by Jane Riley
‘Did I tell you she never feared how or when she would die or the actual act of dying? It was the concept of no longer being that scared her the most. Not being able to feel, see, hear . . .’
‘Smell?’ I added.
‘Yes, smell, too.’ The man paused, sucked his cheeks, crumpled in the chair. ‘I hope she’s found somewhere to be again, somewhere to feel, smell, hear. I mean, if she hasn’t . . .?’
‘I’m sure she has,’ I said.
‘But you don’t know that.’
‘Well, no. I don’t. But it’s nice to think so, isn’t it?’ I wanted to reassure the man that this was all part of life, the mysteries of what happened next. Then I realised: this was the perfect opportunity, the ideal segue. I couldn’t let such an opportunity slip.
‘I know a way in which you could keep her memory alive,’ I began. Oh yes, what timing, and the confidence that came over me! I could sell this man anything.
‘But I’ll never forget her.’
‘No, I hope you won’t . . .’
‘What is it, then?’
‘A candle,’ I said.
‘A candle?’
‘Yes, we’re offering a new service.’
‘I don’t think Mum wished to be reduced to melted wax.’
That’s when the words skated out as if slipping uncontrollably on an iced lake, even though I hadn’t practised in front of anyone – dead or alive – what I was going to say. ‘Think of it as setting her soul free, letting her back in our world – your world – in your memory.’
‘Sounds like crap.’
His comment was just the impetus I needed. I rushed into reception and came back with Jean’s candle.
‘I have one, here, of a very dear friend, La Lumière de Jean,’ I said, and placed it before the man, who continued to look at me as if I weren’t the man he’d thought I was when he first walked in. ‘Our candles are bespoke, made to the fragrance specifications of the customer. You tell us what she loved – it could be absolutely anything – and we’ll tailor the fragrance to suit her. It will embody her.’
I gave my jacket lapels a small tug, feeling quite pleased with myself. But the man wasn’t yet hooked.
‘I don’t believe you. You’re making it up,’ he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
‘I’m not. Here, smell.’ I lifted the lid.
‘That doesn’t tell me anything except it’s a candle that smells nice.’ The man folded his arms.
‘I tell you what, as we’re starting out, we’ll make one for you free of charge and there’s no obligation to take it if you don’t like it.’
‘You’re crazy.’
I grinned. Was I? It’s all above board, I wanted to say, the deceased have nothing to do with it, if you know what I mean. Then the man started crying, his nose dripping heavily on to his faded jeans. I passed him a box of tissues and listened to the familiar sound of enthusiastic nose-blowing.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and took more tissues just in case.
‘It’s OK.’
‘Do we have to do all this funeral stuff now?’ The man looked spent.
‘The only thing is . . . your mother? She can’t wait too long . . .’ In times like these, euphemisms came in handy.
‘I know, yeah, I know. Can I take these?’ He picked up the whole tissue box, seemingly unbothered by what needed to happen to his mother.
‘Please do.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow, then?’ The man sniffed and tucked the box under an arm.
‘Of course. But can I ask, where’s Mum now?’
‘She’s happy,’ he said. ‘She’s in the kitchen, resting peacefully on my dining table.’
The next day at my desk, glossy with wood polish and a recent Doreen dusting, I typed up what I’d told the man with the dead mother on his dining table, the words I’d used to describe the candles. I phoned Edie and told her I had started selling them and that Andy had agreed to do a photo shoot for us. She gave a squeal of delight and didn’t mind at all that I’d offered a customer a candle free of charge as a teaser. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
‘Don’t you worry,’ I said, ‘I won’t miss a single opportunity. Everyone who walks in our door will get the sales spiel.’
The next person to enter Clock & Son was a woman called Julie who had a white bichon frise called Puddles that sat on her lap and stared at me as if deciding whether to trust me or not. It was tempting to try and outstare it, until it raised a side of its mouth and silently let a small fang appear. I refocused my attention on its owner, who seemed oblivious that she was obsessively stroking a miniature monster, and tried to size her up as a candle buyer. Female, aged around sixty, grey hair in a ponytail, a sickly aroma emanating from her blouse; her sister had passed away. The creds seemed spot on. But it was hard to get a word in.
‘I’ve decided, you see,’ she said, still stroking the monster, ‘that God is unfair, illogical, oversubscribed and completely overrated. I’ve had enough of Him.’
I texted Jean to make some tea. It could be a long appointment.
‘She wasn’t meant to go when she did,’ the woman continued. ‘We weren’t ready. She wasn’t ready, I know she wasn’t.’ She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from beneath her wristband. ‘I mean, no one was there at the end. I’d buggered off to hang out her washing. The washing, for goodness’ sake! Fat use I was.’
‘I’m sure you were a wonderful support,’ I said.
‘I told my sister God will do what’s best, that He always has within our ministry. But she started going on about how she should have paid attention. I said, “God’s the only one who needs to be paying proper attention.” She said, “Oh, I’m not talking about God; I’m talking about Don. He’s been having an affair, right under my cancerous uterus.”’
The woman paused, drew breath and began again. Jean slipped in quietly with the tea.
‘That’s when I realised. All this time I’d been misguided. My whole life down the biblical gurgler. When my sister needed her husband the most he wasn’t there. No one was.’ She slurped the tea noisily. ‘Sorry, I only came to talk about coffins.’
‘It’s good to get things off your chest,’ I said, and thought, Now would be a good time. Offer the poor woman a bit of hope. I opened my mouth to speak but she was off again.
‘Liz always said, “Why do you put so much faith in Him?” I said it was because He knows best. That’s what the ministry says. She said, “That’s what I used to say about Don but now I know better.” “Yeah,” I said. “He’s useless, bloody useless.”’
She drew breath. Finally. That’s when I sprung. I hoped talk of candles would help calm her down, be a welcome change of subject. It wasn’t.
‘Liz hated candles,’ the woman said. ‘Far too much pong, she used to say. Overwhelmingly pongy. And I can see her point.’
I nodded and wondered if I’d ever get a positive reaction.
‘Did you say you can customise the scent?’ she asked.
‘I did.’
‘Any scent at all?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Do you do scent of bastard?’
I choked on my tea. Pretended I had a cough.
‘I could get one done of Don,’ she said. ‘I’d be more than happy to burn him. And I know Liz would approve, wouldn’t she, Puddles?’
Jean brought me some water.
‘Are you alright?’ the woman said. ‘I was only joking.’
It took me three more goes for the candle concept to attract genuine interest. The client was a girl with short-cropped brown hair, eyes like an owl’s and a jaunty walk. She walked in and stood in the middle of reception. Looked around like someone considering buying the place.
‘I’ve never been inside a funeral parlour before,’ she said.
‘Hopefully, it’s not too unpleasant,’ I said. ‘We try to make it feel welcoming.’
But the girl didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Yes, it is how I thought it would be
.’ She nodded, then announced, ‘I’m Fran and I’d like to organise a funeral.’
‘You’ve come to the right place.’
‘The funeral is for myself.’
But she was still young? Early thirties, I guessed.
‘I’m ill.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I don’t want my mother doing it – organising my funeral, that is. She organised my wedding and my birth, booking herself in for a Caesarean after the first trimester on the basis that her work diary was already filling up and she needed a set time.’
‘No one likes their mother taking over, do they?’ I said it like a joke, even though I wasn’t kidding. It made me think about my own funeral. Or, rather, the fact I had never thought about it before; I was too busy organising everyone else’s. Was it odd for a funeral director not to have planned his own funeral? Or was I like the many chefs whose favourite meal was a burger?
‘I haven’t told my husband I’m here either,’ Fran said. ‘Not that I’m trying to be deceptive. I just want to do it on my own. For now, anyway.’
This time, I made sure we discussed the funeral first before bringing up the candles. What sort of coffin would she prefer? What was her budget? Had she thought about flowers, the programme of proceedings, the music, the food? There were so many things to consider and I didn’t want to overwhelm her, as overwhelming as the task was. She considered everything I suggested and scribbled notes in a black leather journal in which she had already written the names of the songs she wished to be played.
When I thought the time was right, I threw in one last question. ‘Would you like a candle as well?’
She chuckled. ‘I’m glad you didn’t say “fries”,’ she said.
‘Ah yes, you can tell my snack of choice.’
‘I’d have to say no to fries as I’ve been banned from eating anything fatty, salty or sugary. All the nice things.’ She laughed, and I couldn’t believe the bonhomie of this girl who should be sad – sadder than most who come in to organise a funeral. ‘But I would consider a candle. What are you offering?’
I did my best to sell them appropriately, choosing words that did not imply anything offensive or ghoulish, all the while wondering if anyone would actually commission a candle of themselves. But she listened attentively, studied me thoughtfully.
‘I like the sound of them,’ she said eventually.
‘You do?’ I shouldn’t have sounded so surprised. I wanted to call Edie then and there, and tell her: We’ve got a customer! Exclamation mark, exclamation mark.
‘How much are they? Perhaps I could order a batch? One for each family member and some for friends. Yes, I like it.’
This was the tricky bit. I didn’t want to lose her over price. I explained how they were more expensive than most candles but that was because they were premium, hand-crafted, the scents perfected by the candle-maker. She said she didn’t mind and that she was happy to go easy on the flowers or choose a cheaper coffin if the budget blew out. Hooray!
‘So, what do you need from me?’ she said. ‘A sample of DNA? A rubbing from the soles of my feet?’ She slapped her thigh. ‘You’ve made my day. Look at the amount of tissues I brought with me,’ she said, opening her bag. ‘That’s what I thought I would need after discussing my funeral in a funeral home with a funeral director. But no! You’ve given me joy. A bubble of happiness I can pootle around in for the rest of the day.’ She shook her head. ‘Brilliant. It’s absolutely brilliant.’
Gladness rose up from my belly and filled my cheeks like an extra-large serving of raspberry jelly and ice cream. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t need DNA,’ I said. ‘Just a list of scents you think sums you up. They don’t have to be traditional candle smells. They could be anything, anything at all. In fact, we did one recently for a barbecue lover. Who’d have thought?’ I was tempted to slap my thigh like she had but thought better of it. I didn’t want to appear too pleased with myself.
Less than twenty-four hours later Fran called back with her fragrance request: pineapple, lemon, tequila and daffodils.
‘My favourite drink, my favourite flower and my favourite quote: “When life gives you lemons, sell them and buy a pineapple.” Can you do fifty?’
For the second time that day I spoke to Edie. The latter may have been through a series of text messages, but it felt like she was sitting next to me and we were having a chat over a slice of apple pie, which was really rather comforting.
I went home that night still full of imaginary raspberry jelly and ice cream. So much so that I fancied buying some from the corner store, except I was five minutes too late and they had closed by the time I got there. Instead, I went home, poured myself a glass of wine, did a little dance in the kitchen, singing, ‘We’ve got an order, we’ve got an order,’ like it was the chorus to a really bad song. Then I lit Marie, watched the wick flicker into life and the wax liquefy around it, the scent of her mingling with the sulphurous smell of the blown-out matchstick. I reckoned Marie would have been happy. Delighted with herself as a candle and pleased with me – as me – or, perhaps as the new entrepreneurial me I was turning into. I carried Marie into every room in my apartment, as if using her to smoke out evil spirits with the fragrance of a flower shop. Until I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of Marie. I quickly blew the candle out and called Caroline instead but her response wasn’t as enthusiastic as I’d have liked. I had to backtrack, of course, as she didn’t know about the candles, so I gave her an abridged version, without mentioning Marie, to get her up to speed. She made non-committal noises and, at the end of it all, I wasn’t entirely sure if she thought they were a good idea or not.
Mr Lowry
Two days later I got to talk to Edie again. The man with his mother on the dining table came back. He presented me with a new box of tissues, which was a very kind gesture, even though we didn’t need it. Mum’s continual bulk purchase of tissue boxes meant storage space was often at a premium and places where you wouldn’t normally find tissues became suitable receptacles – spare coffins, empty mortuary chambers, the fridge. But Pete didn’t need to know this. I graciously took his tissue box gift and was about to instigate a diplomatic conversation on how we really did need to get his mother off the dining table when he announced he had changed his mind about the candles.
‘Can you do the scent of a book?’ he asked.
It was a conundrum I was only going to answer in the affirmative and hoped like mad that Edie could indeed rustle up a candle that smelled like a book.
‘Mum was always reading, you see,’ Pete said. ‘She read just about anything. Mostly books picked up from second-hand bookstores or charity shops. I kept telling her to go to the library, that it’d be cheaper, you know? But it was the smell she loved. She even made me sniff every book she bought. She’d shove them under my nose, as if I hadn’t smelled an old book before. Better than sniffing meth, though, huh?’ He jerked into phlegmy laughter. ‘So, if you can do it, I think Mum would love it.’
Edie squealed when I told her. ‘A book?’ she repeated.
‘Is it possible?’ I asked. ‘I told the man it was.’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll give it go. Did he say what sort of book? An old book or a new book? Paperback or hardback? A bookshop or a library?’
‘He said his mother loved second-hand books, but that was all. Sorry, I didn’t think to ask.’
‘Don’t worry, I love a challenge, but maybe I should create a couple of samples first so he can decide.’
‘Good idea.’ I was pleased that the tricky question of whether you could make a candle smelling of a book had been met with a positive attitude. ‘I’ll happily sniff-test again, if you like?’
‘I know, why don’t you come over at the weekend and help me make them?’
‘Help make them?’ I said. The impulsiveness of her offer caught me off guard. I may have called myself a sniff-tester but I hadn’t intended that to include candle-maker’s assistant. ‘I
don’t want to be in the way.’
‘You don’t have to do it every time but it might be helpful for you to understand the process so you can sound knowledgeable when you’re selling them.’
I considered Edie’s point, which was fair and reasonable, and I was a fan of preparation and research, after all. How pleasingly harmonious our professional relationship would be if we continued to agree on such matters. There was something very appealing about an organised, efficacious woman. ‘I suppose I could,’ I said.
‘Perfect. How about Saturday? Do you mind coming to my place? At the moment, I do it all in my kitchen.’
What is it about life that, often, when something good happens, something bad follows? Or was that just how my life seemed to be rolling? For that afternoon we had a viewing of the first full embalming Jimmy had prepared – which should by rights have been a very good thing indeed. With customers thin on the ground, he was getting itchy fingers for some ‘proper’ work and, although his pretensions were beginning to rankle, at least he was saving me the job. I was excited to see his handiwork and the deceased family eager to see their grandfather before he was put on display at the funeral. At ninety-three years old and with a penchant for the bottle (as attested by his son), he was lucky to have lived as long as he did and I had to admit Jimmy had done an excellent job of covering up his sallow skin and strawberry nose. Even what was left of the man’s wispy hair was suitably blow-dried and set in place, and if I wasn’t mistaken his lips were sealed in an agreeable half-smile. You would have to say that Mr Lowry looked in a better state than when he had come in. Barely a wrinkle. You’d never even have guessed he was dead.
I ushered in the four members of his family who had come for the pre-viewing and told them how we hoped they would approve of how wonderful Mr Lowry looked. They nodded. It was a solemn moment, as it always is. I had tissues at the ready. Jean was preparing a pot of tea. It was all going swimmingly until the moment we stood before the coffin and I gestured to Mr Lowry. As his family looked down, he looked up, his eyes popping open as if he had just remembered a very important fact he had momentarily forgotten. His daughter screamed. The granddaughter fainted. The son leaned in and shouted, ‘Dad?’