The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock

by Jane Riley

  ‘What would you like?’ Caroline called from the kitchen. ‘It’s not too early for wine, is it?’

  I sat on the sofa and checked the time, then decided I didn’t care what the time was. Desire was punching holes in my timidity. Or maybe it was the sunstroke.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. I slipped off my shoes and flicked through a coffee-table book of photographs of Australia full of red dirt and scorched skies, indigenous grins and dehydrated gum trees.

  ‘Here you go,’ Caroline said, returning from the kitchen.

  She handed me a glass of wine and placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the table. I put the book to one side. We talked about our work and I sidestepped the realistic aspects of my job in favour of a Hollywood-style version to keep Caroline’s imagination taint-free. She edged closer, offered me nuts. I felt saltier than they were and in need of a shower. But I ate the nuts instead, sipped the wine and enjoyed how enamoured she seemed to be by what I was saying. ‘That’s so great,’ she repeated, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘Well, you know,’ I said, as if it all came easy and Clock & Son weren’t teetering on the edge of collapse and that the dead weren’t moving down the road and around the corner.

  By now, Caroline was so close I could feel the squishy bits of her hips warming mine and count the sand granules in her hair. The next thing I knew her glass was empty, her legs were over mine and a hand was squeezing flesh. Then she kissed me again. This time there was no doubting the reason. For this was no quick peck and buoyancy issues could not be to blame. She kissed me and giggled in alternate motions, as if unsure which to settle on. She was unlike any other woman I had been with – assertive and adventurous – and it was at once alluring and disconcerting. My first kiss had been with a girl named Karen, whose hair was so curly you couldn’t easily slide your pinky finger into one of the ringlets. I knew this because I tried – it was a dare my classmate Darren made up when we were eleven. Anyone who succeeded was named King for the Day. No one did, but plenty got close. I got so close I was able to peck her lips, which made her giggle. Except, when I tried to remove my finger it got stuck, entwined in frizz. She squealed so loudly it alerted the teachers. I never ran my hand through a girl’s hair again.

  Caroline’s kissing was taking me on an adventure over which I felt I had no control. It was energetic, seductive, bewitching – three things I felt unaccustomed to being and feeling and . . . oh, my goodness, I then started thinking of Marie and how this could have been Marie’s kiss, Marie’s mouth, Marie’s taste. You fool, you must not think of Marie. Not now, not with a real, live woman kissing you on her sofa and with you, yes you, kissing her back! Focus, Oliver, focus. Or should I put an end to this carry-on before it gets out of hand? But Caroline was certainly focused on me, her hand fondling places that hadn’t been fondled in ages, as if she were rummaging in an attic that needed airing. I couldn’t help but nestle my lips between her ear and her hairline. She sighed. I tried touching her leg as she had touched mine. She kissed with gusto. I followed suit then found her breasts. Glorious. Yes, OK, I couldn’t deny it: it was glorious. She found my belly and soon my T-shirt was off, and her dress. How had we come this far without having showered?

  I closed my eyes and let her find the fluff between my folds, her hand warm, her breath sweet. It was all going so fast and yet, and yet . . . I told myself to run with it. That I was now fully ticking two resolution boxes: getting a life and going out of my comfort zone. Caroline let me know what she liked and what she didn’t, offering an intermittent running commentary that was unsettling, but I wanted to please. My foot knocked the book off the coffee table, which made her giggle and throw two cushions on to the floor. I resisted the urge to pick them up as she pressed her lovely body on to me. How long it lasted I couldn’t be sure but eventually we reappeared in the present, cheeks rouged, out of breath again.

  ‘Thirsty?’ she said, bouncing up and disappearing into the kitchen, unconcerned that her bikini and dress were scattered around the sofa. I wanted to gather them up and fold them. Instead, I put on my shorts and picked up the photographic book, fixed a bent page and put it back on the shelf under the coffee table. I felt flustered but exhilarated. Caroline returned with two glasses of water. ‘Don’t worry about tidying up. I prefer a bit of mess. Neatness makes me nervous. I tidied up earlier just in case you came in, as I wanted to make a good impression.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t expect this all the time.’

  Caroline snuggled into me, all flesh and goosebumps, and rubbed my belly. I felt another burst of spontaneity come over me, or was it Caroline’s? What was going on? Swimming and sex in the same day? Caroline was proving to be a wondrously unexpected addition to my life. Then my phone sang from the beach bag crumpled on the rug.

  ‘Don’t get it,’ Caroline said, so forcefully I thought she might slap my thigh.

  ‘It might be work,’ I explained, reaching for it.

  But it wasn’t. It was a text from Andy. We’re pregnant!

  ‘Wow,’ I muttered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Andy’s having a baby.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful.’

  Well done, I replied, I knew it would happen.

  ‘They’ve been trying for a while.’

  Caroline sighed. ‘I’d love a baby.’ Then, with renewed energy, ‘I think we should celebrate. Come on, let’s go again.’

  ‘Yes, let’s celebrate,’ I agreed, not being able to believe my luck. Andy should get pregnant more often.

  She nibbled my ear. Then my shorts were flung off for a second time and left dangling on the table light like an upcycled lampshade.

  ‘I love celebrations,’ she whispered, or was it a coo? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t really care.

  It wasn’t until I was in the kitchen helping prepare dinner – more spontaneity! How extraordinary to find myself, unplanned, in another woman’s kitchen, chopping tomatoes! – that I suddenly thought of Marie again. I didn’t intend to think of her then but she popped into my mind as if she’d suddenly got jealous of Caroline and changed her mind about giving me her blessing. Or maybe she was telling me to slow down; I’d done enough for one day. Whatever it was, I couldn’t believe how disconcerting it was to have the ghost of someone you loved in the room with someone with whom you’ve just made love to. It was as off-putting as having sex in the same room as someone’s pet. That happened to me once with Claire, until I told her that under no circumstances could I have her Jack Russell staring at me from its bed by her bed. She took it as me saying, ‘It’s me or the dog,’ when I wasn’t. Although it may as well have been, given what happened with the relationship. The dog won.

  I tried to focus on the salad but felt discombobulated and distracted. Was it possible to fully engage with a living woman when your love for a deceased woman continued to feel real? It was as if, in Caroline’s kitchen, I suddenly, unexpectedly, had an existential crisis and I had no one to talk about it with – least of all the two women at its heart. I pushed on through dinner but had lost my verve or nerve or something and was keen to go when it finished. Caroline had other ideas.

  ‘Stay,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, but . . .’

  ‘I mean it, stay the night.’

  I couldn’t tell her my dead paramour was giving me grief, that I felt the tug of a tide pushing and pulling me between my past desires and the future, never fully out of one and into the other. What’s more, I had no spare clothes, no toothbrush or cologne.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, wishing ironically that I had a dog to feed. Instead, I blamed work. It was an easy out and I felt guilty for lying, but I had pushed the boundaries of spontaneity as much as I could for one day.

  She nodded but I detected a hint of dejection.

  ‘I had a great day and a great evening,’ I said, to make her feel better. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips, a soft, lengthy kiss to make her realise I meant it. And I did mean it. I think I’d just overstayed. Caroline had yet to unders
tand that there were only so many new things I could do in a day – in the past, it had barely even been one! I knew it may prove detrimental to the relationship if I tried explaining this to her, so I didn’t. It was much better to end on a good note than have disaster strike when all you were doing was trying to please. Plus, I knew full well the effects of having too much of a good thing, particularly where Mars bars were concerned.

  In bed later that night, I couldn’t sleep. So much had happened in such a short space of time. Andy would be jumping around, slapping me on the back for the kiss and all the rest, but its unexpectedness had thrown me off guard, as had the ease with which I succumbed to it. Yet I couldn’t deny that I felt something. It was pleasurable and it ticked a resolution. However, as stupid as it sounded, I felt as if I had gone behind Marie’s back, that I had cheated on her. If I was being honest, what I really wanted was for the tryst to have been with Marie. When Caroline kissed me and we untidied her living room, I did, for a second, imagine it had been. Oh, the gut-wrenching reality of what it really was. How conflicted I felt. I wiped my mouth to rid it of any remnants. It made no difference. Perhaps I should be banned from swimming out of my depth ever again. On top of all that, my skin still burned from the heat of the day and I couldn’t get thoughts of Andy and Lucy’s announcement out of my head. They were having a baby! I hadn’t realised it at the time, but the excitement I had felt for them was overshadowed by envy at their happy family life. A life I didn’t have.

  Embalmers

  A new week began and I pushed aside my feelings to focus on work. I was back being undercover, meeting two embalmer candidates I had high hopes for. It was a buoyancy also fuelled by the knowledge that my time as sole embalmer was coming to an end. That I could turn forty and rule out the fumes of formaldehyde as one of my signature scents.

  But applicant number one, James ‘Jimmy’ Miller, was fifteen minutes late, which gave him a black mark straight away, and I felt like saying, ‘Decomposition will wait for no one.’ But I didn’t. Instead I ushered him into my office and shut the door. He sauntered in and sat in the chair as if he owned it, with his chin jutting out, his knees spread and his elbows resting on the chair arms with the confidence of a car salesman. I had to remind myself he had an impressive curriculum vitae, having worked in the industry for more than twenty years, and I was keen to hear how he answered my questions. I started off with the usual, such as ‘What qualities do you think you bring to the job?’ to which he replied, ‘Steady hands and a fascination for body parts.’ I didn’t like to ask, ‘Any body part in particular?’ as I knew of a mortician whose obsession with ears – making plaster casts of them in the name of art – cost him his job. Instead, I gave a tick to answer one and put a question mark over the second. It was his choice of words more than anything else. Then I threw in some curly ones.

  ‘How’s your stomach?’ I said.

  He looked down at his belly, which was tucked in quite nicely behind his shirt. He had a slim waistline from what I could see, with little bulge, which I tried not to get jealous about.

  ‘I mean, do you have a strong one?’ I continued. He didn’t get my double entendre straight away, which was another black mark, but at least he lightened up eventually.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ he said, nodding. ‘Nice one. Yeah, I’ve got a strong stomach. Stronger than anyone I know, to be honest. And I work out. I’ve pretty much got a six-pack. I can handle anything, don’t you worry.’

  That’s when he pointed a finger at me. Well, it was a finger and thumb gesture, as if mimicking a gun. He meant it in a good way, I’m sure, but with me it had the opposite effect. It was like he’d jabbed me in the chest. Or shot me, if it really had been a gun. Then he started telling me about his expertise in ‘fixing’ unusual cases, rattling off anatomical Latin names, biochemistry waffle and surgical techniques as if I knew nothing about embalming and he thought it would impress. His pièce de résistance was comparing his work to one of the city’s top plastic surgeons and telling me how adept he was at turning the ghoulish into palatable viewing.

  That did it for me. James ‘Jimmy’ Miller got one big cross. I escorted him out courteously and promised to get back to him within a few days – long enough to make him think I had spent some time deliberating, agonising even, over whether he was a suitable candidate.

  By contrast, Cora Mulligan’s multifaceted bodily adornments belied her endearingly sweet and humble nature. I counted six studs forming a scythe on her left ear and something that resembled a charcoal nail poking out from her right lobe. She had short peroxide-blonde hair with black roots and wore a smart black-and-white patterned shirt which on second glance I realised featured tiny white skulls, and not flowers, as I had at first thought. A vine-like tattoo crept up the side of her neck and a skull was stamped on the inside of one wrist, which I only noticed because of her prolific hand gestures. As distracting as the details of her etchings and the shine of the metal was, she came highly regarded from a funeral home up north, having, they said, a ‘dignified approach to the work and extensive creative flair’. I just hoped her creativity didn’t extend to recreating the make-up she currently wore. Purple eyeshadow, black winged eyeliner that dripped vertically under her eyes and blood-red lipstick of the Gothic variety suited few, especially not the elderly.

  Her liberal attire aside, I was impressed by how she shook my hand with gusto and bounced into my office paying compliments where they weren’t even necessary, and was keen to ask me questions as much as I was her.

  ‘I like to think of myself as a caretaker of the dead,’ she said in response to the same set of questions I’d asked Mr Miller. ‘I try to care for them as if they were still alive. I also like caring for those who are left behind. We can’t take away the sadness but I like to think we can help ease the pain.’

  Good answer.

  And when I asked about her stomach, she merely chuckled and said how it was currently full up with a smoothie. I laughed and was delighted that not only could we spend a few minutes debating the merits or otherwise of ‘green’ smoothies but that her preference, like mine, was for a good old-fashioned milkshake.

  I was keen to give her the job.

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  I must have said it out loud. My second impulsive decision of the month! The Marie effect was proving to be pleasantly long-lasting.

  ‘Well, why not?’ I said. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you’re keen, we’ll do a three-month trial period,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you have twenty-four hours to think about it and come back to me if you have any further questions? I would like to reiterate that I am keen to fill the position as soon as possible.’

  She looked as pleased as I was with the whole idea, which I took as a very positive sign that my embalming days were numbered. I shook her skull-embellished hand and walked her to reception. It was unfortunate timing that Mum walked in at the same time and that I had omitted – hadn’t thought it necessary – to tell Cora that the other half of Clock & Son was unaware I was hiring.

  Mum’s eyes widened, her eyebrows rose – a sure sign the tattoos had shocked. I hoped that was as far as her reaction would go but no, she also decided to speak.

  ‘Hello, dear. I hope Oliver has been looking after you well.’

  It all went downhill from there.

  ‘Cora, meet my mother, Doreen Clock,’ I said. I couldn’t not introduce them, after all.

  ‘Oh, you’re a Clock?’ Cora laughed. ‘I’m here for the embalmer job.’

  She turned to me as she said, ‘The embalmer job, dear?’ then visibly squirmed, as if her knickers had ridden up too high when she saw the decoration on Cora’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Yes, it must be tough running a funeral home without one,’ Cora said.

  ‘Oliver is doing a fine job, I must say.’ And with that, Mum shut the conversation down.

  I let out a nervy laugh and led Cora to the door. When she had gone, M
um didn’t hold back.

  ‘So, Oliver, you seem to be on a trajectory of subterfuge. Going behind my back yet again.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I thought we had agreed that you would do the embalmings to save money.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘And even if we were to hire an embalmer, we’re not getting someone with tattoos. Did you see the state of her? Dreadful, Oliver, dreadful.’

  ‘It’s no big deal, Mum. Tattoos and piercings are de rigueur, as you like to say.’

  ‘I don’t care. So were mullets in your day and I didn’t let you have one. Please don’t tell me you’ve hired her.’

  I said nothing but looked down at my tie to discover a crusty egg-yolk stain I hadn’t realised was there.

  ‘Oh, Oliver!’

  Then, in less than the time it had taken me to do the two interviews, Cora was unhired – Mum calling her before I had the chance to let her down gently – and Mum was admiring the CV of James ‘Jimmy’ Miller, whom she thought ‘infinitely more respectable’.

  ‘He’s not so young, for starters, and if he doesn’t have any tattoos or other nonsense, like you say, then if we have to hire someone, I might acquiesce to trialling him,’ she said.

  I looked out the window behind her. Blurred legs fanned past. A constant throng of pedestrians, many of whom were, according to Jean’s survey, unaware we even existed. Mum’s interference made me feel as invisible as Clock & Son’s presence seemed to be. Why bother trying to make a decision when it was shot down? Mum may have thought she was being collaborative but the way she overrode me was, quite frankly, belittling. Yet I was desperate for another embalmer and for Mum to even use the word ‘acquiesce’ in a sentence meant I would have to compromise to get one.