centre. We bought them for Mum’s fortieth birthday. All these years and we still can’t tell which is the salt giraffe and which is pepper.
Lester used to have his dinner on a tray in those days so he could watch Come Dine With Me or Wife Swap. His excuse was he’d run out of dinner conversation. As if Ned and me were brimful, like mini Oscar Wildes. Our mother loved Oscar Wilde – right up her street, the artier-fartier the better. Far as she was concerned arty-farty was the be-all and end-all, thank you and goodnight. Meanwhile I am left at the table with Ned for a dining companion. He’s got zero etiquette, he eats noisy. This is how she must have felt, trying to keep everything decent and à la mode. Trying to stick it all together with organic chutney and napkins, whereas I decided long ago just to use paper serviettes.
*
SHE GOT WORSE. Les brought her downstairs to lie on the settee, where she could look at the view of the field and woods.
She sent off for personalised affirmations prepared by a guru who lived just off the A40. He sent her a pamphlet: Destabilisation occurs when the energy fields of your body are incorrect. The pamphlet went on to explain this had been proved beyond all doubt in the 1950s by a Russian. After the correct treatment patients awoke to find their tumours had disappeared overnight. She affirmed. She smiled. She connected to her Higher Power. Someone in America was found online who could cure her from across the Atlantic. They needed her blood type and her astrological sign. They could cure her long distance for only two hundred dollars. She knew she was blood type A. The American emailed to tell her blood type A meant she was a co-operative, sensitive, passionate, self-controlled person. That’s accurate, she said. We admitted it was uncanny. We crossed fingers. We touched wood. We threw salt. Anything was possible. You just had to believe.