by Jane Riley
I’m not sure how long it was after Lily’s death – it could have been six days, six weeks or even six months – when Mum began gathering together all the reminders of the daughter she had lost. I caught her one day in Lily’s bedroom with a neatly folded pile of clothes, soft toys and linen stacked on the floor. What I remember most was the pink, so much pink, the same colour as the baby pink layer in a liquorice allsorts square.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked her. I began looking through the toys for no other reason that I can remember than nosiness.
‘Stop that, Oliver,’ she said. ‘We don’t need them any more.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why. Go and play with your Lego.’ When she turned and stuck her head back in the chest of drawers, I eyed a grey elephant, which stood out amidst the pink, shoved it under my top and ran out, not to play with the Lego but to hide the elephant behind the row of toys on a shelf above my bed. For years to come, the happiness I got from that elephant was disproportionate to what a child should usually get from a soft toy. It wasn’t so much childish glee at deceiving Mum – although I felt a little of that as well – so much as joy at safeguarding a little piece of Lily within the family.
Now, it seemed, I was back to deceiving Mum. For, a few weeks after Tessa Ritchie walked out, I lied to her again. I didn’t like lying, but I didn’t want her to worry. I told the same lie to Jean, too, who queried why we were losing customers rather than gaining them. I couldn’t bear to tell them that some of our new clients were unfairly taking exception to some of my suggestions – suggestions I felt were perfectly reasonable, if not wonderfully imaginative, which meant we were not only losing business but money. Why couldn’t these people embrace out-of-the-box thinking? One particular gentleman, with whom I thought I was getting on amicably, became affronted when I asked, after learning that he imported fireworks, whether he’d like his wife shot into the sky in a rocket. It was a marketer’s dream scenario.
‘It’s new into the country,’ I said. ‘A handheld ash-scattering gun. They’re from – no surprise – America. But hear me out,’ I said, when his face distorted into an expression of disgust. ‘It will shoot your loved one’s ashes over twenty-one metres into the sky – or wherever you wish to project them. Just not at someone else or into an oncoming wind, of course. You can even add confetti.’ I smiled. You’d think I was the sales rep. ‘I can put you in touch with the company, if you like? My friend recently did a photo shoot for their promotional catalogue. He said they were “bloody awesome” – excuse my language.’
It was Andy who told me about them. He had bought two to keep hidden in the attic for when the time came. One for him and one for his new wife, Lucy.
The man looked at me; his skin had turned as grey as his wife’s. ‘Just because I deal with fireworks does not mean I want a whatever-it’s-called,’ he said.
‘You have to admit, it is appropriate.’ I winked. I can’t believe I winked. What was wrong with me?
He didn’t wink back. Instead, he left and took his wife with him.
Then I had an idea of my own. One which I thought I should patent or, at least, see if it was viable or not from a manufacturing perspective. Snow globes. Everyone loves a snow globe, don’t they? Even adults at Christmastime. A little shake and snow falls over a Christmas scene, taking you back to your childhood, romanticising the festive season. Who cared if it was summer? Snow globes were still popular. Well, imagine an ‘ash globe’ with a photo of a deceased loved one surrounded by things that represent them. You give it a little shake and their ashes flutter around them. It’d be like scattering someone’s ashes over and over, whenever you felt like it. There’s something in that idea, I thought. Something very saleable.
The problem was, no one else thought so.
Especially Mum, who overheard me mentioning it to another customer. I was hoping for third time lucky, three times over. You know, like three squared, because third time lucky the first time didn’t work.
‘Oliver, what are these ash globes you’re talking about?’ Mum asked.
‘It’s a new invention, Mum.’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘They don’t exist yet. I thought I could do one of Marie as a trial run.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I think we need better ways to remember people by, better ways in which to celebrate lives once lived.’
‘It’s insensitive, crass.’
I rubbed my bearded chin, which helped me think, and regretted having not been able to do so in the past when my chin was hair-free. ‘That’s pretty disparaging, Mum.’
‘Well, I don’t know what’s got into you, Oliver, but you haven’t been yourself lately and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the business is suffering.’
‘The business is fine. We’ve lost some customers, that’s all.’
‘Why don’t you take a break? Jean, Roger and I will manage.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve never taken a break before.’
But I was tempted. I went home that night and thought about Mum’s suggestion. I could try and be an explorer for a week. Go somewhere I’d never been before, which wouldn’t be hard, as there weren’t many places that I had been. I fantasised about Russia in winter. Reread an article from the weekend newspaper magazine on Peru. Imagined a boat trip down the Rhine. But then, who would I go with? Did I want to travel on my own, and was one week enough in which to become an explorer? I scratched my beard. Wondered if I should shave it off. Yet I still couldn’t be bothered doing that and thought of all the reasons not to take a break. There would be too many things I’d have to organise in advance, and then I’d worry about the business. It was too risky and reeked of the unknown. I might have been lonely at home but at least I had the comfort of an established routine to look forward to at the weekends, call-outs notwithstanding. In the end, the decision was taken away from me. Roger called in sick that afternoon.
‘I’ve had a bad bout of salmonella,’ he told me over the phone, his normally authoritative voice weak and drained. ‘Sorry, Oliver, it’s bad. I can’t hold anything down. The doctor says I need a week off work. I’m extremely dehydrated and losing weight as I speak.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Rog,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about work. Just get yourself better.’
I got off the phone, secretly pleased the decision had been made for me. Reason prevailed. My fantasies needed filing away, as usual.
Except when the time came for me to undertake a full embalming, I wasn’t sure whether to thank my father for making me learn the procedure, which meant I wouldn’t have to find a temporary replacement, or curse him for ruining my chance to have a holiday, just when I was coming around to the idea. In the end, I cursed both of them. Having done little body preparation or embalming of late, I had underestimated the benefits of Roger’s anosmia. The strength of my stomach was tested, my nose pushed to its limits, my fat fingers working to capacity. After the first one, I resolved to change my modus operandi. The best way to reduce my presence in the embalming room, I decided, was to employ the art of dissuasion, telling clients who asked about them that full-body embalmings were less popular these days, much more costly and bad for the environment. I also enlisted Jean’s help with the dressing and make-up application for those happy to take the option of temporary preservation.
Three weeks later, Roger still hadn’t reappeared. I was tiring of plugging noses and mouths as if I were patching up a draughty house and removing bodily fluids as if siphoning fuel from a car. Even Jean’s enthusiasm was beginning to wane and she, by her own admission, loved colour-coordinating lipsticks with nail polish and blow-drying hair. But she’d rather be doing it on herself than a dead person she didn’t know. Mum spent two days pressuring me into calling Roger, but I didn’t want to hassle a sick man – a man who was thin enough already without a stomach bug to help h
im lose weight.
In the end, Roger called. I was relieved at how much brighter he sounded.
‘You’re all better, then, Roger? That’s great news,’ I said.
‘Actually, I had to get worse to get better.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was starting to come right when I had a fall. I was in the kitchen in my slippers, and slipped on a dribble of water. Clonked the back of my head on the edge of the bench and got knocked out like a light. Great thumping lump on my noggin when I woke. Christine was going crazy, as you can imagine. She thought I would never open my eyes again. She didn’t think to check my pulse, I might add, but that’s by the by. What happened next is the best bit.’ He paused for effect. ‘My sense of smell has come back.’
My ideal embalmer was not so suited to the job any more.
‘It sounds extraordinary, I know,’ he continued, ‘but the doctor says this can happen sometimes. They’ve yet to fully understand it, but who cares? I can smell again, and I can’t tell you how wonderful it is. I thought I didn’t mind not smelling, but it’s a helluva lot better than I remembered. I’m just loving it. Christine’s cooking is a dream and now I understand what you thought of those vegetable juices I drank. They’re rank, really rank. I think it’s the beetroot.’
Roger didn’t stop. I had never known him to be so chatty. On and on and on he went about all the different things he had been smelling and tasting and how he had already put on weight, can you believe it?
‘That’s great, Roger,’ I said. ‘It’s amazing, a miracle you could say.’
‘Yes, Oliver, it’s a miracle.’
‘So . . .’ I started, wondering how enthusiastic he was about coming back, since it sounded as if he had spent the last week enjoying his new-found ability.
‘So . . .’ he repeated, ‘that’s the thing – I don’t think I can do my job any more. Well, I could but, quite frankly, I don’t want to.’
I made agreeable noises, even though my senses filled with the sullied sweet aroma of formaldehyde.
‘Let’s face it, I’ve given it a pretty good dash. Twenty-five years. It’s time to do something else.’
My heart sank, dropped straight to the bottom of my belly. ‘Of course it is. I completely understand.’
‘I’m really sorry, Oliver. I don’t want to let you down, but now that my smell is back my heart’s not in it any more. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all. You deserve to make the most of your reborn sense.’
‘Ha!’ He laughed. ‘Yes, you could say the “nose” have it.’
I held the phone away from my ear as Roger’s guffaws pummelled my eardrums.
‘I won’t leave you in the lurch. I’ll tidy up loose ends and all that. Although, just quietly, I’m looking forward to a trip to Italy where I can inhale pizza through my nose.’ He laughed again.
I laughed with him. I was happy for Roger yet I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy at his newly appointed embalming-free status and had an awful feeling that his departure was another nail in the coffin of my slowly dying business.
The Competition
Still grieving for Marie, I was now mourning the loss of my embalmer and spent the next few days praying that no one wanted embalming – prayers no funeral director should ever make. I even secretly typed up a job description for the ideal Clock & Son embalmer, despite Mum having decided we didn’t need to hire anyone new just yet, praising me for being ‘perfectly adequate’ and rejoicing in the money we would save. But I didn’t send it off, knowing it would be one deception Mum would find out about and that I didn’t want to be party to her reaction when she did. Writing it behind Mum’s back was naughty enough and elevated my blood pressure to a most unsatisfactory level, which required an immediate consumption of chocolate. Having run out of Mars bars, I had to make do with a Kit Kat finger.
It was when I was dusting my acrylic stationery holder and rearranging the paper clips so they lined up perfectly that she burst into my office like an exploding jack-in-the-box.
‘A new funeral home has opened!’ she cried. ‘A new funeral home on our turf!’ Exclamation marks flew off her like cartoon expletives.
I tried to calm her down and Jean rushed in with a biscuit, as if that were a cure-all for any crisis, but she wasn’t interested.
‘And it’s promoting a bargain deal,’ Mum said, slapping a flyer on my desk. Her chest rose and fell erratically, her eyebrows arched worryingly.
I picked up the flyer. Plan now before it’s too late. Get the funeral you so desire and save, it said.
‘They’re undercutting us, Oliver. We won’t survive if this carries on. I’ve done our books, too. We’re losing money, and now this!’ She picked up one of my pens and began stabbing the desk.
‘Oh dear,’ Jean said, leaning over my shoulder to read the flyer. ‘Do you think they’re bulk-buying coffins?’
‘If you ask me,’ said Mum, ‘it’s a one-size-fits-all funeral service designed to push people through at breakneck speed. They’re probably not even using coffins but doing some sort of bulk-burn bargain-basement deal.’ She gasped at the horror of this possibility.
‘Surely not,’ I said. It was too outrageous to even contemplate. Didn’t Mum realise I had enough on my mind, without something else to worry about?
‘Dreadful,’ Jean said. ‘It makes me want to swear.’
‘Swear all you like, Jean. Oliver and I are going to check them out. Come on, Oliver.’ Mum flapped a hand at me to hurry up. ‘I’ll show you where they are. It’s not far in the car.’
I really didn’t want to have to get up and take a trip in her car but felt I had little choice. Telling her I was still sad and very possibly depressed about Marie would have opened myself up to an interrogation I didn’t wish to have. So I gave Jean the flyer and followed Mum out of the door.
Mum had left her car – a small second-hand Nissan hatchback in red (‘So others can’t miss me,’ she said after its purchase) – in the middle of the small car park behind our building, leaving no one else the ability to either leave or arrive. I would have driven myself if I’d had the foresight to take charge. But before I knew it Mum had ushered me into the passenger seat, shut the door and jogged as best as a seventy-seven-year-old could to the driver’s side. Fumbling with the keys, brake and foot pedal as if she couldn’t remember the order in which to do things, she speedily – too speedily – lurched out of the car park.
‘Slow down, Mum,’ I said.
‘It’s alright. I’ve taken my blood pressure pills,’ she said.
‘Have you got some with you?’ I asked, lifting up the compartment between us behind the handbrake.
‘You’re not having any.’
‘I’ll need them if you keep driving like this.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop thinking of yourself and focus. There is a competitor on our patch. We need to decide on a plan of action.’
I looked out of the passenger window and watched pedestrians and shop fronts fly past, their clothes and street signage blurring and the colours blending and bleeding into each other, as if rain washing down the car window had turned everything into one big splodge. It was the perfect imagery for the way my life was turning out, and now, it seemed, the business. Having a competitor nearby just meant yet another thing to have to worry about. Mum’s fingers gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening, and she leaned into the wheel as if trying to get a closer view of the streetscape. She eased off the accelerator as we turned off the main road and into a quieter, semi-industrial street, with a row of original terraced houses on one side.
‘I know this street,’ I said.
‘Yes, your grandparents lived at number forty-three.’
Before my bike accident, when I was allowed, I’d ridden my bike along these flat pavements, riding to what was once a corner store, to buy caramel chews for Grandma. Mum would watch me from the front gate through Grandad’s binoculars all the way there and all t
he way back, never taking her eyes off me.
‘There it is,’ I said as we drove past the wine-coloured terrace with its rusting balcony railings and parched pot plant at the front door.
‘Forget your grandparents’ house,’ Mum said. ‘Your focus should be down there.’
I looked to where Mum was pointing. At the end of the street, where once there was a derelict building, shone a brand-new one, like a beacon of the future. I recognised the name – Green Light Funerals – as one of a chain of funeral homes with several offices in our city and around the country. Perched on top was a billboard the same size as the floor space of our entire reception, featuring a grinning middle-aged couple looking far too pleased with their alabaster teeth. Above them bold copy offered a supersized service of 24/7 caring for you and your loved one over and above anything else, and below it the words, Send off the dearly departed with a Green Light Funeral. It looked a slick little joint with its shiny mirrored glass frontage sparkling in the sun, poetically reflecting the sky and clouds above. The McDonald’s of the funeral world had landed on our territory, imposing itself on our independent family-run funeral home, which had been serving the community perfectly well for eighty years, thank you very much. I nearly dry-retched. We had never had to worry about others taking our business before; we had the market nailed, or so I had thought. How would we be able to compete with them? Was this it, then? Was this the beginning of the end? Was Clock & Son dying? Would there be no more comforting chats with cadavers to help me through?