by Jane Riley
Instead of changing the subject as I should have, I blurted out, ‘Do you miss Lily?’
I knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say, for the polishing cloth paused. You could virtually hear Mum’s teeth grinding. Nevertheless, I kept going, which was made all the easier because we were not sitting opposite one another making eye contact. All I wanted was the chance to talk about my sister.
‘It must have been so hard for you and Dad,’ I said. ‘I miss her and I didn’t really know her.’
The cloth made its way to the door. ‘Haven’t you got an appointment soon?’ she said, and walked out, buffing the door handle as she left.
And just like that, I never mentioned her again.
Waking to a storm-free, freshly scrubbed sky, I decided if I could say yes to a dance class, I could find a way to broach Lily with Mum again. There had to be a way. I just hadn’t found it yet. And, I thought, as I shaved for the first time in weeks, it was time to focus on resolution number four: saving the business. Mum was right, we had to find out more about the competition and so I would follow her suggestion and snoop.
I searched my wardrobe; I would go undercover. I would be like an anonymous food critic pretending to be someone else in order to critique a restaurant. I couldn’t risk the possibility of being spotted. How did I know that Green Light Funerals hadn’t already checked us out? What if that woman who came in three weeks ago had in fact been faking displeasure at our services and her dramatic postulations of grief were all a ruse? That she was not upset at the death of her husband but gleeful at finding out how bland and fusty Clock & Son was? What an outrage if that were true!
My blood pressure rose sufficiently for me to disregard the mess I was beginning to make, flinging any item of clothing I thought could successfully disguise me on to the floor. Do I wear the plaid golf shorts Andy once gave me? What about the painting overalls I bought five years ago when I’d thought of repainting the flat? Or should I just wear a suit with a two-pound-shop moustache and sunglasses? The character options were endless. But I had to remember I wasn’t going to a fancy-dress party. This was serious. This was the future of my business.
I settled on a baseball cap, sunglasses, ancient jeans that bagged around my bottom and an oversized American football top an old schoolfriend once brought me back from the States as a joke. I would refrain from ironing any of it. No one would think it was me. I flipped the cap backwards. Even better. Not only did I not look like a funeral director on his day off, I resembled a middle-aged rapper. I re-dressed in my suit, carefully folded my disguise into a bag and took them to work. Operation ‘Snoop Clock’ was about to commence.
I found Jean on the footpath, staring at the broken business sign. The sun was out but the wood was still damp. Pedestrians moved around us as if we were invisible. The homeless sign was ignored.
‘The storm last night,’ I said.
‘Not just that,’ she said, and pointed.
Overnight, someone had graffitied the sign as it lay prone and vulnerable on the path. The ‘l’ of Clock & Son had been scribbled out, the crude nom de plume now something that could be used to describe various other businesses, but none a funeral home.
‘You’re kidding?’ I said.
Jean rubbed my back. ‘It had been there a very long time.’
‘I know, but did someone have to deface it?’
‘Look at it as a chance to freshen things up.’
We stood in silence for a moment, as if paying the sign our respects for a life well lived, decades of hard service.
‘We can’t keep it here,’ Jean said, rubbing my back again. ‘Doreen is coming in later. We can talk about it with her.’
We heaved and fussed with the sign before I realised it would be easier if it was in two pieces rather than one. I bashed the crack with a foot and raised a hand to passers-by in apology for them having to witness a man in a suit attacking a sign. Three stomps and it split. We took both pieces out the back into the car park and left them resting by the bins, turned inwards to avoid offending. Inside, I showed Jean the contents of my bag.
‘I thought I’d visit the new funeral home and pretend to be a customer, find out what they’re doing.’
‘In those?’ Jean said at my choice of disguise.
‘I don’t want to look like me.’
She started laughing. ‘Well, you certainly won’t. Have you told Doreen? She’ll want to come with you, you know.’
‘I know, but I think it’s better she doesn’t.’ She could be a liability; who knew what she’d say?
Jean nodded. ‘Another thing, Oliver. I’ve been meaning to ask – are you alright after Henry’s visit? Did you sort out what his complaint was about?’
I couldn’t possibly tell Jean the truth. Or, more accurately, I wasn’t prepared to tell Jean the truth, so I told her it was fine and that Henry wasn’t coping well. She gave me a quizzical look. She, like me, knew that grief and violence towards a funeral director were an uncommon combination, but she let my comments pass as if they were a perfectly reasonable explanation for Henry nearly ruining my favourite tie.
‘Alright then, I’ll leave you to change,’ she said.
Even from the end of the street, the neon Green Light Funeral sign shone like it was advertising an American diner. It was a brand-new yellow BMW next to my dusty old silver Astra. Even worse, its billboard signage made it look as if they were a dental practice spruiking teeth-whitening services. The fake happiness made me queasy. Funerals may be celebrations of life but you had to go easy on the joy and there was nothing worse than a smug funeral director. I pulled over and parked on the street, adjusted the cap and put on my sunglasses. As I walked up to the front door, I tried to summon the confidence of a man used to lying.
I kept my head high, wondering if I should swagger. I looked straight at the reception desk as I walked in and was so mesmerised by the young man with an unnatural-looking tan, telephonist headphones and enviable gnashers that I tripped up the white-tiled entrance steps, stubbing the big toe of my right foot. The sunglasses shot off my face and the cap frisbeed behind me. My disguise thwarted!
‘May I help you?’ the man said, peering over the countertop as if I were an inconvenience to his day.
I shoved the cap back on the right way round and affected nonchalance and a saunter but feared I was only limping.
‘I need to organise a funeral.’ I leaned on the smooth marble reception top – was it even real? It was a slick joint with plush velvet seating, gold table lamps and gold-rimmed glass side tables. The curtains shimmered like ice. Windows gleamed. It’s how I imagined Las Vegas to be.
‘I can make an appointment for you with one of our funeral directors,’ the man said, his hair stiff with greasy product, his skin taut and glossy.
‘It’s OK. I just had a few questions about the deal you have on,’ I said.
The man slapped a brochure – the one Jean had shown me – on to the counter and looked very pleased that I had asked about the deal. ‘This month, it’s two for one. Buy two coffins for the price of one.’
‘This month only?’
‘Next month there will be another deal.’
‘I see,’ I said, appearing interested. ‘But I only need one.’
‘You could buy one for yourself . . .’
Huh?
‘Or maybe the person who needs it now has a partner who might need one later.’
What?
The phone rang. The man took the call, his tone ingratiating, his words well practised, then returned his attentions to me. ‘All our coffins are flat-pack reinforced cardboard. They store neatly and can be recycled. Unless you want a cremation, of course. They burn beautifully. Our newest range is the do-it-yourself coffin, which you can decorate. They’re really popular.’
‘Decorate with what?’
‘Anything you like. Photos, drawings, poems. Then there’s the trimmings.’
‘Trimmings?’ I found myself moving away from the coun
ter, away from the man and his smarminess.
‘The added extras,’ he said. ‘For that wow factor. Everyone wants to impress, don’t they? Why should funerals be any different?’
Call me ignorant, but I hadn’t considered one-upmanship to be a factor in funerals. It was all too much to take in. I admired their coffin options but disliked the focus on the facade. Forget the wow factor, where was the care factor? I stopped by the table and chairs at the glass window frontage, where a large vase of peonies sat, full, fat, majestic-looking. I could get Jean on to these, I thought. They would be a welcome change to her current obsession with Australian natives. They looked so lovely, luscious even, that I couldn’t help but touch one of the petals. I gasped. They weren’t even real. I retracted my hand and shoved it into the pocket with my sunglasses.
‘Aren’t they great?’ the receptionist said. ‘We have bouquets of lifelike artificial flowers that can be rented. They’re much cheaper than real ones and it means we can use them again. If you’re really on a budget, we’ve got the Plastic Flora range, or if you’re prepared to spend a bit more, the Silk range. It’s not real silk but looks like the real deal. Like those peonies there. You can see all our bouquets in this folder.’
I didn’t want to. I’d seen enough. Marie would have been appalled. ‘What a choice,’ was all I could think of to say but, really, I was horrified. Not once had he asked me about the funeral I was organising, if I needed ice for my big toe, or shown any concern as to whether I might be grieving. And there wasn’t a single box of tissues in reception. The place was fake, glittering with flashy appearances of little substance, done on the cheap.
‘I can throw in a discount on the flowers, too, just for you.’ The man bared his teeth again, which brought to mind the face of a grinning chimpanzee. Lots of gum.
‘I’ll have a think about it,’ I said.
‘Let me see if a funeral director can meet with you now.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got to go. Anyway, my friend isn’t dead yet.’ I turned to leave. I couldn’t wait to get out.
‘Would you like to leave your name and number? Please, take a brochure.’
‘It’s OK, thanks,’ I said, and muttered something about being late.
I stepped out of the fluorescence of Green Light Funerals’ reception into the soft light of the day and air fresh with the smells of reality. In the car, I whipped off the cap and rested my head on the back of the seat.
Sometimes I wondered what it would have been like if Lily had grown up and inherited the business with me. We could have dropped the ‘Son’ and been The Clock Family Funeral Home or just Clocks’ Funeral Home. Maybe Lily would have been good with the books or the admin and could have taken over from Mum. Or maybe she’d have been more interested in embalming and could have become Clocks’ chief embalmer, a younger face than Roger and a female, no less. There weren’t enough of them in this industry. How different it might have been. Then again, maybe she’d have had no interest at all and could have had an easy escape being the second child and not a son. And I’d have been left in the same predicament as I now was, slumped in my car in bad clothes bemoaning how the competition had sprung up in the same street as my grandparents, as if they couldn’t leave either side of my family alone.
I may well have wallowed there for quite some time, had it not occurred to me. Wasn’t the whole point of Clock & Son that it was, and always had been, a family-run business? That what makes it is its history, its spirit, its tradition? Not only that, but hadn’t I made my mark, just like my father and his father before him? I had stamped sincerity and care all over the place – arguably more so than Dad, whose strict rule-following had been of a past era, and Mum, whose greatest asset was in practicalities and organisation. Yes, I had! And didn’t I have the bedside manner to rival any good doctor, with the soothing voice of a night-time radio presenter? And hadn’t I once been told that my ties brought unexpected cheer to an otherwise sombre encounter? Why hadn’t I realised this before?
‘That’s it,’ I said, hitting the steering wheel with a hand. ‘I’m taking them down.’
I clicked the seatbelt over me and started the car. Fuelled with a new optimism, I drove with haste out of the street and back to Clock & Son and made a mental note to add this new decision to my notebook of resolutions.
The Diary
It’s all very well saying you’re going to ‘take someone down’ – which was a statement better suited to the villain of an action film than a pacifist like me – but it’s another thing entirely knowing how to do it. I burst into reception as if I really were a movie villain with a crafty plan but, really, I had no idea what that plan was, which was just as well, because my mission was delayed as soon as I walked in the door.
‘What are you doing in those clothes?’ Mum said, looking up from the dusting. ‘It’s not very professional. Oh, and by the way, Marie’s husband paid us a visit. He bought you a present. Isn’t that nice?’
I stopped dead, looked at Jean. She shrugged.
‘He was going to post it until he found out the cost,’ Mum continued. ‘It’s over there.’ She pointed the feather duster in the direction of a package wrapped in brown paper on the reception desk.
My stomach did a back flip. Mum followed me to where Jean sat.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ She fluttered the feather duster over the parcel. Jean sneezed. Mum apologised.
I picked up the package and tucked it under my arm. ‘I’ll open it later,’ I lied.
‘I think you should open it now,’ Mum said, following me into my office. ‘Perhaps it’s a belated thank-you present for our services.’
She twirled the duster, exposing a hand dappled with sun spots. The package was burning a hole in my armpit.
‘Who knows?’ I said, even though I knew exactly what I was holding.
I sat at my desk and turned on the computer. ‘Sorry, Mum, I’ve got a lot to catch up on.’
‘I can’t imagine what. It’s been as quiet as a fully booked morgue.’
I typed an email to no one in particular as Mum watched, her thickened ankles rooted to the spot.
‘You still haven’t told me why you’re in those clothes?’
‘I will, don’t worry,’ I said, continuing to type gobbledegook.
Mum tsked and turned to go. I resisted the urge to leap up and shut the door behind her, which would only have aroused her curiosity even more. Instead, I reached for the scissors and, with the parcel on my lap under the desk, gently cut open one end. The diary slid out from between a layer of bubble wrap. A letter dropped to the floor. I wondered at a man who bothered to use bubble wrap on something he didn’t want. I picked up the note.
You may as well have this, now that I’ve been unfortunate enough to read it. I’m trying to turn my life around and have joined Alcoholics Anonymous. As part of the programme, we’re supposed to make amends to those whom we’ve wronged and do something symbolic to put the past behind us. I could argue that you should be doing the same to me but, as that wouldn’t be in the spirit of things, I won’t. I didn’t mean to wrong Marie and I didn’t mean to wrong you (although you deserved it). My symbolic act is to give you her diary. Right now, I don’t want it hanging around. Henry.
I ran my hand over the soft, worn leather. Pressed the diary to my nose, breathed in Marie. Buttery, earthy, raw.
‘I can’t hear much typing,’ Mum called out.
I shoved the journal on to my lap and started typing again, letting my fingers run over the keys as if I were a speed typist, but all I could think of was the diary. When I heard Mum and Jean engage in conversation, I pulled it out and opened it, not at the beginning, but at a random spot towards the end.
Tuesday
He’s drinking again.
Friday
I surprised a client with an arrangement I’ve never done before with poppies and gumnuts. They really loved it, so I think I’ll do it again, and maybe experiment with other combinations
of Australian natives and traditional English flowers.
Saturday
I didn’t go into work today. Sarah covered for me as I didn’t feel well. I still don’t, really. It’s probably just fatigue. As usual, Henry isn’t much use.
I flicked through some more pages.
Sunday
Henry was on better form today. He said he wasn’t going to drink any more and I want to believe him, I really do. For the whole day I pretended it was true and we had a great time, just like the old days. We went for a long walk, had lunch by the beach, saw a movie. It was perfect.
Tuesday
Well, that didn’t last long! Am I surprised? Henry is back to his usual self, but worse. I don’t know how much he’d drunk, but he was staggering around the house like a new-born giraffe trying to stand up, walking into walls and knocking over the living-room lamp. We started laughing. Well, he did, and I joined in nervously, as if it was something to laugh about.
Wednesday
I met up with Oliver today. What a sweetheart he is. We have a lot of funerals on at the moment yet he’s so incredibly calm and generous at letting me be creative with the flowers. Sometimes I get carried away, but he’s happy to convince customers they should go with my ideas. He’s always patient and attentive with the poor souls who are grieving. It takes a special person to do his line of work.
Friday
I was with Oliver again today. We were discussing the long-lasting attributes of gladioli, of all things, when I nearly told him how much I loved him. That, in fact, I have been truly in love with him for the last ten years. I can’t believe it! It was the caring way he listened and made a joke about whether Dame Edna was as knowledgeable about her favourite flower as I was. Thank goodness I stopped myself. I mean, I’m married. I don’t really know why I’m thinking these things. I’m like a teenager all over again. Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis.
I took a deep breath, had to look away. Was this what childbirth was like? Painful, joyous torture? Yet, like the process of a baby being born, there was no turning back; I had to keep on reading. But the next line stopped me once again.