Epilogue
I TAKE THE bus to the interview, as it is some ten or twelve miles away from my flat. I carry my shoes in a plastic bag, so that they are clean when I arrive. From the bus stop I walk up an unfamiliar hill, bordered by Scots pine trees. Busy road, plenty of heavy haulage vehicles, but I enjoy the exercise.
I have lost the weight, almost all of it. I think to myself if I do this walk every day I will be fit as a butcher’s dog. Result.
I arrive. I see there is a decent-sized car park. White posts and black chains, smart. I find a spot to change my footwear. I lean against the wall. I catch the sound of a crow, somewhere in the trees. I do not give it a second thought. I don’t want to be late. Needs must.
I ring the bell.
T. J. Cotts Funeral Services. A handsome sign, hand-painted looks like.
A woman answers the door.
Hello. Mr Hart? Come in. Did you find us all right?
I did. No problem whatsoever.
Do have a seat. Can I get you any tea, coffee? Do you take milk? Sugar? Mr Cotts won’t keep you a moment.
Thank you, I say.
Is it cold out?
No, I say. It’s dry and bright. Bit of a wind from the west, but. Sunny spells are forecast for this afternoon.
Oh, that’s nice, she says.
Yes, I say. Spring is here.
About time, she says.
Better late than never, I agree.
I loosen my jacket, adjust my tie, sit back. Land this one and I will be sorted. Fingers crossed.
Funny, if I had not worked at J. Winton’s these last months I might not have qualified for this interview, due to the embalming experience required for this post. I had never met an embalmer before starting at Winton’s, never mind assisted one. Embalming is not for everybody, but. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, as we in the trade like to say. Good to keep the spirits up – what with the stiff competition – embalmers enjoy a joke, same as. Saying that, I would not have met Ruth either. A twist of fate, as they say.
I have sweaty palms. Take it easy. Deep breaths. I have never interviewed for funeral director. First time for everything. In with a chance. The job calls for experience. I have experience. I have good references. I have a steady hand, level head, a sense of humour. As far as boxes go it’s tick tick tick.
Reminds me, I check my watch. I’m early. I could have caught the later bus, but time doesn’t belong to you in this game, it belongs to those whose time is up. There lies a conundrum. Life is topsy-turvy in the land of the dead.
If I get this one, touch wood, I will give Derek a bell down there by the seaside. Get him out of his retirement deckchair.
Del, Guess what? Go on. No. Try again.
Reckon he’d be well chuffed.
Remember who taught you everything you know, he’ll say.
And I’ll go, Er, wait. Tip of my tongue. Hang about. No, it’s gone.
I walked past Shakespeare’s the other day. They’ve painted it. A new sign up: Greenacre Funeral Services. Part of Greenacre Group Plc. Below that it says: Professional. Discreet. The people you can turn to. I didn’t stop or glance in. I just kept going.
The sun flashes patterns through the window, strobing the walls. Similar pale wallpaper to Shakespeare’s, as I recall.
I think of Ned. I close my eyes. Knobster. There he is, mid-sky, mid-twang. Arms wide, frog legs, head back. A photograph.
Gog! Why can’t it always be like this?
I see us, me and him. Towards the mast we stroll, same as. To the woods where the air is green, along the paths where the tree roots grow. A laugh, seriously mental underfoot. These beech are two hundred years old. Buenos dias. They weave like webs. I watch him gawping up at the canopies – higher than high – mouth open, hands talking, beads raining, as per. Gog! Watch me.
I do watch him, I always did: daring cars to hit, the sky to fall, the world to open, like the oyster he was promised.
We are running, me and Ned. Same old, same as. A long way, a million miles. Lanes, fields, woods. Giddy up. Our carriage is invisible. It flies quicker than the wind, than the speeding sky. No one sees us. Adios. We are galloping galloping gone.
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks to the staff at the funeral home in the south-east of England, who generously allowed me to regularly intrude upon and observe their work at close quarters, and who patiently endured all my questions.
My thanks also to my agent, Clare Alexander, to Dan Franklin, Steven Messer, Suzanne Dean and all at Cape. And to Philip Davis, Esther Freud, Victoria Jenkins, Marylou Soto, and Robyn Becker. My love and thanks to Mark.
Thank you to Pam and Yi at the deaf and sign language social enterprise, Femaura, in London.