Undertaking Love

Chapter Five




Gabe shuffled through the disappointingly thin pile of CVs on the reception desk with a heavy sigh. The job advert he’d placed in The Herald had yielded eleven applications for the receptionist post, but on closer inspection only a clutch of them were even remotely suitable for interview. He’d briefly considered the interesting but wildly unsuitable Ms Scarlet Ribbons, a part time stripper who’d handily enclosed an eye-catching photograph of herself rather than a CV. He could think of many things Ms Ribbons would no doubt excel at, but handling bereaved relatives wasn’t one of them.

In the end he’d whittled it down to the three most decent sounding applicants and arranged the interviews over the course of this afternoon. A knot of pressure formed in his gut. He needed to get this right. Hiring and firing was yet another aspect of business that was a first for him, but he knew from experience that a great receptionist could be the lynchpin of such an organisation.

He glanced up and squinted through the driving rain outside. A whippet thin woman in a long flasher mac was on her way over, hunched beneath a black umbrella. Gabe glanced up at the clock. Five minutes early. Punctual. A good first sign.

He opened the door for her, and then pretended not to hear the choice collection of swear words she rattled off as she battled with her umbrella in the high wind. Droplets of rain bounced off her lacquered helmet of short, peroxide-blonde hair, and when she’d finally beaten the brolly into submission she turned to him with a cigarette-stained smile. She pumped his hand with surprising strength for such a slight woman.

‘Valerie McDonald,’ she barked, and declined his offer of a drink unless it was a neat double vodka. Gabe smiled, and dismissed her oddness as nerves. ‘So, Valerie. Maybe you could start by telling me what it is about the job that appeals to you.’

Valerie snorted and shot off at a pace.

‘I’ve spent my entire life flogging one thing or another, Mr Ryan. Houses. Photocopiers. Cars. You name it, I’ve sold it.’ She smiled, and Gabe decided it was a safe bet that she’d never sold toothpaste.

‘Coffins will be a damn sight easier to sell than sports cars, let me tell you. Not so many optional extras.’

Her nasal laugh had the same effect on Gabe as fingernails down a chalkboard. He ran a nervous hand over his stubble. This wasn’t going quite as he’d hoped. Valerie leaned towards him across the desk and lowered her voice, even though there was no one else in the room to keep her secrets from.

‘I’ll make sure the punters buy the expensive mahogany boxes rather than the plywood, if you get my drift.’ She tapped the side of her nose twice with an arch wink. ‘Bit of a captive audience around here. Plenty of old coffin dodgers in these villages. A shrewd move, if I may say so, Mr Ryan.’

Gabe decided he really wasn’t keen on Valerie McDonald. ‘That’s not why I …’

She drew her hand across her throat to shut him up. ‘It wasn’t a criticism. Au contraire. I’ve already developed a sales strategy for you, actually.’

‘You have?’

Valerie nodded. ‘I’ll need to move this desk closer to the window first though.’ She slapped the beech wood surface of the brand new and carefully positioned reception desk. Gabe was almost afraid to ask why, but his silence was encouragement enough for Valerie.

‘If I’m by the windows, I can check out the family’s wheels when they pull up, see? Then when they come in, I’ll be able to pitch my sales patter at the right level. Merc equals solid oak casket. BMW more modern, maybe something in birch with shaker handles? Dented Fiat Panda equals basement bargain pine.’ She laughed, and nodded at her own wit. ‘It’s clever, isn’t it?’

Gabe had heard enough. Valerie McDonald might have a glittering career ahead of her in kitchen sales, but she certainly was not going to be his new receptionist.

‘Umm … actually, no. No, Valerie, it’s not clever. It’s rude, and it’s grossly insensitive, and it’s not going to happen to my customers.’

He walked over to the front door and held it open.

Valerie, for her part, looked genuinely shocked by his failure to be impressed, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she got up to leave. She turned back on the step, pointing her umbrella at him with a bitter sneer across her hard face.

‘I’ll give you six months. Twelve, at most. Business is business, young man, no matter if it’s coffins or cars.’

Gabe closed the door behind her and leaned his back against it. She’d been truly hideous. But was there any truth in Valerie McDonald’s parting shot? Did he have enough of a business head to make a success of this? He knew he was bloody good at the nuts and bolts of his work, but he would be the first to admit he was no accountant. He didn’t have time to dwell on it though – a tap on the door behind him heralded the arrival of his second interview of the day. Please let Genevieve Lawrence be better than Valerie McDonald, he prayed, even though he didn’t especially believe in God. That was another fact that he preferred to keep to himself. People mostly assumed that undertakers had a direct line to The Almighty.

He turned around and found two huge, watery eyes staring back at him. He opened the door, allowing the woman on the step to float in on a cloud of ethereal underskirts. She promptly sparked up a joss stick on the reception desk to create ‘the right vibe’.

Gabe’s heart sank into his boots as she flicked her long black wig over her bony shoulders and heaved a large framed picture of a red Indian chief out of a Lidl carrier bag that had, up until now, been concealed amongst her skirts.

‘My only request’ – she fixed him with her disconcertingly direct gaze – ‘is that I can hang big Chief Running Water behind my desk. He must be given due prominence at all times, you see.’

Gabe didn’t see, and he had absolutely no desire to.

‘And does Big Chief expect to be on the payroll, too?’

Genevieve’s eyelids fluttered down for a few moments to hide her pained expression. When she opened them again, she licked her finger and thumb and snuffed out the joss stick.

‘Big Chief does not appreciate your poor wit, Mr Ryan, and neither do I. I’m afraid that we must withdraw the offer of our services.’

She slid Big Chief back into the safety of his Lidl carrier bag and flounced out into the rain.

Gabe thumped his head against the doorjamb a few times. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call in Ms Scarlet Ribbons after all. He needed a beer, but he needed a receptionist even more. Please let it be third time lucky.

Melanie Spencer turned up just before four o’clock, reassuringly normal with her sensible clothes and her shiny dark hair wound into an efficient chignon. She said all the right things, had experience with people, and there was a calm efficiency about her that Gabe warmed to straight away. Best of all, she didn’t insist on bringing her spirit guide to work, or display any apparent desire to fleece grieving relatives.

Hallelujah. He offered her the job on the spot.