by Jane Riley
Then, I felt a change happen inside me. Like when I realised I didn’t have to be with someone like Caroline, who wasn’t right for me. Like when you realise death needn’t be grisly, that it’s just another stage of life. Or that you’re not going to die if you eat raw fish, that it can, in fact, be perfectly tasty. As we sat at the first set of lights, watching a group of long-haired, skinny-jeans-wearing teenage boys slink across the road, their hips cavalier, attitudes blasé, I had another idea. I would deliver the diary my way. I would show Henry that I was not a coward. That I was in charge of the situation now.
‘Sorry, Edie, I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You can’t back out now,’ she said. ‘Look, we’re nearly there.’
‘No, no, I’m not backing out. I’m backing in. Metaphorically speaking.’
When the lights changed, I turned in to a side street, made a U-turn and enjoyed the sensation of a high-speed car chase, even though I was driving only moderately fast and being chased by no one. I enjoyed making the tyres squeal from a forced hill acceleration and thought, To hell with stopping at amber traffic lights, and kept on driving. Flushed from going over the speed limit and attempting a swerved corner turn, I pulled up outside Henry’s house and parked under the shade of a tree.
‘Is this where I think it is?’ Edie asked.
‘It is. Do you mind waiting here a minute? Hopefully he’s in.’
‘Sure.’
I slipped the diary into my jacket pocket, stepped out of the car, shut the door and eyed up my destination. I adjusted my tie, rolled my shoulders and tugged at the suit lapels. I imagined I was Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and walked up to the gate.
Its latch was sticky on opening. I tried to ignore the state of the garden, which was even more dishevelled than when I had last been there. Plants resembled weeds, and weeds plants. Dropped camellia flowers browned themselves in the sun. I looked down the side of the house, where I had hidden on my previous visit, and didn’t even contemplate going there if I had a change of heart. I walked straight up to the front door and knocked. When I got no response, I rang the doorbell and knocked again.
The door opened. I felt the momentousness of the moment, like there should have been cinematic build-up music. A slow zooming in on our faces as Henry looked at me and I looked back. He swayed like a tree stabilising itself in a gust of wind, his eyeballs nimble as marbles. I stood rock solid, the diary not obviously visible in my pocket. The old Oliver Clock was waiting for Henry to speak until he realised that the new Oliver Clock should be the one to talk first.
‘Hello, Henry.’
His gaze narrowed to my left side. ‘Your face isn’t looking too good,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, no thanks to you.’
‘I didn’t do that,’ he said indignantly, gripping the door for balance.
‘Not exactly, but you did threaten.’
Henry frowned, as if trying to remember. ‘You deserved it,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyway, why are you here?’
‘I’ve got the diary.’ I patted my pocket.
‘Finally,’ he said.
‘But I want an apology first.’ The new Oliver Clock thought I deserved that at least.
‘What?’
‘I want an apology for barging into my house and making me trip on the coffee table,’ I said.
We had a staring competition for all of three seconds until finally he spoke. ‘Alright. I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and reached into my pocket.
He took the diary off me greedily and held it to his chest. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
Then he started choking up, which isn’t meant to be a euphemism for crying. He did it literally. I thought he was going to choke on his own chest phlegm as well as spew tears over the porch, as if he were an overflowing gutter pipe. I reached out an arm to comfort him, although I wasn’t sure where to put it. On his shoulder seemed too personal, yet on his forearm too impersonal. I wasn’t expecting such an outpouring of emotion and now felt a little bad that I had withheld what he’d wanted or seemed to need so badly. It was as if he were clinging on to anything that was Marie’s in a flurry of remorse, regret and despair.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Do you have someone you can talk to?’
He shrugged and wiped a dripping nose with the back of his hand. He stumbled towards the veranda post for support as his knees began to buckle.
‘Why don’t you sit for a minute?’ I suggested, and helped him to the top step. I sat down next to him. We were like the two characters in Waiting for Godot, me sweltering in a suit and Henry in his baggy T-shirt, tracksuit pants and slip-on shoes, waiting for something to happen. Or maybe we were hovering mid-moment, waiting for the dynamics to shift and re-form. We gazed over the unkempt front garden towards the houses on the opposite side of the street, Henry still cosseting the diary at his chest, sniffing.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘a friend told me recently that fear has a smell. But I’ve decided it’s the thought of the smell that is far worse than the reality.’
Henry looked at me, back to the houses, to me again and then at his feet.
‘You will get through this,’ I said. ‘It might seem like your world has collapsed, but grief has an agenda and, unlike our public transport system, it sticks to it, trust me.’
He looked at me again, a long, in-depth look which I couldn’t easily read. I don’t think he’d necessarily fully forgiven me for being the focus of Marie’s secret attentions, but something had changed in him. Perhaps it was the realisation that being angry was hard work and, in his case, pretty futile. Or maybe he’d decided I was a more decent guy than he’d first thought, or, at the very least, someone not worth hating any more. Which, if I thought about it as I was doing then, was what I felt about him. That he probably wasn’t that bad a husband. Just a husband Marie had fallen out of love with. A man lost and sad who’d got distracted by booze.
‘OK, mate,’ I said. The fact I even called him ‘mate’ meant something had changed in me, too. I wasn’t sure I wanted him as a real mate but the sentiment of a truce was there. ‘I’d better get back to work.’
He nodded and gripped my knee for a second. ‘Thanks,’ he said and, this time, I think he meant it.
When I got back to the car, Edie let me get in, loosen my tie and rest my head on the back of the seat before speaking.
‘He was home, then?’ she asked.
‘He certainly was.’
‘I was thinking,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I could make him a candle of Marie. Do you think he’d like that?’
What an extraordinary idea! ‘You know what? I reckon he would. That’s a very kind gesture.’
I looked at her then and smiled. It felt like I had my very own living talisman sitting next to me and I suddenly wished I could have kissed her rather than high-fived over the handbrake. What a strange effect Edie was having on me. Very strange indeed.
I’ll Do It My Way
I arrived at Clock & Son feeling pretty damn chirpy – or how I often feel after a meal of slow-cooked lamb shanks, sweet-potato mash with a dollop of garlic butter and al dente French beans I’d cooked myself. I may now have been Marie-less but it didn’t feel as bad as I’d thought it would. In fact, I felt great. The changes Marie had helped me make were continuing. Even though I had let her go, her effect on me was still proving efficacious. I was turning my life around and acting on my resolutions. I was taking charge and moving on. In reception I took a moment to take in my surroundings, as if I hadn’t properly considered them before. On the table by the window sat my grandmother’s crystal vase, which was always filled with flowers, and Mum’s strategically placed eucalyptus-infused tissues in mock-crackle, non-breakable rose-painted boxes, chosen to cope with sudden grief-ridden handling. On the walls were two paintings I had bought at an inner-city art gallery, which I wouldn’t have minded hanging in my living room. The sofa, still buxom despite its age, which cosseted you comfortingly in its gra
sp, with cushions Jean kept fully plump so as to show no signs of the previous sitter. The rich smell of furniture polish, the scent of dust-free surfaces and the one constant: compassion.
There really was nothing like the integrity of three generations. Elements may be outdated but the building was solid and sturdy and Clock & Son estimable and dependable. It was my baby. The business may have chosen me but, without me, there would be no third generation. For Clock & Son was me, my family, my history, my community. I was the Son, I was the Clock, I was the past, I was the present. I was the middleman between the living and the dead. I felt a surge of pride welling from deep within my belly and overflowing into my veins, as if my skin would burst and my shirt buttons would pop open. I didn’t want Clock & Son to die a slow death; I wanted it to live on and now it was time to bring it into the twenty-first century. Today I would put in place one of my new resolutions: Thou shalt hire the embalmer you want. I just hoped Cora Mulligan was still looking for a job.
I went straight to my desk and found her number. Firstly, I had to apologise for how Mum had behaved and then explain how the other embalmer hadn’t worked out, before I could ask, ‘You wouldn’t still be interested in the job, would you?’
‘Great to hear from you Mr Clock,’ Cora said, then paused. ‘Hang on, let me go into the mortuary, then I won’t have to whisper.’ I waited as she changed rooms. ‘That’s better. Where were we? Oh yes, I was about to speak out of turn.’ She chuckled. ‘To be honest, your call couldn’t come at a better time. I took on a new job, but I’m not happy and would much prefer to work for you guys. I liked the feel of your place, the tradition and personalised service.’
‘That’s very nice of you to say,’ I said. ‘Traditional and personal are our core values. We have also started offering an extra, unique and customised service to customers that no one else is doing. I would love to tell you more about it if you were interested in working with us.’
‘I would be very keen, thank you. Honestly, this place I’m now at . . . the cost-cutting . . . the lies . . . the flash Harrys . . .’ She was whispering again, possibly even looking around furtively. I empathised. I knew what it felt like to be overheard by a cadaver or two. It could be most unnerving. ‘Do you know,’ she continued, ‘only a few days ago we were getting ready for a funeral and a viewing, and someone – I won’t name names – pulled out the wrong guy but dressed him in the right guy’s clothing. When the time came for the family to see him, his wife hyperventilated and he didn’t even apologise. Worse, he told them that’s what happens when you die. That sometimes you can start looking like someone else. Can you believe it?’
I couldn’t. Then again, if this new place she had started at was Green Light Funerals, then I probably could. But how could I find out without breaching any ethical concerns? I needn’t have worried. Cora needed little coercing. ‘Really?’ was all I needed to say.
‘Oh, yes, you’ve no idea. It’s horrendous. I won’t name names, but the first word of the company name is a colour.’
So, it was them, the dirty scoundrels. As upset as I was for the poor customers who had to experience such poor behaviour, this news made me very happy indeed. It was a validation that working honourably and with dignity was the right way to be and that, sooner or later, the word would spread about Green Light Funerals’ despicable practices and Clock & Son would come out the winner, the stayer, ready to live on for a fourth generation, if I were ever to produce one.
‘Thank you for your honesty,’ I said, trying to remain professional and calm and not like a man who wanted to punch the air in excitement. ‘I’m sorry it isn’t working out for you, but if you were happy to jump ship, so to speak, you may start with us as soon as you like.’
And so it was that I finally got the embalmer I wanted and unexpectedly discovered that the competition was practically drowning in malpractice. I hung up and started laughing, a tremendous guffaw that would have startled Jean and Mum, had they been with me. As it was, I could fill the air with uncompromised chortling and not cut it short for anyone.
Making Clock & Son Sing
I sat for a minute at my desk, enjoying what it felt like to take charge, to experience the new Oliver Clock emerging. I didn’t want the transition to occur without taking a moment to appreciate its significance. Finally, I was being true to myself. Finally, my little yellow notebook was something I could be proud of. Or was it me and my actions that I should feel proud of? I took a slow, deep breath, in and out. I now had to prepare for my next task. The big one. The chat with Mum and Jean. I needed – wanted – them both on side. It was time to tell Mum everything. It was time to show them the new Oliver Clock.
I left my office and found them chatting by the water cooler. Mum had just arrived with some fresh flowers and Jean had returned from buying provisions. ‘Can I have a meeting with you both?’ I asked.
Mum turned to look me. ‘Good grief, what happened to your face?’
I said I’d had an accident vacuuming, tripped and hit the coffee table. I’m not sure she believed me, despite her knowing the enthusiasm with which I usually threw myself into cleaning, which was a shame, because it was only a semi-lie. ‘I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.’
‘Jean, get ice,’ Mum said.
‘We don’t have any.’
‘I’ll make tea, then.’ Mum’s cure-all for everything.
‘I don’t need tea, Mum.’
‘But we can’t have customers seeing you like this. I know just what you need,’ she said, raising a finger to the ceiling and then disappearing to the back room. She returned with a tube of the gloopy embalming foundation we used to add colour and patina to ghost-like visages and started dabbing it on my face.
‘Mum!’ I swatted her hand away.
‘Sorry, does it hurt?’
‘I don’t want you putting make-up on me.’
‘Nearly done.’
‘I’m thirty-nine, Mum.’
‘So?’
She looked at me as if to say, What could possibly be wrong with a seventy-seven-year-old woman putting make-up on her thirty-nine-year-old son?
But, really, enough was enough. Thou shalt stand up for yourself in the face of your mother.
‘Please don’t put make-up on me. I will be forty in six weeks—’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mum interrupted, ‘I was going to ask what you’d like for your birthday. And would you like me to cook a special dinner?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. We can talk about it another time. What I’d really like is for you to listen to what I have to say. You see, I want to make a new start. I want to make Clock & Son sing again. I want it to shine like it used to, as it still should.’
‘I’ve not heard you so passionate in a long time – not since that patisserie opened down the road.’
Jean twiddled with her silver crescent-moon brooch as if contemplating moving the crescent into a grin.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, but I’m being serious. The thing is, I can’t do my job properly if I also have to embalm. So, I’ve decided to hire a new embalmer.’
Naturally, Mum was horrified, especially when she learned it was ‘that tattooed thing’. I had to shut her down before she got carried away. I told her it was a fait accompli, and I’m not sure if it was my use of a French phrase that appeased her but certainly Cora’s revelation about our competitor did.
‘This is interesting news, Oliver, and does bode very well for Clock & Son’s future, don’t you think?’
‘Which brings me to the next decision I’ve made,’ I announced, and proceeded to tell her about Edie and the candles. ‘I know they sound unusual, but we have already sold seventy, to two people. I want the candles to be our signature offering, something that no one else does.’
‘They sound appalling. And you’ve sold some already! Why didn’t you think to tell me about them before?’ Mum said.
‘They’re not appalling, Mum. I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to prove to you that pe
ople liked them, that they could be a drawcard for new customers. And Edie is so . . .’ I searched for the right word to describe her, as so many suitable words came to mind.
‘Edie is delightful,’ Jean said, to help me out.
‘You know about this, Jean?’ Mum was beginning to sound, understandably, a bit put out. I wasn’t surprised; it was going as well as I could have hoped.
Jean nodded.
‘So, you’ve gone behind my back.’
‘No . . . well . . . maybe,’ I said.
Mum gasped. I had to keep calm and stand my ground.
‘Look, I didn’t want to upset you. But before you dismiss them, please let me show you the candles and introduce you to Edie.’
‘Well, it’s the least you could do, under the circumstances,’ Mum said.
‘If it’s any consolation, they won’t cost us a cent.’
‘Thank heavens for small mercies.’ Mum was sounding more sarcastic than was desirable. She put a hand to her chest and looked to the ceiling, as if someone up above were offering a modicum of common sense to appease my announcements. ‘But don’t think I’m going to sign them off just like that. I’ll humour them, if you really want me to. Now, can I go and finish the flowers?’
‘Just two more things, Mum. We talked about doing a Clock & Son revamp but haven’t done anything about it. I think now it’s time. We don’t need to do a huge one and blow out the budget, just enough to keep the place traditional yet relevant. It’s about investing in the future. And I promise not to ditch the wood panelling or any of the family heirlooms.’
Jean nodded. ‘I’m happy to start getting quotes for painting and a new carpet, if you like, so we can make informed decisions?’
‘Excellent, Jean, thank you. The first thing we definitely need, though, is a new sign, and that’s non-negotiable.’