by Jane Riley
‘Oh, Mum,’ I said.
‘Yes, Oliver,’ she said. ‘It’s not good.’
Maybe it was time to close down. Forget cost-cutting and having to do more embalming; we would all retire. Mum and Jean were of that age, after all. If only I had Marie to talk to and commiserate with. She would know what to do and, perhaps just as importantly, what to say to make me feel better. It was at times like these that I realised just how much Marie had been part of my life. She had been a true ally. I just hoped I had been the same to her.
‘Can we go back now?’ I said.
‘I think we should go inside, do some snooping,’ Mum said.
‘I’m not snooping. I’ve seen enough.’
‘Oliver! What’s got into you?’
‘I have to get back. I’ve got an appointment,’ I lied.
‘Well, alright then, but we need to decide what to do about these people,’ she said, reluctantly starting the car up again. ‘We need an action plan. We have to do something or we’ll be left behind.’
We drove back in silence and Mum, thankfully, let me mull over this discovery without imposing an action plan of her own. She knew I needed time to digest the new and unexpected, that I’d missed out on the Clock quick-thinking and spontaneity genes. She dropped me off on the high street with a pat on the knee and told me to, ‘Have a think and we’ll reconvene when you’ve done so.’
I got out of the car and waited at the lights to cross the road. I had never properly looked at our building from this perspective before. Usually my focus was on the pavement, watching for other feet, potholes and dog poo to avoid, my mind on other things entirely. I surveyed the building as if I were an impartial bystander and didn’t like what I saw. Compared to the new funeral home, Clock & Son had the facade of a weary old man, with its chipped corners and faded frontage. You could tell the building had once blushed with the virgin grandeur befitting its standing in the high street, but now it suffered from nearly one hundred years of ageing and, I had to admit, a dose of neglect. Some of its ilk could get away with a dash of dilapidation and still exude handsome heritage, but the Clock & Son building had simply seen better days. I couldn’t remember when it was last painted or the street signage updated. Even though my father had died and I had no son, I kept the business’s original name for ease of continuity. Since taking it over, I had changed nothing. I hadn’t thought I’d needed to.
But now I realised Clock & Son was one giant vacuum cleaner that hadn’t been emptied in decades. Perhaps I should never have taken it over in the first place. It wasn’t like I’d wanted it. ‘The Business’ had been forced on me against my will, which may sound histrionic, but it was true. And now I was proving the statistics correct. I, the third generation, was failing it. By the time I turned forty I could be an out-of-work, loveless, still-grieving funeral director who had been unable to keep the family business afloat.
What a dreadfully unsettling thought.
When the lights changed, I crossed the road and headed straight for the jelly bean jar in reception for an instant fix of sugary comfort, neglecting to notice a visitor sitting against the freshly plumped sofa cushions.
Candles
From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman stand up and reach out her hand. I stopped, turned.
‘Hi, I’m Edie,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping in without an appointment.’ She had a heart-shaped face, strawberry-blonde hair that bounced when she moved and a smile so large it stretched from cheek to cheek, as if trying to spread happiness further than her face would allow. What could I say? That, actually, I did mind? That I wasn’t in the mood to sweep the grieving off their feet with heart-warming words of consolation because I was grieving myself? That my business was doomed and her solitary funeral would do little to perk it back up again? Perhaps I paused too long before answering because Jean got in first.
‘It’s not a bother at all. Tea?’
‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ Edie said.
‘Jelly bean?’ I offered, showing her the jar.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Don’t mind if I do. It’s been a long day.’ I shook the jar to muddle the colours around and picked out two black jelly beans that had risen to the top. My favourite. I popped them into my mouth. ‘Come through to my office.’ I placed the jar back on the reception table and gestured for Edie to follow me.
‘How can I help?’ I asked, hoping I could turn this unplanned appointment into something swift and profitable. I promised myself I would say nothing to scare her away.
‘This is kind of unconventional,’ she said, as I brought up our funeral checklist on the computer. ‘You see, I’m just starting out and I won’t know if it’s got legs until I actually do it and I need someone willing to support me.’
I was about to ask what she was talking about when she continued.
‘I’ll explain. I’m a trained perfumer. When I say trained, I mean I have a diploma in aromatherapy and did an artisan perfume workshop up the coast. I’ve done a lot of fragrance mixing, too. I’m an expert mixer.’
I looked at her animated face and the smile I was not in the mood for and realised I should have turned her away in reception.
‘You mean no one has died?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no, sorry. I’m not here to organise a funeral.’
My lips stuck to my gums as I considered a response. I was unused to appointments without relation to a deceased. And right then, I didn’t feel like an appointment with anyone, let alone someone who was not offering a potential glimmer of business.
‘I’m a pharmacist by trade,’ Edie continued. ‘I work not far from here, at Kingsmith Pharmacy – you may know it? I’ve been there about five years. But my passion is smells. Beautiful smells. I thought how wonderful it would be to create them, then I had this idea and was intrigued.’
I opened my mouth to stop her but she was too quick for me.
‘I thought, what if you could recreate the smell of a loved one who had died so it felt as if they were still with you, as if they were really there in the room with you?’
‘Look, sorry to interrupt but . . .’
‘Please, hear me out. I’ll talk quickly, then it won’t take long,’ she said, so earnestly I couldn’t say no. ‘The more I thought about the idea, the more I wondered if it could be done. I decided the best way to embody a scent and have it truly around you is to put it in a candle. So I learned to make candles.’
‘Candles?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, that’s right, candles, and because the only person I know who has died and whose smell I can remember is my grandmother, I created a candle for her. She was all washed linen and roses and an oversweet perfume Mum knew the name of. So I mixed and blended and voilà, La Lumière d’Edna.’ Edie reached into her bag and produced a rotund candle with the name embossed on a white label and a black sketch of an angel wafting gaily above. ‘I am proactively harnessing the power of scent in the most sense-intense way possible. Here, have a smell.’
She lifted the lid. I tentatively sniffed, sceptical as to how you could bottle a grandma and what she might smell like when lit. A potent whiff of something I could only describe as a blend of talcum powder and cheap cologne overwhelmed my nostrils and tugged at my throat. I stifled a sneeze.
‘I know you didn’t know her, but that’s not the point. Mum says it’s her exactly. The stupid thing is, we don’t want to light it because then she’ll disappear.’ Edie sighed and replaced the lid.
I smiled. It was definitely time for Edie to go. ‘Thank you for introducing yourself . . .’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘It’s . . . intriguing.’ I looked at my watch.
‘It is?’
‘You said so yourself.’
‘I did?’
‘But it’s not right for us, I’m afraid. We need to stick to our core business.’
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave you my card. I’m happy to do a trial. Probably best
we do, to test the market, see whether customers like the idea.’ She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Oh, here it is.’ She placed a creased business card on my desk. ‘I haven’t totally decided on the name yet. I was thinking “Memory Candles” or “Angel Candles”, but I do like “La Lumière de so-and-so”.’
She bit a nail. I forced myself to look interested as I stood up. She rose, too, took one last gulp of her tea and asked me to think about it. ‘I mean, what else have we got left in the end but memories?’ she said as she left.
Not long ago, I would have jumped at such a scheme, especially one that was already thought out and ready to trial. But I’d lost interest in new schemes to razzle-dazzle customers, as they only seemed to scare them away. I’d experienced entrepreneurial disappointment and, with everything else going on, I wasn’t up to contemplating Edie’s candles, let alone trialling them.
Henry
I sat back at my desk and rested my head in my hands. What a day. What a terrible, upended day, which no amount of drawer tidying could possibly alleviate.
‘A new funeral to organise?’ Jean said, coming into my office.
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Oh dear. And what about your visit?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not good, Jean.’
‘Oh dear,’ she repeated.
‘How about we go home early today? What do you think?’
Jean opened her mouth to speak just as a man called out from reception, ‘Anyone here?’
‘This could be business,’ Jean whispered, her face lighting up.
I perked up for a minute, too, until I discovered it was Marie’s husband, Henry, whose flaring nostrils did not bode well.
‘There you are, you little . . .’ he said. The last time I had seen him was at the funeral, when, outwardly, he had appeared composed and was dressed as dapperly as he always was. But now his face was ruddy and blotchy, his eyes bloodshot and his hair below his ears. His shirt was undone to the sternum and the buttons wrongly matched their holes.
‘Everything alright?’ I said, going over to him, even though it was clear things weren’t alright. Had he come to complain about the funeral or our services, even though it had been nearly three months ago? He had seemed fine at the funeral, had been convivial, even. Maybe he’d bottled up his complaints and only now felt he could air them? We had worked so hard to make Marie’s send-off the best we could. Sarah, her assistant, had worked through the night on the flowers, Jean had changed caterers – going up a notch with the food spread, ditching single-layer one-flavour sandwiches for quadruple-layer multiple-flavour clubs, mini home-made pastry pies and handmade sweetmeats. I offered Henry significant discounts on the costs – even though I knew he could afford them – as I wanted to ensure Marie had the coffin she wanted, a top-of-the-line eco-friendly number with the most beautiful floral bouquets spilling over the top. If Henry hadn’t been happy with what we had done, then that was it. That really would be the end of Clock & Son. We had lost our touch. If I couldn’t get it right for Marie, then I couldn’t get it right for anyone.
‘Sit down, you twerp,’ Henry growled, surlier than I had ever seen him. He pushed me on to the sofa with a finger. Annoyingly, I went down as easily as a knocked matchstick tower.
‘Henry, I’m sorry if you’re dissatisfied with our services . . .’ I stammered.
‘I know what you’ve done.’ I detected daytime drinking, the cloying, stale smell of alcohol leaching from his skin.
‘We will refund you, won’t we, Jean?’ I suggested. ‘And we’d be happy to talk through your grievances to ensure we won’t make the same mistakes again. Believe me, customer happiness and compassionate service is very important to us. Would you like to come through to my office . . .?’
I got up, but Henry grabbed my tie and pulled me towards him. I nearly fainted from the fumes. Jean gasped. Our bellies touched and I couldn’t help but notice that his was distended, like mine, only it was taut, like a balloon about to pop. I wondered if he was so distraught with grief that nothing we could have done would have been good enough. That’s when I remembered Dad’s adage that one of the problems with being a funeral director is that you see the dead at their best and the living at their most wretched. Marie’s husband was a case in point.
‘Henry, please, can you let go of my tie? It’s my favourite.’ I laughed nervously, hoping to dampen his anger by lightening the mood. Instead, his lip curled in distaste rather than jocularity. I changed tack and went for empathy instead. ‘I understand you’ve gone through some tough times. You must miss Marie and I’m truly sorry about her passing.’
‘Oh, I know you are,’ he said accusatorially. ‘And I thought you were a decent guy.’ He ran a tongue over his teeth and blinked in slow motion. ‘Albeit a bit of softie.’ He yanked the tie with one hand so that I was close enough to count his pores. He swayed. I wondered if he needed the tie for support. But then he raised his other hand and said, ‘You’ve made me very angry, Oliver Clock.’
He wasn’t going to . . .? Was he? I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to look and braced myself for the full force of his fist.
‘What are you doing? You can’t do that.’ Jean’s voice was unusually high-pitched and flaky. ‘I’ll call the police. I’m going to call the police. Help!’ she called out, as if there were anyone else within earshot.
Henry relaxed his grip and lowered his arm. I opened my eyes. Henry stared back. Jean pulled an expression I had never seen her make before. If I wasn’t so shaken, I would have laughed. Jean couldn’t look intimidating if she tried.
Henry rolled his shoulders back and stuck his chest out. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘The man knows what he’s done. And I know what he’s done.’ He released the tie and pressed it against my chest so forcefully I lost my balance and landed on the sofa again, bouncing like a tennis ball – or maybe it was more like a basketball losing air.
‘That’s it, I am calling the police,’ Jean said. ‘This is a funeral home and we don’t tolerate violence.’
‘Calm down. I’m leaving,’ he said, and turned to go.
‘But wait,’ I said. ‘What have I done? I don’t understand. I thought this was about the funeral.’ I didn’t like resorting to pleading; it only reinforced my inferior position of ignorance.
He didn’t answer but walked out before I could find out any more, leaving behind the stench of animosity and fear.
‘Good grief,’ Jean said. ‘What was that all about?’ She fluttered a hand to her chest as if mimicking a speedy heart.
‘I don’t know, Jean, I really don’t know.’ I was no more enlightened than she was.
Pub Talk
As soon as Henry left, I locked the door and told Jean we were definitely going home early. She didn’t protest. I even told her to have the day off tomorrow if she wanted it and considered giving myself the day off, too, considering the stress of recent events and lack of any business. Jean nodded. She still looked pale and I felt bad she’d had to witness such an encounter with Henry. I was shaken by Henry’s wrath but equally perplexed as to what I had done to deserve it. It was most troubling to think we had disappointed Marie’s husband so much. If only – ironically – Marie had been around to ask. She would have been embarrassed by her husband’s behaviour, of that I was certain, but she may well have also said, ‘Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s been a little cranky of late’ or ‘He’s been having a stressful time at work lately.’ Or maybe not. Not even a beetroot dip and sesame-seed breadsticks walk-in-the-door snack could appease my disquiet. With little else to eat and unable to settle my fretfulness, I decided to call Andy to see if he’d be up for a drink at the pub.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I can meet you there at five on my way home.’
Brilliant. Andy could distract me from my business woes, as he loved being a problem solver, and I wouldn’t have to eat toast for dinner. I hadn’t intended to unload my concerns on to him as soon as we sat down, but I didn’t think Andy would mind. He was a go
od friend, a true mate. My best mate, if I thought about it, the one I had spent the most time with over the years, from school to flat-sharing and now living only a suburb away. He was the person I’d go to first in a crisis and I believed I was the same for him. We’d helped each other through the good times and the bad; we’d been each other’s confidants. Like the time his mother ended up in a coma and they thought she wouldn’t make it – I was the first person Andy called. Or when he met Lucy and after date three told me she was the one he was going to marry. Or when he asked me to help him try and dress more smartly (a pointless exercise, as we both knew ‘charmingly bedraggled’ was part of Andy’s DNA). And we were the last two bachelors that we knew. That is, until Andy got married last year and I was his best man. I couldn’t deny I felt a little envious of him then, and worried that my role as confidant had been bumped to second place. We may have been total opposites, yet somehow it worked – or maybe it helped make our friendship flourish.
So when he said, ‘Did you have a good day at the morgue?’ I told him how bad things really were at Clock & Son – no embalmer, minimal business, a new competitor, money worries and then Henry’s unexpected and unsettling visit.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s heavy. What are you going to do?’
I shrugged, felt the weight of despair on my scapulas. ‘I don’t know, Andy. The easiest thing would be to retire, to close Clock & Son before we go under.’ I stared into the depths of my beer bottle.
‘What? And throw the family business away? You can’t do that. Anyway, what would you do?’
I sighed. It all seemed too hard.
‘What does your mum think?’