by Jane Riley
Do you fancy a visit to the beach on Sunday? It’s meant to be a scorcher.
I was as fond of the beach as I was of corked wine. Going as a child wasn’t encouraged. Mum had an aversion to the sand and Dad got heat rash. It didn’t help that we lived in the inner city. Rather like Dad, my fair skin was prone to sunburn and I disliked seagulls swarming over me when I ate. Once, when I went with friends as a teenager, a gull pinched a crumbed prawn that was halfway between my fingers and my mouth. Then there was the time when I got caught in a rip and was taken out to sea. I knew not to fight the surf but feared how far the ocean would take me. As I was about to raise an arm to alert the lifeguards, before my fear turned to panic I was picked up by a surfer. He paddled me back to shore as I rested, face down, on the surfboard, as if I were his catch of the day. I felt less inclined to go to the beach after that. Yet here I was being invited to the beach with a woman who seemed to want to keep seeing me. It was the offer of another date and surely I couldn’t argue with that?
Sure, I replied, and immediately chose the medium-sized lemon meringue pie sitting on the middle shelf of the front counter, two cakes in from the left.
When I returned to work, Mum was still there. She cornered me in the kitchenette.
‘Oliver?’
‘Yes, Mum?’ I said, slicing the pie.
‘I know you’ve been sad recently . . .’
She did? I scooped pie residue from the knife just to check it was as good as it looked.
‘And I wanted to give you this.’ She handed me a long, thin, black weathered box.
I frowned. Mum only gave gifts at gift-requiring occasions: birthdays, christenings and Christmas. She looked sheepish, as if she knew she was acting out of character and wasn’t entirely sure how to behave. ‘I probably should have given this to you before.’ She looked at me expectantly. ‘Well, go on . . . open it.’
I lifted the lid, releasing an aged, oaky smell like that of an antique shop. Inside, lying in pleated royal blue satin, were a silver shoe horn, a button hook and a clothes brush.
‘They were your grandfather’s – Grandpa James – and then your father’s. Silly to have them sitting unused in a drawer, given your love of immaculate dressing,’ Mum said.
I ran a hand over the pieces. They shone as if they had been recently polished. ‘They’re beautiful,’ I said.
‘I hope you’ll use them.’
‘Of course I will,’ I said, and reached out to give her a squeeze. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
She leaned into me awkwardly for a few seconds, or it could have been a minute, but certainly no more, before removing herself from my touch. ‘Well, there’s no point waiting until I’m gone for you to have them, is there?’
That evening, as I heated up a beef pie, I told Marie about my day. How chuffed I was at Mum’s present, having already tried out the clothes brush on my jacket, but how nervous I was at the idea of a Clock & Son makeover and how desperately I wished she could have given me her thoughts, offered sage advice and a dollop of good taste. I had no experience at renovating and was hesitant to upend the building without some proper thought having gone into it. Choosing paint colours could not be done in one sitting – even though Marie probably could have. As it was, I had to make do with a one-sided conversation with myself and a candle. Then I reread excerpts from her diary, as I had been doing every night since it had been in my possession. I didn’t just focus on the bits about me either; reading her words and hearing her voice gave me comfort. Her diary entries started three years ago – I didn’t know whether there was another diary before that or whether this was her first. As it began on January 5, I liked to think she was a resolution-maker like myself and had decided to start a journal that New Year’s. For she even wrote things like, I must do more exercise (February 10) and I should cut back on the rosé, if for no other reason than for Henry’s benefit (August 24). I loved her ruminations on flowers at the flower market and the pride she got from creating the ideal bouquet. Then there were the entries where she talked about things we’d done together which I had forgotten about. Like the time we got lost going to visit a client in a nursing home. We were laughing so hard at our navigational ineptitude that, when we arrived, we had to wait a few minutes more in the car to regain a more respectful and sombre countenance. Then there was the time I helped her move her business into larger premises. It was four years into her owning her business and she wanted my help with the layout. She seemed to think the way I dressed was the perfect qualification for advising on flora and fauna placement on a shop floor. I didn’t protest, as I knew my attributes were less suited to that than they were to heavy lifting, which was what she got Henry and her nephew to help her with.
Of course, I couldn’t help but lean towards any entry in which I was mentioned and it wasn’t just learning that she thought me kind and gentle but other things, too. Like how she noticed every time I bought a new tie and how she thought I was such a good listener. I was only listening how I always listened – two ears on full alert, eyes attentive and mind focused. It pained me to think that Henry may have lacked such conversational skills with his wife or, worse, just wasn’t interested enough in what she had to say. I held on to Marie’s compliments the same way I liked to savour every mouthful of a Mars bar. It was a joy to sleep with the diary under my pillow and her candle by my bed.
Death by Toaster
Finally, later that night, someone died. I met the daughter of the deceased, Vicky, at the mortuary. Although Hugh Simmons’s death was sudden, it was far from painless. The cruel forces of dementia made him shove a fork in his toaster to remove the crust he had forgotten to retrieve for breakfast three days earlier, when he was toasting a fresher slice of bread. Electricity initially jolted him lucid and sharp and then it killed him.
‘He was an accident waiting to happen, I’m afraid,’ Vicky said. ‘He spent his life like that, to be honest. He’d successfully climb mountains in the middle of nowhere, then come home, trip on a door jamb and break his foot. It was ridiculous that he insisted on living at home. But he had a carer and I visited most days. It’s such a shame he thought it was time for breakfast.’
‘Many would envy such a full life,’ I said.
‘It was very full and surprisingly long, although latterly he was eating several breakfasts at various times of the day. I’m glad it was over quickly.’ She stroked her father’s hand, his fingers now resembling roasted purple potatoes, the skin waxy, the fingernails white. ‘Sorry to call you late, but Dad had funeral plans and, given that he didn’t want to be embalmed, I felt I needed to organise things straight away.’
Hooray! No embalming. I almost broke out into my version of a tap dance. ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘It’s all part of the job. We can conduct the funeral as soon as you like, as early as tomorrow afternoon, even. But I’m sure you’ll want some time with your father.’
‘The thing is,’ she whispered, leaning towards me, ‘he’s got an unusual request.’
‘We’re open to anything.’
‘He may not want to be embalmed but he does want a viewing.’ She leaned in closer, as if she might be overheard, though we were all alone. ‘But . . .’ She looked around. ‘He asked to be placed face down. Can you do that?’
‘We can do whatever you wish,’ I said.
If Mr Simmons got comfort from the thought of his body lying face down in a casket when he was alive, then I was happy to accommodate his request in death. And if this made his daughter happy, then it might, even in a small way, pluck away some of the pins of sadness. Then my sleep-deprived mind wandered and I wondered, could this be our new tagline? ‘We’ll place you in the coffin any which way you like?’
‘Thank you,’ Vicky said, stepping away. Then she came in close again and whispered, ‘You see, he wants to be face down so that everyone he didn’t like could come and . . . you know . . . kiss his . . .’ She raised her eyebrows and pointed to her bottom. ‘Arse!’ she cried out, with such force it startled
me. ‘Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I even said that word. It’s my father I’m talking about.’
‘You could say gluteus maximus?’ I suggested.
She thought for a minute. ‘But it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?’ She laughed.
Driving home with the cool night air blowing in through the open car window, I thought about the man’s request. You would think, the length of time I had been in this game (twenty-six years, if you included my unpaid hours as a teenager), that I’d have heard it all. But this one topped the lot. What gumption! And what a sense of humour that kept on chuckling after he had gone. I imagined Marie and me having a laugh over the idea of including a tall, thin columnar cacti amongst his funeral flora – an in-joke to Mr Simmons giving his finger to the world. For even in death, the man was doing what he pleased. He hadn’t let life choose how he lived and he wasn’t going to let it dictate how he’d be buried. I might use that as an example to others, I decided. I could add it to the page of True Stories – Tales to Inspire, Uplift and Motivate in Dad’s Folder of Systematic Funeral Protocol. Or we could put it on Facebook, if we ever set it up.
Or, maybe, I would write it as a resolution in my notebook: Thou shalt not let life choose how you live. Which could have been a euphemism for Thou shalt not let embalming or your mother rule your life.
When, by the end of the week, I had received three applications for the embalming job in my inbox, I decided, spurred on by my interpretation of Mr Simmons’s motto, to get two of them in for interviews and not to tell Mum. The first was a man similar in age to me with enough years behind him and also in front of him to make him a possible contender, and the second a woman who, while younger, still demonstrated the sort of experience I was looking for and, if I wasn’t mistaken, I could just make out the start of a tattoo running down one arm in her profile photograph. Maybe she could be the new face of Clock & Son.
Talking Candles that Smell of the Dead
I had never expected to become a man of clandestine activity, yet Friday proved to be a very secretive day. I not only contacted the embalmer applicants but organised for Edie to come in to discuss the candles when Mum would not be around. I was also pleased that this time I could present to Edie the more professional Oliver Clock dressed in a suit. Weirdly, my choice of tie coordinated with Jean’s brooch, which was a vintage silver star with crystals. My tie was more of a galaxy star theme, a nod to the bigger universe and how small our place in it is. I was quite pleased when I found it; it would be a new style to add to my collection. I immediately bought four in different colourways in case they were a discontinued line.
‘Edie, how lovely to see you,’ I said. ‘Please come in.’
At a guess, I would say Edie was five foot six and would easily fit into one of our slimline coffins, allowing plenty of room for added extras if so desired. I quite liked the emerald-green dress she was wearing in a style reminiscent of the 1950s. It really brought out her eyes.
‘Thanks, Oliver, and thank you for supporting my candles. I’ve got some ideas on how we can get them off the ground.’
‘Excellent.’ I pulled out a chair for her and moved the plate of eight biscuits (I liked to appear generous and to use an even number), which I had arranged in a concentric circle, closer to her. I offered her something to drink and, once the refreshments were taken care of, I sat down and we began.
‘Firstly,’ Edie said, ‘I think we need a selection of samples to show people and a checklist of questions to ask interested clients about the deceased.’
‘I know all about lists,’ I said, thinking of my notebook and the bullet-pointed resolutions inside.
‘Good.’ She nodded. ‘The key is finding out what made the person tick, what was their essence. That’s what the scent becomes. We can ask things like: what were their hobbies? What foods did they like?’
‘Should I be writing this down?’
‘I’ve done it already,’ she said, pulling out a piece of paper from her leather document holder. ‘You might want to add some more. To be honest, it doesn’t matter how many we have so long as we can help people identify their ideal scents. With the samples, I was thinking I could make candles of people you know – that way you can be genuine when you’re selling them. I could do one of your cousin, a colleague or your father, for instance.’
But the mention of my father suddenly jarred my vision of a candle conglomerate. The smell of Dad started overpowering Edie’s voice. Everything about my father came flooding back. It was as if he were sitting next to me and we were having a beer together in the old days. The weekday Dad with spicy aftershave and peppermint mouthwash, mingled with the weekend Dad and the heady smell of cut grass, slightly damp and earthy, spring-like. Soil. Weeds. Dried blood from hedge cuts. Sweat. Sunday mornings with eggs, fried and buttery. Lukewarm tea. Six o’clock beer. I missed those relaxed times with Dad. I missed him in the business as well, if I was honest. But Andrew Clock as a candle?
‘Oliver?’
‘Yes?’
‘The samples?’
‘Ah, yes. Let’s not do one of Dad,’ I said. ‘Maybe Mum? She’s still here, so that would be a real test. Although I warn you, she won’t be easy to win over. Unless she thought of the idea, she’ll resolutely dismiss it,’ I said. The better scenario would be if Edie successfully made a candle of her but we told Mum nothing about it.
‘OK. Go,’ Edie said.
‘What?’
‘Brainstorm scents for your mother. Don’t think too hard, just fire off smells.’
Except my brain stumbled, fumbled, as if grappling for the light switch in the dark. Battle-axe Doreen seemed to be someone to whom no smell was immediately associated. I thought hard and then tried not to think hard, but the more I thought, the more I overthought. Come on, Marie, help me out here.
‘Say the first thing that comes into your head.’
‘Castor oil and moth balls?’
‘Mmm, interesting,’ she said, rather diplomatically. ‘My mum tends to have a lavender drawer-liner whiff about her’ – she laughed – ‘which is an easier smell to work with. Does your mother wear a particular perfume?’
‘Eau d’Overbearing.’
She laughed again and touched my forearm as I was bringing a shortbread to my mouth. A frisson of something shot up my limb. Biscuit crumbs sprinkled. Did she feel it, too? ‘I know it can be hard,’ she said. ‘We don’t usually analyse how people smell, do we? So what about food? What does she like to cook?’
I thought about the meals she cooked me when I was a child and how I’d dreamed of never eating them again. ‘Corned beef and parsley sauce,’ I said. ‘And overcooked pumpkin. I guess that’s not much help either.’
‘Some people are harder than others. Maybe you’re too close to her. I know I am with my mum. Sometimes it comes down to a memory you have or something you did with her as a child . . .’
It was strange how Edie was trying to draw out fond memories of Mum when I’d never really thought of her in that way before. Many of my memories may have featured Mum but not necessarily in an affectionate way. She was just there, a strong and quietly supportive presence, as if she were an extra thigh I never knew I needed.
‘We could always make them up?’ I suggested, still unable to come up with a Doreen signature scent.
‘Fragrances of the pretend dead?’ she said. ‘That might work. We could keep it simple. Do a floral one for a gardener – scents of jasmine, gardenia, violets. Maybe a coffee one. Yes, I’ve always wanted to try that. We’ll need the best coffee beans.’ She had a cute way of crinkling her freckled nose up in concentration and squinting seconds before coming up with a new thought. Her enthusiasm was charming. Her love of brainstorming rather infectious.
Then I had an idea. ‘Let’s ask Jean. I’ll warn you, she’s sceptical, too, but I need her on board with this.’
Edie nodded. ‘She would be perfect. I’ve already noted her honey and butter undertones.’
�
��You have?’ It seemed to me that the pharmaceutical world was not making enough of Edie’s gifts.
‘I have a sensitive nose. I think she would make a fantastic candle.’
I don’t think Edie realised how she was sounding, like it was perfectly normal to scrutinise how people smelt and then bottle them up as if collecting samples of their blood. It was really quite endearing to be with someone so passionate about their work. And it was this that made me like her and her idea even more. Although I didn’t dare ask what she thought I’d be if turned into a candle. Some unpleasant combination like embalming fluid, soft cheese, red wine and cologne, no doubt. It didn’t bear thinking about, so I got up to find Jean.
Jean’s response was as I predicted: less than enthusiastic. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ she whispered, as if someone might hear, although there was no one in reception. ‘I thought you hated the idea.’
I explained about Marie’s candle. How it really was her. How the candles could be Clock & Son’s exclusive product. ‘They might not make us rich but they’ll help us stand out. Look, I want to give them a go but we need examples of what they could be like, how they might smell. We want to do one of you.’
‘Have you gone funny in the head?’ she asked.
‘No, honestly, Jean,’ I said. ‘Come and meet Edie properly. She’s lovely and definitely not funny in the head either.’
‘Well, alright.’
I formally introduced them to each other and let Edie tell Jean more about the candle concept. Jean still looked unsure, then Edie touched her arm and reassured her that no one else needed to know about it and that if she didn’t like the candle she could throw it in the bin. But I think what got Jean over the line was her story about her father and how she was determined to capture his true scent for ever. ‘You’ll be surprised at the effect smells have, their power to evoke, remember, tug at one’s emotions.’