by Karen Ross
Might he be right?
As if to ensure he’s wrong, I return to my social media accounts. Two pieces this afternoon. One about Japan’s equivalent of Britain’s Got Talent for Buddhist monks. Yes, really. They were competing to see whose funeral sermon had real star quality and, according to the report I found online, they all gave it one-hundred-and-ten per cent. I follow this with a link to a news update about an unfortunate man arrested at an airport in Australia and accused of possessing ketamine – which turned out on closer inspection to be his younger brother’s ashes, ready to be scattered on the Great Barrier Reef.
In my imagination, I’m telling Barclay Banks that if you want to impress a woman, asking a crass question at the precise moment she thinks the two of you are about to share a first kiss is not the way to do it. But my lecture is cut short by the phone.
I pick up on the second ring.
And finally, it happens.
‘Hello? Happy Endings?’ A man’s voice. He sounds appropriately uncertain and upset, and I know in that instant that someone needs my professional services.
‘Yes. I’m Nina Sherwood. How can I help?’
‘It’s just … there’s been a death … my mother, she was … she was … there was blood … everywhere …’
‘Sir, I’m so sorry.’ I can hear a woman’s voice, sobbing in the background, and I realise that in order to help, I need to take charge.
‘Sir, whereabouts are you calling from?’ St John’s Wood. ‘Would it be easier if I were to visit you there? So we can discuss the arrangements face to face?’
The man – his name is Roger Sanderson – sounds relieved at the prospect and next thing you know I’m on my way in my official Happy Endings van.
No hoax call this time.
Roger Sanderson turns out to be in his forties. I’m relieved to discover his mother – Lydia – is actually alive. And as well as can be expected in the circumstances.
I do my best to mask my horror as the events that took place late last night are described to me – this was a sudden, violent, death – and together with Roger, his wife, and his mother, spend the next hour sketching out a funeral plan, then adding in the detail.
Burial is out of the question, everyone agrees.
There’s to be a viewing of the body, which will be available for release as soon as the papers are signed. Making the corpse presentable will be tricky, but I think it’s do-able. It’s all a little outside my comfort zone, and it’s crossed my mind that maybe the family would be better served by a specialist undertaker. But then I imagine myself telling Kelli – who’s been sending me regular emails with upbeat messages such as Smile! You’re one day closer to your first funeral – and I know I can pull everything together, exactly as the family wishes.
I’d forgotten what it feels like. The necessity to cancel your plans for the evening – not that I have any – and guide the Sanderson family towards good decisions that will give them no regrets in the days to come.
I sneak a glance at my watch.
‘So if we collect Alice’s body now?’ I say gently. ‘I can arrange cremation and we could scatter the ashes on Saturday. Does that look like the best plan?’
Three faces nod trustingly back at me.
‘I’ll do my utmost for Alice,’ I promise. ‘And for you all. Shall we get started on the paperwork?’
Funeral Number Two
††††
In Memoriam
ALICE SANDERSON
2008–2019
††††
‘It was love at first sight. From the moment our eyes met, little Alice totally stole my heart. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Bringing her home then watching over her for hour upon hour, far too excited to sleep. Bewitched by her adorable face, and those intelligent, all-knowing black eyes. They were her finest feature. Alice loved life. And life loved Alice. Hers was a short life well lived, and I shall always be grateful for the wonderful adventures we shared.’
Barclay Banks had attended three previous funerals, but none had been like this.
The opportunity had presented itself when his friend Roger called to cancel their sailing date. The family spaniel had met an untimely end in the jaws of a Rottweiler, Roger explained. His mother was refusing to let the vet send its body for cremation, and he couldn’t really bugger off and leave her to it.
Before Barclay knew quite what he was doing, he had recommended Happy Endings. Partly because he’d been curious as to whether Nina would be willing to take on a pet funeral, but mostly because he needed to see for himself if she was any good at her job. That, at any rate, had been his excuse.
‘Just don’t tell her I sent you,’ he warned Roger.
‘How so?’
‘It’s a business thing. If you let me have a full report, I’ll pick up the bill.’
Roger had needed no further persuasion.
Now Barclay sat deep in thought, only half-listening while Roger’s mother continued her eulogy. ‘You might remember that time we travelled to Sweden to see the Northern Lights, and how Alice was invited to join the huskies as they raced across the frozen tundra,’ she was saying. ‘Truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And only three years ago, we climbed Ben Nevis side by side, raising over seven thousand pounds for Great Ormond Street Hospital. By the time we got to the top, I was utterly exhausted. But Alice … she was barely out of breath and eager to do it all over again. I shall always be grateful we had eleven fantastic years together until the day she was—’
For the first time, the woman’s voice faltered. She looked down at the grass, grinding her three-inch heels into the yielding earth and fighting for composure until she was calm enough to continue.
‘All I will say is this. Alice had a sense of adventure few of us are fortunate enough to possess. She lived life in the moment. She made friends easily. Too easily … Sweet Alice trusted everyone who crossed her path. And that’s what got her …’ The woman removed her dark glasses, produced a dainty white handkerchief from her pocket and continued resolutely. ‘I know people are saying this was an accident. Just a tragic accident. But so far as I’m concerned, my darling baby girl was murdered.’
Barclay watched Roger race to the side of his youngest daughter, who had begun to wail the moment her grandmother said the ‘m’ word. The sadness and the sincerity of those who were gathered to mourn Alice made him feel like the voyeur he was.
Barclay swung round in his chair, took another swig from the bottle of Peroni that was keeping him company during the ceremony, then forced his eyes back to the computer screen on the makeshift desk – twelve bricks and a sturdy wooden plank – in front of him.
Ah! There was Nina, walking discreetly behind Roger and his family. The moment he saw her, Barclay knew the outrageous amount of money he’d paid a ‘security expert’ to rig up the sophisticated webcam and sound system that was live-streaming the funeral here to his hideaway was money well spent.
Nina! He’d been such a jerk. Whatever had possessed him? Especially when it had all been going so well. What had started out as just another piece of family business was turning into something entirely different. He’d known from the moment he heard Zoe bitching about how Nina had turned up at The Beauty Spot requesting a manicure that she would be no pushover. But Barclay hadn’t expected his – frankly – wise advice about moving Happy Endings to a more suitable location to be dismissed out of hand. Especially when he’d gone to the trouble of taking her all the way to Paris to butter her up.
Nina! He’d presumed she knew who he was. Most people in Primrose Hill did. What had taken him by surprise was the way that when she found out, she clearly didn’t give a damn. Unlike every other woman he knew.
‘You’re the playboy brother!’ Nina hadn’t meant it as a compliment, and it only made him like her all the more. He couldn’t get her out of his head. Hence today’s exercise in … well, he’d justified it to himself as further research. But even though he could fool his father, ther
e was no point in deceiving himself.
Back on the computer screen, the eldest of Roger’s three daughters was speaking. ‘Alice was born six months before me, so she’s been in all of our lives forever.’ The girl’s sisters nodded solemnly. ‘I can’t believe we’ll never see her again. Sunday walks will never be the same. But at least Alice died quickly, doing something she loved.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Barclay mumbled to himself. He thought about the report Roger had delivered to him a couple of hours before the funeral began.
‘Nina’s been absolutely bloody brilliant,’ Roger had declared. ‘Nothing’s too much trouble. Hadn’t realised this is her first funeral, but if this is anything to go by, she’s going to be a huge asset to the neighbourhood.’
Not exactly what Barclay had wanted to hear. But at least poor little Alice and her brutal demise had given him the chance to spy on Nina.
Or rather, to observe her at work. There was no way he could have attended the funeral in person, so watching from the privacy of his father’s Chalcot Square basement was the perfect alternative. It also gave him a chance to do a sneaky Saturday check-up on the works in progress – the gold bloody cladding had been cocked up beyond belief.
Nina!
‘Your turn now,’ Roger was saying to his youngest daughter, who pulled out a piece of paper from her bag, and began.
‘Alice stole more than Grandma’s heart,’ she said. ‘There were sausages … toilet rolls … and remember last year, when she got into the kitchen and ate her weight in Christmas goose?’ The mood at the ceremony was lifting, Barclay noticed, with smiles being exchanged. ‘We’re all very sad that Alice has gone to heaven, but we know she’ll be feasting on geese every day now. And steak. And as many biscuits as she wants. Always.’ The girl walked the short distance across the grass to her grandmother and gave her a big hug.
Barclay watched Nina place a narrow cylindrical tube into the old woman’s hands. The ashes, presumably. Nina was like a stage manager, he thought, making sure everyone was on their mark and all the props were in place. ‘So let’s all take Alice on her final walk,’ she said softly.
Barclay moved closer to the computer screen, as if to listen better. Pity the webcam didn’t have a zoom function. Nina looked gorgeous. Not in that designer-clad-obviously-very-expensive-Darling-You-Look-Fabulous way he associated with Zoe and her friends. Nina had … there was just something about the way she radiated – for want of a better word – goodness.
Imagine dedicating your life to helping other people come to terms with their grief. Barclay knew he wouldn’t last five minutes. Not that Nina had said too much about her work, despite his best attempts to get her talking.
‘Nina!’ He wanted to say her name aloud, and he realised he just had.
That stupid crack about sex in the back of a hearse. There’d been no point trying to explain, telling Nina that whenever he felt himself on the verge of an important emotional moment – in the sort of situation where other people manage to let their feelings show – he always sabotaged himself by saying something utterly inappropriate. Maybe it was just as well. He had a job to do. No point letting feelings get in the way of what needed to be done, and he wasn’t exactly short of female company.
Barclay drained the remainder of his Peroni in two deep swigs while drinking in the sight of Nina bending down to collect a bunch of balloons that were about to be released on the summit of Primrose Hill, each one bearing a handwritten message that honoured the eventful life of Alice Sanderson.
26
‘Here’s to Happy Endings!’
I pronounce the toast and clink champagne flutes across the table with Edo and Gloria. Chopper nods his approval. Actually, his head’s bobbing up and down while he destroys a pig’s ear, his favourite low-carb snack.
Gloria goes to the oven to see how our celebration meal of roast beef with all the trimmings is coming along. She opens the door and prods the sirloin with a meat thermometer.
‘Another twenty minutes, and we’re there,’ she says. ‘Who’s going to whisk the batter for the Yorkshire puds?’
Edo shoots up to do her bidding, pausing only to top up our glasses. I stay sitting at the table, reflecting for a moment about the funeral.
No, there was nothing I could have done better. I’d accompanied Roger and his mother to the vet to do the paperwork and when I saw little Alice, I’d been shocked by the state of her. Small wonder the vet was so keen to send her straight for cremation.
As things turned out, Alice became the first corpse to ride in my blue van. I’d spent the next three hours cleaning her up, stitching multiple wounds – concealing the worst of them with cosmetics – washing and shampooing her stiff little body, then drying, brushing and combing her hair before snuggling her into a cashmere blanket supplied by Roger, who also brought along her basket. By the time Lydia saw her beloved pet, Alice looked as though she was asleep.
I’d kept Lydia company through the night while she said goodbye to Alice. A night filled as much with laughter and stories about Alice’s deeds and misdeeds – she’d once chewed right through the rear seatbelt of the family Volvo, in protest at being left in the car while the rest of the family went shopping – as with sadness and the numbing shock of the dog’s horrible end.
I knew from experience that grief would come soon enough. Lydia had seemed pleased when I invited her to join Chopper and me on a walk next week. It would be a chance to see how she was coping without Alice, and Roger had asked me to gently explore whether Lydia would welcome the idea of a new puppy.
Bugger. Up until now, I’ve had precious little time to think about Barclay Bloody Banks. Yet here I am on a Sunday night, celebrating the fact that Happy Endings is – at long, long last – a real, functioning business. And all of a sudden, he’s turned up right here in my head.
Barclay.
The worst thing was how much I’d liked him. He intrigued me, recklessly riding his scooter in the park like a scruffy Herbert one day, then turning out to be some high-powered corporate type complete with his own helicopter. The insolvency lawyer thing wasn’t the most compassionate of occupations but he said he worked hard. He’d been great company and there’d been real chemistry between us. I hadn’t imagined that. I might even have been prepared to overlook the fact he was Zoe’s brother. But—
‘Nina! Didn’t you hear me?’ Edo is waving a fistful of napkins in my direction. ‘Are you going to lay the table?’
‘Sorry. I was miles away.’
‘Planning a blog piece about your first funeral? Have you thought about cornering the market in animal funerals? There’s a huge demand for it. You could be, like, a Doctor Doolittle for dead pets. Awesome!’
I give Edo an enigmatic smile, decide not to point out Doctor Doolittle’s job was to keep animals alive, and instead start organising placemats, plates and cutlery.
Barclay.
Our helicopter ride back to London had been notable for its long periods of silence punctuated by frosty, stilted conversation. Our earlier, easy camaraderie had evaporated. So he’d turned out to be one of those guys for whom death was an aphrodisiac. Life-affirming, or so they always say. Like any undertaker, I’ve had my share of post-funeral propositions, but sex in the back of a hearse? Bloody uncomfortable. And no, I’m not talking from personal experience.
I line up three sets of knives and forks with geometric precision and contemplate folding the napkins into swans. Or roses. I go with the swans, although ten minutes later, my handiwork is instantly undone, and the three of us – four, if you count Chopper, which we definitely do – begin our slap-up meal.
Gloria and Edo begin to talk about a project in Liverpool where a bunch of artists, gardeners and architects combined to win the Turner Prize, redeveloping part of Toxteth in the process.
‘I’d love to do something like that in London,’ Gloria declares.
‘Yes. But is it really art?’
‘If it’s useful, who cares?’
‘Joshua Kent, for one. He’s still furious. Convinced the Turner should have gone to the woman whose installation consisted of ten chairs draped with fur coats. Genius!’
Gloria and I choke on our wine. I think Edo’s being deliberately provocative, but I’m only three-quarters listening.
Barclay.
He’s sent me two texts since we returned from Paris. One with some rubbish about how I’m always welcome to come and talk to him if I need help with my business. The other asking if I’d care to accompany him to either the Royal Opera House or the Kilburn Bingo Hall – my choice – next week. I have silently rejected all three invitations.
‘So the dude I’m visiting at the hospice – he’s called Dele Dier – we’ve been having fantastic conversations about art. He was telling me about this new installation in Seoul. Involves a live goat lying up to its neck in a jasmine-scented bubble bath.’
‘Sounds more entertaining than the man who spent a million euros on a print of an organic potato,’ Gloria says.
‘Really?’ Edo is impressed.
‘It was Irish. The potato. The photographer is someone famous.’
‘He’d have to be. Is it the guy who shoots everything on a black background? Kevin someone?’
Gloria shrugs.
Chopper contentedly slurps shallot-and-rosemary-infused gravy from a bowl the size of a tractor tyre.
I refresh our glasses.
Barclay!
How come he’s the person I most want to tell about Alice’s funeral? This is ridiculous.
‘Edo,’ I say. ‘How are you finding the hospice?’
‘It’s a great place … considering. I was a bit scared about going there,’ Edo confesses. ‘But the staff and the volunteers are fantastic. As for Dele Dier – he’s very angry about being there. Says his illness is interfering with his legacy to art. Although he certainly doesn’t look like he’s about to die.’
I hear the question behind Edo’s statement. ‘Some people spend weeks, months even, in a hospice,’ I say. ‘Depends on circumstance.’