22
Patchy light rain possible initially, otherwise dry with some sunshine at times
NEWSFLASH. SHAKESPEARE’S IS to be taken over by Greenacre Funeralcare Group PLC. Like a sardine swallowed by a whale there is nothing we can do. Greenacre have their own way of doing things, a system. It is not the same as our system. There are no nylon picnic chairs, no running gags or jokes biro’d on the wall; no end-of-line Hot Sensation lipsticks, no Tupperware or radios. Moreover, they are very efficient, apparently.
A single manager runs several outlets at once, travelling between them in his company Mazda, co-ordinating, overseeing. They have a floating embalmer, I am told. Ditto hearse and coffin personnel. They can remove, interview, prep, coffin and bury all at the same time, we hear. This is due to their system. They have back-up and spreadsheets. They can despatch their experts hither and yon. So sayeth our man on the ground, aka Howard. You only have to look at Howard to see he is not expecting to be hired by Greenacre. The expression on his face reminds me of Roy Hodgson when Blackpool beat Liverpool at Anfield. Wan is the word.
Derek took the news on the chin at first, but lately he’s gone downhill. He is heading for the abyss, Irene said. She has known Derek a long time. I am shocked at her use of the word abyss.
A cloud has settled over Shakespeare & Son. Gone are random chats, wit and banter, things are no longer off the cuff. Death is a serious business when it’s a way of life. Fair to say some of us have lost the spring in our step. If clients were able to complain they might well object to a general lack of staff congeniality on the job. Guilty as charged. Not a leg to stand on.
We have been reassured that each of us will be considered for employment by Greenacre, to which Derek answered, Do they think we were born yesterday? To which the Greenacre rep did not reply. The silence made everyone blink.
We are not fools, Howard says, after the rep has gone. We know where we stand, he says. We have begun to walk and talk like actors in a spaghetti western. We know exactly where we stand – in the past. Life has changed. So has death. We are the future unemployed and we know it. C’est la vie.
When tea is ready I bang the handle of the long mop on the ceiling. Ned feels the vibration and comes down. I stand for a moment to take in all the mop bang marks on the ceiling from other teas Ned has come down for. I wonder how many teas we have had, in total. Maybe one day tour parties will stand on this very spot. Like the Pyramids, this house will stand as a monument. Yes, and the tour guide will say, If you look directly up you can in fact see the marks on the ceiling made by the young Lee Hart as he beckoned his deaf brother down for tea. He won’t come down of course. Not till it’s cold.
She picked him to love most because he was the weak one. I don’t blame her, women have a soft spot for the runt. Our mum was a bedazzled woman but Ned threw it all away. Who knows why? No point asking. Being deaf was not the problem. Being deaf was his brilliance, his proudest moment. He lost his flair after she died. I knew he’d flake, she didn’t.
These days I am happier at work. The living and the dead get along famously. Job done. Clear cut as. Currently we are riding a wave of optimism due to a rumour that suggests we will all be retained by Greenacre at this outlet for the time being. Nothing to fret about. No ghosts, none, they all live at home.
*
MRS DELANEY’S DAUGHTER has arranged for her mother to be buried with her mobile phone switched on. Everyone gathers in the office to discuss it. This is something new for Shakespeare’s. I abandon the boiling kettle to join the debate. We speak over each other.
It’s good to talk, says Derek. Everyone laughs. He got that off the BT ad. Nice.
Connecting people, I say. Like off the Nokia ad. No one seems to know that one. I say it again. I have boiled the kettle three times now due to the excitement.
Howard, on the other hand, takes his time, speaks slowly, smiles serenely, as if he buries ringing phones with clients every single week. I thought everyone knew the Nokia ad.
Me personally, the last thing I’d want in my coffin is the phone going off. Rest In Peace it says on her plate, talk about mixed messages. I’ve never myself heard of a phone actually going off, though now and then you’ll hear it on the grapevine.
Nice family. They all walk the same, head pitched forward, like a family of egrets. Mrs Angelou, the daughter, talks softly, dips her head to listen. It’s infectious. Now we’re all doing it, creeping about whispering, dipping, bobbing. Even Derek. Spread like wildfire. Mental. Howard and Derek in particular are under Mrs Angelou’s spell. I am hanging back in the shadows, the corridors are congested as it is.
The only time Derek took longer over a prep was with the fiancé policeman, who drowned himself last year after getting dumped on his wedding eve.
True, Mrs Angelou is a looker. Irene put her finger on it. There at her desk, she bursts out: You men are so predictable!
There is no answer to that. Irene is right. In spite of this or maybe because of it, me, Derek and Howard categorically deny it there and then: We’re not all alike you know. Tarred with the same brush. One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch.
Irene is silenced. No one said life was fair, only short.
Derek has gone all out on Mrs Delaney, the mother. I took a peek on my return from a two o’clocker. Smart. All in black, hands clasped, rosary draped. Derek has covered his tracks. Plenty of stuffing at the elbows and her hands have come together, natural as. A bit of smoke and mirrors. No other way, dead hands don’t clasp.
A picture, I say to Derek.
I thang you.
Busy with the cheek pads? I say.
He puts his hands on his hips, turns in his knee, like he might dance.
Anything else? he asks.
I take a look. Colour in her cheeks. Sheen on her hair. Lipstick: Blushing Bride I’d hazard. Skin tone. Eye sockets. We step back for a moment to take her all in. There’s trickery here, but nothing unusual leaps out. Whatever he’s done he’s done well.
What, no telling? I say.
Nothing to tell, he says. If you can’t see it it ain’t there. He winks. Know what I mean, Lee?
Mrs Angelou will dip her head and thank Derek in her softly softly voice and Derek will dip his head in return and take her hand and look in her eyes, but his lips will remain sealed.
I write down the personal effects in the big book: Leather Bible, St Joseph Daily Prayer Book, an image of the Holy Virgin, three photographic portraits and a Motorola V6. Charged.
I’ve got a Samsung, but not the Galaxy S. Without Ned I’d have an iPhone by now. No point craving what you haven’t got.
When Mrs Delaney is finally laid to rest, there will doubtless be a chirrup below ground to wake her. The electronic words will lie with Mrs Delaney until the end of time. Or at least till the battery goes. God keep you. We love you. We are with you, now and always.
I’m no philosopher but. Some things show their colours no matter what. I stand on the landing, taking in the moonlight on the field: clouds parted, crop shining – like Jesus might stroll on and speak – tell me what to do, like he does in his films.
Jesus, how long till (a) I get a table for two at Il Terrazzo? (b) A position at Greenacre? (c) A life without my brother? He wouldn’t answer of course. More important things than.
In my game you wonder what will it say on your stone when you cop it. Whether you will get flowers, what they will say. I hope I get Lorelle’s writing on the card: You crack me up, Lee. He he. Gotta rush. R.I.P. I don’t stand there dwelling long.
I missed her yesterday, we were at a burial up the B2036. Second time this week I missed her. I find my phone.
Hav u hurd we r 4 the chop? c’est la vie. how r u? Lee.
I press send.
*
NOT THAT I’M religious but, if I was going to pray, I’d pray for Howard’s job. Reckon I’d be handy. Watch and learn, that’s me. When Lorelle is Mrs Hart we will run it together, two Harts are better than one. That’s my trajectory, career-wise. I’ve got nothing against Howard, obviously, but it’s dog eat dog in this world.