by Jane Riley
Inside, the Latino Danza Studio hummed with a motley bunch of salsa virgins and the catchy rhythm of Latin-American music. Caroline let her body move with the beat. I tried tapping a foot.
‘Have you danced before?’ she said.
I thought of the waltz Marie and I had shared in the church. ‘Not officially,’ I said.
‘Me neither, apart from some ballet as a child. But don’t worry, it’s a beginners’ class.’ She closed her eyes, her body undulated, the skirt flicked.
I tentatively gyrated. Tried to loosen my hips. I toe-tapped, finger-snapped. But already I could feel myself getting out of sync, continually a click behind the beat. I feared my body would go into shock and my idea of dancing the night away would result in a frozen shoulder or a pulled hamstring. Yet, here I was. I had turned up. I was going to give it a go.
‘Ooh, here’s Ricardo,’ Caroline cooed. ‘He’s the teacher. Come on.’ She grabbed my hand and led me away from the wall as Ricardo’s rolled ‘r’s and lithe hips seduced us into thinking we’d be dancing like him in no time.
For the next hour I was pushed and pulled as if being made to shuffle dust around the dance floor like a vacuum cleaner, hip-touched disconcertingly by Ricardo and bossed about by Caroline as if I were a disobedient dog unwilling to be trained, but I gave it my all. I may have twirled after others twirled, my feet one foot behind the others’, but I didn’t mind. I was doing my version of the shimmy in celebration of being there in the first place. Of my new venture. Of taking charge without Mum knowing.
When the class was over, Caroline squealed – it was the only way to describe her delight. Then she brought up my bow-legged shuffle with a chuckle, which I didn’t think was necessary, but I laughed with her in the interests of conviviality and tried not to be offended. I could have made a joke about how she resembled a rabbit in heels, all fluff and plumpness, yet I wasn’t that kind of a guy. Nor, in fact, did I mind. I had to admit I found her beguiling. What’s more, I was in full admiration of her apparent ability to not worry about what others might think of her, a trait that made me secretly envious.
I leaned against the wall to get my breath back. Caroline practised a solo move, enjoying the swirl of her skirt, then slipped off her dancing shoes and replaced them with white trainers. ‘I must have easily burned off the birthday cake we had at work today,’ she said.
‘The stress of merely thinking about doing it worked for me,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Well, I appreciate you coming with me. Shall we get something to eat?’
Never one to turn down the offer of food, I said yes. Outside, the sky glowed bright blue in the half-sun, half-moonlight, midway between day and night. A bus hurtled past, teenage girls squawked and a pair of flying foxes jetted across the skyline. The smell of sizzling garlic from a nearby Italian restaurant spun out on to the road and threaded its way along the footpath, wound around road signs and suffocated a stray cat.
‘Hey, listen,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let Ricardo see, but I bought a packet of ciggies. I know I shouldn’t but I couldn’t resist. Thought we could have one as a treat?’ She glanced around furtively and reached into her handbag as if pulling out a bag of illicit drugs.
‘Not for me,’ I said.
‘Oh, come on. One won’t hurt.’
‘Sorry, it’s not really my thing.’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
As she opened the packet and set a cigarette alight, I pulled out my phone.
‘Miss anything?’ Caroline said.
‘Dead quiet.’
She chuckled. ‘It must be weird, you know, being around death all the time.’
‘You get used to it. At least the dead are more predictable than the living.’
She pulled a face.
‘Sorry.’
‘Stop apologising.’ She blew smoke into the sky.
I almost apologised again. I think it was nerves. Was I nervous because I had accepted an extension of the date? Or was I scared about what I had started today, for what the future may hold?
‘OK, what do you feel like?’ she said. ‘We could get one of those gourmet burgers down the road? I love their sweet-potato fries, don’t you?’
What a question! Of course I had a penchant for sweet-potato fries, and food always calmed my nerves. She took my hand again and, if my muscles hadn’t been filling with lactic acid, I would have skipped with her down the road, a man on a first date, having achieved a new resolution and delighted to no longer be dancing.
More Spontaneity
The next day I had a swing in my step only dancing – awkward or otherwise – could induce. I had gone out of my comfort zone again! Caroline was proving excellent practice in this regard and, if there were to be similar encounters, I resolved to make the most of her availability. I was also pleased that, since she had suggested a post-dance meal, she hadn’t been greatly put off by either my inability to master salsa footwork or my dodgy dance clothes. The closeness of the dancing reminded me what it was like to connect with a living woman, even if it was tinged with sadness that I couldn’t have learned salsa dancing with Marie. With a sashay of laissez-faire in my loins, I arrived at work and surprised Jean with a takeaway coffee and an apricot pastry.
‘You’re very chipper,’ she said, tearing open the bag at her desk. Today’s brooch was a silver flower with sapphires in its centre, a fortieth-wedding present from her husband.
‘Oh, you know . . .’
‘I don’t know if I do.’
‘I went dancing last night.’
‘Dancing? Not on your own, I presume?’ She looked at me over her glasses. The raised eyebrows were either a sign of her incredulity at my hip-swinging adventures or at having a mysterious dance partner. Most likely both.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Really?’
I smiled.
‘Is she nice?’
I smiled again. I didn’t wish to disappoint Jean by divulging that my interest in Caroline had nothing to do with romance, so I said nothing.
‘Keep me updated, won’t you?’ She took a bite of pastry. Her mauve shoulders sighed, then she said, ‘You never told me how your visit to our competitor went.’
I looked at Jean. She was tickling retirement age now. Having started working at Clock & Son when my grandfather was still around – part-time when her children were young and then full-time when they got older – she was as much a part of the family and the business as any of us. Although, unlike my real mother, she was someone I felt comfortable talking to about things that might be troubling me. She was more open to chatting, better attuned to her emotions. Yet now, I realised, I hadn’t told Jean anything about recent events.
‘I’ll be honest, Jean, I didn’t like sleuthing and didn’t like what I found,’ I said, and told her about the faux flowers, glitzy decor and compassionless receptionist. ‘I know we have to accept the competition is here to stay but I’m not sure what to do about it.’
‘Have you talked to Doreen?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You know, Oliver, I do believe that you, as the next generation, can carry it on. The business may have been around longer than both of us put together – even longer if you include your great-grandfather’s coffin-making expertise. But sometimes change is necessary and I think now is your time to shine. Your mother will come around to any ideas, I’m sure she will.’
‘Thanks, Jean.’ I gave her shoulder a squeeze and she patted my arm.
‘Why don’t we do a survey?’ she suggested.
‘Survey of who?’
‘The general public.’
‘People out there?’ I pointed in the direction of the street.
‘Yes, why don’t I type up some questions?’ Jean seemed chuffed with her idea and went back to reception. I was glad to have her support, even if I wasn’t sure how a survey could help us. What would we ask, and would anyone really want to talk about funerals?
Pleased to know Jean was
on my side, I celebrated by cleaning my desk. I wiped away dust from the computer screen, flicked off a large crumb from yesterday’s sandwich that was wedged between the numbers eight and nine on the keyboard, and tipped out other blobs of indiscriminate bits and bobs. I thought about how I hadn’t told Mum about the candles or my sleuthing. I was trying out something new and actually quite liking it. When a veterinary practice rang asking if we offered funeral services for pets, I was reminded of the embalming job ad I had written. To be honest, to enact resolution number four – save the business and let me focus on what I did best, what we needed was an embalmer, not a survey. I found the job description and reread it. Then it occurred to me: in all my years as a funeral director I’d never had to recruit anyone before. All our employees had been hired by Dad, myself included. And it made me wonder whether what I had penned was acceptable and how, when the time came, I would conduct the interview. What questions should I ask? Quick, Dad’s Folder of Systematic Funeral Protocol! Wasn’t there a section on staff recruitment? Indeed, there was. I thanked Dad for his attention to detail and foresight and amended the job description in light of his instruction. Then, without giving myself a chance to reconsider, I emailed it to the Institute of Embalming and a recruitment agency. More spontaneity!
Then Jean called out, ‘I’ve sent you some survey questions. I’m just popping out now.’
Jean’s questions were extensive. What do you imagine when you think of a funeral home? Do you prefer wood panelling or mock marble; fake flowers or real ones? How important do you think music is? Have you thought about your own funeral? Have you heard of Clock & Son Funeral Home? Would you follow us on Facebook if we were on there? What do you think of our building – what’s your first impression? It made me nervous to think what some of the answers might be. What if fake flowers won hands down? Would we have to offer them, too? I would have to tell Jean when she came back that a survey may not be a good idea.
I cleaned some more. Time drifted and Jean still wasn’t back yet. What was she doing? Her mobile was on the desk so I went outside to try and find her. I scanned the pavement. No sign. I walked to the kerb and looked across the road. There she was, a clipboard in one hand, the other reaching out to passers-by like a granny evangelist recruiting members. Every so often she caught someone’s attention and, as they politely stopped and listened, she scribbled on the clipboard.
I called her name. Waved an arm. Everyone else heard but her. I jogged to the pedestrian crossing, my tie trying to catch Jean’s attention, pushed the buzzer and waited, all the while watching Jean approach strangers, arms gesticulating, the brooch glinting whenever she turned and a ladder creeping stealthily up the back of a stockinged leg. Cars ambled, nose-to-tailed. Pedestrians accumulated. They nose-to-tailed, too. Finally the traffic stopped. I strode ahead of the crowd and got to her, out of breath.
‘Jean! What are you doing?’
‘Hello, Oliver,’ she said. ‘What a response I’m getting! Except there are too many questions. People lose interest around question number ten.’ She looked as pleased as Mr Johnson had when I’d finished prepping him.
‘Good grief,’ was all I could muster.
She lurched towards a man coming in the opposite direction. ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I took a moment of your time? I’m from Clock & Son Funeral Home across the road there.’ She pointed in the direction of our building. ‘I know death is a dreadful business but we want to make the transition as easy and welcoming for everyone involved. Would you have a minute to answer some questions in the interests of customer service?’
I looked away, pretended I wasn’t with her. People parted around me.
When she finished with one, she started on another. I looked at my watch. I shouldn’t have left the place unattended and I hadn’t brought my phone.
‘You go.’ Jean nudged me. ‘I’ll do a few more. It’s quite fun! Back soon.’
‘But I wasn’t sure . . .’ My words were left hanging as she walked off. Jauntily. With purpose. The clipboard swinging. Next target: a girl guzzling a milkshake. I couldn’t help but admire Jean’s spunk yet feared she was rushing in without proper planning. Not only had we not discussed the survey but she had neglected to do due diligence on whom she was targeting. Her eagerness verged on overpowering, especially to young girls in knee-high socks who probably thought rigor mortis was the name of a rock band.
When I returned Mum was at reception riffling around the papers on Jean’s desk. ‘Goodness me, Oliver, where were you? I thought you’d all died.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Where’s Jean?’ Mum relocated from the desk to the side table and peered into the vase. ‘The flowers need more water.’
‘Busy,’ I said.
‘You can’t both go out and leave the door unlocked. There should be someone here at all times. It’s a shambles.’ She adjusted the lilies, twisting and turning them to sit just so. ‘I do like lilies. Such sweetness.’ Her face clouded momentarily, then she turned the vase as if its angle displeased her.
‘Sorry.’
‘You know anxiety is not good for my health, Oliver, and I’m on blood pressure pills. I was about to call a search party. I even called beforehand, but no one answered. What’s going on?’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
General Improvements
When Jean finally returned, Mum was still loitering, bemoaning the lack of clientele. I suggested we congregate in my office. If I didn’t tell Mum about the survey, Jean would, so I decided there would be no delay; we may as well do it together. I pulled out the two apricot-coloured guest chairs for them to sit on. They had been top of the line in their day, the fabric a quality linen, the squareness of the style ‘on trend’, but now they reeked of the early 1990s, neither fashionably retro nor dismally tattered. The curtains were a similar shade and my dark wood desk large and imposing – a hangover of a twenty-five-year-old Doreen makeover.
‘What do you mean, a survey?’ Mum asked.
‘Jean?’ I said, as I needed enlightening as well.
‘I’ve had such a great time talking to the locals,’ she gushed, and having seen her at work, I knew she wasn’t exaggerating.
‘Really, Jean.’ Mum sounded displeased, as if our standing in the community meant we were above talking to people in the street. ‘Alright, go on, what did they say?’
‘The general consensus is that people look for professionalism, experience and trustworthiness in a funeral home. But first impressions count and at the moment we’re not doing so well. We’re perceived as outdated and stuck in the past.’
‘Mon Dieu! Have these people stepped inside?’
‘I doubt their views would change, Mum,’ I muttered, looking at the has-been decor and drab furnishings in my office.
‘I think that’s being unfair.’
‘The idea of a funeral home using social media was met with nervous laughter.’
‘Social media?’ Mum said. ‘Who would want to see pictures of someone’s embalmed uncle?’
I was impressed Jean had thought to include social media and wondered how it would work. ‘If it was done the right way, maybe?’ I suggested. ‘We could post inspirational quotes, links to stories about how to help someone grieve, or images of unusual sarcophaguses, like the beautiful cast-glass one recently made for the Danish queen . . .’
‘That’s absurd,’ Mum said. ‘What we need is a new sign so people know we’re here. Not a Facebook account to lower the tone of the industry.’
‘Yes, we do need a new sign,’ I said. ‘But maybe a Clock & Son makeover wouldn’t be a bad thing.’
‘Just because the new place has marble . . .’
‘I don’t mean with marble. Perhaps a paint job, new carpet?’
‘But we did a renovation in 1998,’ Mum said. ‘Your father upgraded the embalming tables and we painted the inside “egg white”.’
‘That was years ago. The egg white is now egg yolk.’
‘You can’t ge
t rid of the wood panelling.’
‘Maybe we could stain it a lighter colour?’ Jean suggested.
‘The chandelier in the viewing room is definitely staying,’ Mum insisted. ‘It’s been there since Clock & Son was first established.’
I may not have loved the chandelier with its crookedly sitting mock-candle lights and the clusters of crystal drops in regular need of dusting, but I had to agree with Mum that it was impossible to imagine the room without it. It represented Clock & Son’s history and brought a little sparkle to an otherwise sombre room.
‘And the table and vase in reception. They were your grandmother’s. You can’t come through with a rubbish truck. Jean and I regularly replace the flowers and I think Jean is in agreement that we need to mix up the varieties and arrangements more often, aren’t you, Jean?’ Mum was on a roll and didn’t give Jean a chance to respond. ‘If you really want change, I’ll move the furniture around.’
‘I’m not suggesting we start today. It’s something to think about, that’s all.’
‘And it will all cost, you know.’
‘I think what we have to do,’ Jean said with characteristic diplomacy, ‘is be proud of what has already been established but not dismiss the voice of the people. They’re the ones who’ll help guide us into the future.’
‘Well, thank you, Jean,’ Mum said, and announced she was going to disinfect the surgical instruments, as if, sitting unused, they were festering with the bacteria of the living.
I may have been unsure about the survey and a renovation but it was good to have broached the subject of change with Mum, even if she was resistant to it. It did make me wonder how on earth I was going to tell her about the candles and the embalmer ad, let alone try and talk to her about Lily again. All of which, I decided, required a dose of fresh air and a serving of something sweet. I asked around if Jean or Mum wished for an afternoon treat and headed down the road to our favourite patisserie. To my pleasant surprise a text from Caroline greeted me when I arrived.