6
Mainly dry across the south and east, mild and breezy nationwide
I REMEMBER THINGS. Not to dwell, but. In the old days me and Ned would sometimes take off, leave Les struggling, rinsing bowls, washing sheets, swearing under his breath. We would take things from the kitchen: the big bottle of Tango, the Sunday biscuits from the cupboard. We would run to the woods to eat. Then maybe run to Ditton Road to the shops, sit outside the newsagent, burp and fart until the woman from the CoinWash told us we were pigs. What a laugh. Give her the finger. Ned loved it. I would do it again behind her back, copy her waddle walk. Right laugh.
Sometimes we bought sandwiches from the motorway services with the pound coins from the kitchen jar. We’d leg it to the tracks. No trains any more. We’d use a brick to smash things, boring after a while. We’d lie down. We’d pretend train after train was flattening us on the tracks, whistles blowing, brakes squealing; we wished ourselves dead over and over, but not for ever. We’d take a stroll in the open air, two ghosts out and about. I’d light up one of Lester’s Dunhills, like a proper country gent, while Ned tossed the tomato slices from his BLT into the trees. On the way home we’d chuck stones at the pigeons in the woods to cheer ourselves up.
Ned would be tired by the time we got back. I’d put him in the pram for a sleep, push his knees down under the blanket. I’d park it behind the shed so he wouldn’t disturb her. I’d leave him there till dark. He was a good kid in those days; when he was little he was cute as. This changed of course as he grew slowly but surely into a knobhead, but. I remember I stole him sweets and Fanta from the old newsagent at the bottom of the High Street. I’d clean his face after so he wouldn’t get in trouble. He’d do anything for me then and I’d do anything for him. I try not to get nostalgic. I used to conduct simple experiments for his own benefit. Simple things. Teach him to react without the aid of audio sound, stand him in good stead. I’d launch missiles for him to avoid. He didn’t always avoid them. Now and then he’d run to her, booing like a baby. I meant no harm, I would not harm my own brother. I was preparing him. Life is hard, no second chances. No one prepared me.
He got me back one time only. What the Sunday paper would call a frenzied attack. He planned it. We both had our shirts off for a tan. He did it by the ditch in Lower Field so he could use the giant nettles. Lashed me with such force he laced his own shoulder too, on the back-swing. It could have been either of us screaming or both, I couldn’t tell.
I got him back on the way home. Two can play. Surprise! No probs. Half a brick I used. Surprising amount of blood.
Mental she went.
What have you done? What have you done?
Keep your hair on. I remember saying that.
She hit me so hard I landed in the road. Ned loves a bit of slapstick. He laid himself down beside me. Two knobs in the gutter. Put his arm across me in case she tried it again. We still laugh about that. A classic. Years later on TV I saw a man in Pakistan whip himself with chains and it made me think of him.
*
YOU CAN FALL into a rhythm in the workshop, I like that. I set the Gravograph and off it goes. Evelyn Ann Barry.
You type it in then the robotic arm does the job. You can turn your attention elsewhere, you can leave the building. The Gravograph cuts the name all by itself. Modern technology, it does your head in. I staple the frills in the box. The York, smart. Once the plate is finished you fix it to the correct coffin. Tap tap, on it goes. With the polonia woods, soft woods, the Salisbury for example, Derek pushes the screws in with his thumb. Mike said he should go on Britain’s Got Talent with that.
Important to get the plate straight, no excuses. The plate is you: name, dates. It is all you are, a name and two dates. Tell it straight. Derek does it in inches. You use the name on the plate as a guide, measurements down and across; double-check. Your life on a plate. I made that up.
Not to be funny but. You get perspective working here, it can’t be helped. We’re ready for Mrs Barry.
Derek is blowing on his mug of tea.
Mrs Barry ready? I say.
Ready as she’ll ever be.
Derek has done her hair with heated rollers. Combed and sprayed in place it doesn’t look too bad. She has a rosy glow. The lipstick makes her look like she’s ready for a party. I straighten one of the gold earrings. She looks festive; the red dress, the green silk scarf. Her shoes look brand new. Sure enough there’s a sticky label on the sole, £59.99.
Merry Christmas, Mrs Barry, I say. It’s not Christmas but Mrs Barry doesn’t know that.
Want a hand? Derek calls.
I fold the sheet across her on both sides.
I’ll manage, I call back.
I wheel the trolley carrying Mrs Barry’s coffin level with Mrs Barry. I swing her feet in first. I get hold of both sides of sheet and lift Mrs Barry across and lower her into her coffin. If you get it right the head should drop directly on to the block. You can make adjustments. Not a textbook landing but Mrs Barry is near as dammit. A tweak here, tug there. I check the paperwork. Wedding ring, earrings, pocket prayerbook, photograph of grandchildren. I tuck the prayerbook under her fingers. The grandchildren in the other hand. I check again. Items in the wrong coffin, items gone walkabout equals professional suicide. I add my signature to the paperwork. I pop the lid on. Bob’s your uncle, Mrs Barry. Chapel 2 it says here, viewing at four o’clock. Forty minutes start to finish. Most of that was Mrs Barry’s hair. Thirty minutes is my tops, you don’t want to rush if you can help it.
*
AN ENGLISHMAN’S HOME is his castle, so sayeth Derek. He lives on the Peabody Estate, an end of terrace. I go to help him manoeuvre his three-piece suite, so he can repaint his front room. I end up staying all day to help tape his windows, prime the walls, shift the rest of the furniture. We stack it in the garden.
You and me, he says. In my estimation we make a good team.
I don’t disagree. I am glad. He makes me a ham sandwich and we sit on the settee under the tree and let our conversation wander.
There is an empty mud hole in the front garden, like one of his graves. It used to be a pond, he says. Somebody poisoned his fish, he says. Envy, he reckons. We stand looking at it for a long time. Now he has geckos indoors. They use a lot of electricity, he says.