7
A grey start followed by clear spells, then comfortably warm with some sunshine
LORELLE IS IN. I skid on the prep room tiles. Hurrying is frowned upon here. She has laid out her blooms and is double-checking the names. I only just make it.
Phew, I say. Caught you.
All right, Lee? she says.
Not too bad, I say. Nice blooms, I say.
Yeah. From abroad, she says.
Mikey breezes past.
Selhurst Gardens, Selhurst Gardens, he says out loud. He turns over his shoulder, shouts towards the office, Why didn’t you tell me before then?
No answer.
Might as well talk to the wall, he tells Lorelle.
I take her hand. Bold or what. Number two: Confident Guy. I lead on. We find ourselves in the storage room, where it’s quiet. No electrics allowed here due to the cremated remains. No good the ashes in ashes. We only burn them once. The poly containers are stacked high against the glass partition, making the room dim. Each tub is labelled in permanent marker. Please label urn and file alphabetically, it says on the wall. Please make sure cremation certificate goes to office for filing. Thanks!
The names climb high above Lorelle’s head. Janine Boyce, it says beside her ear. The remains are transferred to caskets when required for burial, scattering, whatever. Some hang about here a long time. Surprisingly heavy, you don’t want to drop one on your foot. I have a line of conversation prepared, but she gets in first.
Been busy? Lorelle says.
Mental. You?
Same. Wedding, Saturday. Sit-down at the Manor and Spa.
Nice.
Very nice.
It’s now or never, I think to myself.
Ever heard of the Pamplona bull run? I say. They do it in Spain, July 6th. Dates back to the fourteenth century, I add. I find it interesting. I’m considering doing it myself next year, bit of a laugh, I say. I do speak a little Spanish. Hola.
No. Don’t know that one, she says. She checks her watch. I never knew you knew Spanish, she says.
I do indeed. Hola. Como esta? Yo soy un hombre.
Lorelle covers a yawn with her hand. Wow, she says. That’s good.
In the nick of time I realise this is all me me me. How about you? I say. Any plans for summer?
Not yet, no, she says. Wait and see, I suppose.
Might put some people off, hanging around with cremated people, but not Lorelle. A true professional she is. I tell her so.
She shrugs. I’ve seen it, done it, been there, she says.
To look at her you wouldn’t think it. Butter wouldn’t melt. Respect though, total.
Ever been to Il Terrazzo? she asks.
Rings a bell, I say. Think, think, I think.
Italian, she says. Three stars. I know someone who went there last month.
Got it, I say.
I’d love to go there.
Yeah?
What I wouldn’t give.
She laughs at herself. She’s got a good sense of humour.
Not been before then?
Not as yet, no.
She smiles. She has lovely teeth. It’s not all death and misery here.
Sorry, I should have offered to make you a tea, I say. I can brew up in the office.
No time. Got to go, she says. It’s all rush rush, she says.
Need a hand? I say. I follow her out to her van.
She checks her phone, slams the door. Flashes her smile.
See you later, Lee.
I lean my arm above the passenger window.
Arrivederci then. Mind how you go.
I watch the van pull away. I give myself a little pat on the back. Not at all bad, Lee Hart, if you do say so yourself.
*
I AM OUT the back, labelling, checking paperwork. Everything labelled big-time. You can’t have a gents Seiko getting muddled with a ladies Swatch, upsetting relatives, messy. The dead are labelled same as newborns, but personal effects can go walkabout unless carefully handled. There are things you wouldn’t think of, apart from the usual falsies: teeth, wigs, glass eyes; there’s implants, lithium-powered devices, including radioactives and prosthetic limbs. Some people are lethal when it comes to what’s concealed inside them. When business is slow we do catch-up jobs: coffins, plaque engraving, orders, re-stocking. Now and then there are quiet times, lulls. Feasts or famines. Last month it was quiet for a week. It’s dead around here, says Derek. We all laughed, even Reen.
Mikey cleans and polishes the vehicles. I give him a hand. Gets us out in the fresh air and at his age a helping hand is welcome. We take frequent breaks, due to Mikey’s blood pressure warnings. We stand out in the parking bay, survey the darkening sky, the oncoming weather, the houses stretching on and on – left towards the railway line, right towards the High Street. So many houses. Dwellings, Mike calls them. We take it all in. He lights his fag. Over the years each one of these houses will give up their dead.
I am diving down the corridor, lightning-quick, me. Never fear Lee is here.
Sorry I’m late.
A man comes towards me. He walks like someone in bomb disposal approaching a tunnel.
That’s alright, Sir. Not to worry.
Not a problem, I say. He doesn’t hear me. You use your judgement, when, how. The grieving are not the living or the dead. They are in a place of their own.
I put my hand on his arm. Touch is the language of grief. When a loved one dies you speak it fluent, bosh, overnight. This way, Sir. Here we go. Shall we have a sit down? Follow me.
Here we learn to communicate with the bereaved as we go along. Some of us are fluent already. Every one of us in this life speaks it in the end.
Like any language there are rules. My hand mustn’t remain on his arm too long else I will have intruded. Too short and it’s offhand. Pat the arm and you create the impression this is not a priority for you. Timing. Hands are everything, what you do with them. The worst is hands in pockets, forget it – bad as blowing your nose, clearing your throat and looking at your watch all put together. Death is a high-wire act.
By two o’clock the sky has burst. Pouring. Cats and dogs. Me and Derek are soaked. I’ve not done Horse-Drawn before. Two black gee-gees, all the trimmings. The driver, Terence, he’s rainproofed, all the gear, jammy git. Me and Derek are toppered and tailed, nothing more: drowned rats. Only the coffin is dry and toasty behind us under glass. You twats! someone shouts from a white van as it skims by. Me and Derek ignore it. The horses are called Tiff and Toff. One of them takes a crap and it steams in the rain. Howard dashed out this morning to cover the grave. Jacuzzis, Derek calls them when they fill up. Humour is an essential weapon in the undertaker’s arsenal. I bear this in mind.
I text Lorelle a joke.
2 cannibals r eating a clown. 1st cannibal turns to 2 other and says, does this taste funny 2 u?
Haven’t heard back, as of yet.
*
A MAN CAN’T survive on that, Irene.
Reen is in charge of the biscuits. She passes round the tin, a giant Christmas special, two each, no more. Derek reckons he is built larger than the rest of us and, due to the physical nature of his work, he should get extra. Reen’s not having it.
Fair’s fair for all, she says, and slams the lid.
Hands up who likes marzipan, Derek says. He puts up his own hand. Howard is peeling his banana but pauses to raise his hand. Me and Mike do not. Reen, busy hiding the Christmas tin, doesn’t bother.
Proves my point, says Derek. That people are split fifty-fifty over marzipan. Love it or hate it, like Marmite.
I don’t care for Marmite, Howard says.
Nor me, says Mike.
Doesn’t bother me either way, I say.
Proved! says Derek, putting his hand up. I thang you.
Many people don’t like cumin, Howard says.
Marzipan, Derek goes on, ignoring Howard, was Henry VIII’s favourite sweet thing.
Is that right? Mike seems genuinely intrigued.
As well as apricots and spiced fruit cake, Derek says. I’m talking sweet things not savoury.
How come you know so much about Henry VIII? asks Howard, narrowing his eye, brushing crumbs.
History, says Derek, is a subject of mine. What are we without the past? Nobodies that’s who. It’s going on under our noses every day. This tea break for example, he says, is history.
It is now, says Howard, standing up. Interview in Two in ten minutes.
I begin to clear the mugs.
I wonder if I should mention my own connection to history. Derek stretches, hoists his trousers, checks his watch.
I am related on our mother’s side to James Phipps, I say.
Derek stops, thinks, flicks his head at me.
Come again? he says.
James Phipps. First person in the UK ever vaccinated. Good, eh?
Doesn’t ring a bell, he says.
They experimented on him as a kid, I say. And he doesn’t get the pox, he survives. Job done.
And you are related to him?
Phipps, yeah. He’s my great-great-great—
Any chance of us rejoining the deceased and the grief-stricken? Howard enquires, head around the door.
Skates on, everyone, please, says Derek. How many times have I said it? The dead don’t bury themselves.