by Scot Gardner
Mrs Barton glanced at me and shrugged apologetically.
John Barton looked at his watch. ‘That will do for today, Aaron. You are free to go. Would you like a lift anywhere? Where’s home?’
‘Down by the water,’ Mrs Barton revealed.
‘I see,’ John Barton said. ‘I could drop you home if—’
‘No,’ I said.
John Barton smoothed his tie, nodded.
‘Thank you,’ I added. ‘I like to walk.’
6
MAM WASN’T HOME. I checked the laundry and listened from the men’s to make sure she wasn’t in the toilet either. Her purse was missing and I guessed she’d gone to the supermarket even though shopping day wasn’t until Wednesday. She wouldn’t have any money before then. I knew that for a fact.
I swapped my work shirt for a T-shirt and took the long way out of the park to avoid van 57 – they’d be waking up about now – then jogged and walked along the foreshore and into the supermarket.
Mam was at the checkout. She was digging in her purse. The checkout girl had called the manager and was standing beside the till with her arms crossed.
The manager had done this before. ‘Any more change in there, Mrs Rowe?’
I took the last twenty from my pocket and handed it to the manager.
‘Ah,’ the manager said. ‘Here’s your knight in shining armour.’
‘This is David,’ said Mam.
‘Aaron.’
‘This is Aaron,’ said Mam. ‘Give us a hand with the shopping, love.’
I gathered the bags and collected the change before taking Mam’s elbow and leading her into the street.
As soon as we were outside, she shook me off and stopped to investigate the notices on the community board.
I inspected the bags – two large containers of dishwashing detergent, more toilet paper and an orange. I thought about going back inside and making an exchange but thinking about it was as close as I got.
‘Washing machine,’ Mam said. ‘One hundred dollars.’
‘That’s a good price.’
‘Yes. Not bad. Not bad at all,’ Mam said, and continued walking down the street. ‘Better have a look at it first, though. Can’t trust them.’
I followed and contemplated how best to prepare our evening meal of dishwashing liquid and toilet paper. The orange would be halved for dessert, that much was obvious.
The pedestrian turnstile at the caravan park groaned as we entered. I steered Mam behind van 57 – they were shouting at each other over the metal music. The television in our annex was already on. She lowered herself into her armchair.
‘Deal or no Deal? Deal or no Deal? Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?’ she asked.
‘Yes please,’ I said. Although hundredaire would be adequate.
Putting the dishwashing liquid away under the sink, I found two more full bottles. I put the orange in the fridge and found another half-empty bottle of detergent masquerading as a milk carton in the door. There was nowhere to put the toilet paper except the table.
Frozen chicken fillets thawed in the microwave. Pasta sauce of bacon, cream and parmesan cheese. Penne. We both had seconds. I washed the dishes with the chilled detergent while she was over in the shower.
‘Bedtime, David.’
‘Aaron.’
‘Bedtime, Aaron.’
‘Yes, Mam. Goodnight, Mam. Sleep well.’
She was snoring before nine. The noise rattled – familiar –- over the muted adverts as I left.
When sleep is not a sanctuary, darkness sometimes is. When the mess of human activity nags at you, the ocean can make you deaf with its rhythmic wash. I kept my T-shirt on but buried my jeans, socks and shoes in the warm sand. I waded into the water until the tide dragged at my shorts then I dove, swallowed at once by the ocean’s maw. I lay there on my back – heavens above, darkness below – feeling impossibly small and vulnerable.
I listened but all I could hear was bubbles and sea creatures clicking. I listened so hard I thought I could hear the sand moving, but it was only my breath. In time, the calm made it to my core and I swam to the beach. I carried my clothes and shoes, roughed myself with a towel in the annex and fell to my bed.
7
My head is ringing. My attention lands on a curve beside a snarl of dirty bedsheet. I stop breathing and I can’t stop staring. The curve is slight but in my dreamscape it seems monstrous. The curve is human, though the colour is wrong. Then I see it for what it is; an arc of toenail painted orange.
I woke, panting and ragged, on the floor of the annex. The green fibreglass panel in the ceiling bathed the scene in a surreal light. My palms were sweaty and in my right fist I held the broken handle of a hairbrush, one I’d never seen before. Where had it come from? Had I broken it? I shook it from my palm and lifted myself to my knees, staring.
‘Morning, Aaron,’ Mam said, startling me.
She stood in the door of the van with one hand on her hip.
‘Morning.’
‘What you doing down there?’
‘I . . . I was looking for the rest of my hairbrush,’ I said.
I collected the broken handle and my toiletries bag and made my way to the shower block. There were wrinkled feet in the second stall but the shower wasn’t running. I slipped the handle noiselessly into the rubbish bin, shaved and blasted my skin with the bleachy-smelling water. My hair, now so short, rebelled at my every attempt to calm it. In the end I let it have its own way and fled from the mirror.
Mam had made pancakes. I picked a piece from one and nibbled it ready to spit, but it was fine. Luscious, in fact. No soap flakes or laundry detergent. No talcum or hard cheese.
‘Your hair looks nice, Aaron.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you cut it yourself?’
‘No. Does it look like it?’
‘A little. At the front. Mind you, you did a good job.’
‘Thanks.’
If Mam were an alcoholic, her mental state would be easy to explain. If she’d taken drugs or had an accident, her luck--of-the-draw world would make more sense. Sometimes she was lucid and practical; other times she was a stormy two-year-old. There was no rhyme or flow, just what she was served. Yet, for all her shifting states, she never woke with a stranger’s broken hairbrush in her hand.
I couldn’t knot my tie. It hung like a sash beneath my collar and across my chest. When John Barton met me at the door to his house and escorted me into the coolroom, he stripped it from my neck and hung it over his own. He knotted it deftly as he escorted me into the coolroom, then loosened it and slipped it over his head.
‘Can’t tie them on anyone else,’ he said, and handed me the knot. ‘Slip it on and tighten it up.’
I did the best I could. John Barton made the final adjustments and brusquely flattened my collar over the top.
‘You’ll do,’ he said. He lifted a pile of green fabric and handed it to me. ‘Your apron, mask, glasses and gloves. Get them on. We have work to do.’
I sat the pile on an empty gurney and sorted my way into them. The old man in the suit had gone. Mrs Carmel Gray was dressed. The mountain of Mr Neville Cooper was now under green cotton, his toes protruding. My dream returned as a chill down my spine.
‘It’s not a hospital but we have to be clean. Some people die from disease and those diseases may be transmissible from their remains. Viral infections, AIDS, hepatitis B. To be on the safe side, we avoid contact with blood, feces and mucous where we can. We’ll wear gloves.’
I stood there, more surgeon than undertaker, and John Barton adjusted my protective clothing until he was satisfied.
‘After you left last night I gave Mr Cooper a wash. He’ll need to be dressed this morning. Mrs Gray is being cremated this afternoon and she needs a box.’
I heard what he was saying but I couldn’t drag my eyes from the toes. The more I stared, the more my dream returned. There was no nail polish but the real and the dream merged; Mr Neville Cooper’s toe
was dead and the toe in the dream was dead. That much I knew.
John Barton was watching me when I escaped from the trance.
‘You okay?’
I nodded.
‘It’s quite acceptable to be a little confused or confronted by this. I mean, it takes a bit of —’
‘It’s nothing,‘ I said.
John Barton stiffened, then shrugged. ‘You’ll find a black suit bag hanging behind the door in my office. Bring it in.’
I did as I was told. He directed me to a hook on the wall of the coolroom and instructed me to unzip the bag.
‘Shoes out. Socks out,’ John Barton said. ‘Is there any underwear in there?’
Boxer shorts, as lurid as the ones on John Barton’s clothes line.
‘Excellent.’
He stripped the green sheet off the body, folded it roughly and pitched it across the room at a basket. He scored and seemed pleased by the shot.
‘Right, over here,’ he called.
I joined him at Mr Neville Cooper’s feet. With the sheet removed the body didn’t echo the dream. He was a dead thing, again. A shell.
‘Take a foot,’ he said.
I didn’t hesitate. The skin was cold but still supple, the surface smooth.
‘Lift the leg. He’s a bit stiff now but we’ll stretch him out and get him dressed together.’
There was an intimacy about the process that caught me off guard. Mr Neville Cooper’s genitals were concealed beneath the rolls of his stomach and thighs. His nakedness was incidental, like that of a pensioner dressing outside his shower stall at the caravan park. It was natural to look without seeing, and dressing him felt like an act of kindness – a helping hand for a fellow who couldn’t help himself. Had Mr Neville Cooper been alive, the closeness would have been impossible. Dead, Mr Neville Cooper was a safe friend.
His suit was spotless, perhaps new. John Barton coached me through the lifting and yoga of loosening and dressing the dead, how to save your own back and balance while tucking and rolling. His movements seemed rough to begin with but I later realized they were merely practical. He spoke as a tailor might, including the dead man in his mumblings.
‘Now your left arm, Mr Cooper. Nice big stretch. Good. A fine shirt they’ve chosen. Hand me the jacket and tie, Aaron.’
We dressed Mr Neville Cooper in his jacket but John Barton left the top button of the shirt open and slipped the tie over his own head. He fussed with the sleeves and seams and I stood back to appreciate the transformation. With the dignity conferred by the suit it was possible to overlook Mr Neville Cooper’s wan features and imagine he was asleep.
John Barton drew the gurney carrying Mrs Carmel Gray alongside so their heads were side by side.
They were sunbaking together in their fineries. It’s possible I smiled at that thought.
A hospital tray carrying a single pump pack of vitamin E skin cream was rolled to a working distance and I was ordered to stand beside Mr Neville Cooper’s resplendent remains.
‘Do exactly as I do. Watch closely.’
He took a squirt of cream and lathered it in his palms. He rubbed it on the back of Mrs Carmel Gray’s hand. I did the same for Mr Neville Cooper. Beauty therapy for the dead.
‘Try not to get it on the clothes. Take your time. Hands, face, neck, hairline. Any exposed skin.’
John Barton nodded his satisfaction at my work. He buttoned the rest of Mr Neville Cooper’s shirt and knotted the tie around his own neck – as he’d done for me. He slid it in place and folded the collar expertly, then smoothed the dead man’s hair as he might his own.
He handed me a photo of Mr Neville Cooper before his demise.
‘What do you think?’
I stared at the image. It had been taken at a wedding. It was hard to accept the fact that the two-dimensional picture in my hand now had more signs of life than the man before me. He looked younger in death.
‘Our job is to create a memory picture for those left behind,’ John Barton said. ‘Some places they pump the dead full of embalming fluid and paint their faces with make-up. To my eye that looks unnatural. We don’t want to bring them back to life; we only want to give them dignity. I spend a lot of time getting the hair right.’
I hadn’t noticed. It was picture perfect and wouldn’t have happened by accident. I wondered how much vitamin E cream he’d use on a car accident victim or those with their heads blown off by shotgun blasts. I wondered, but I didn’t ask.
‘Mrs Gray will be delivered in a Crenmore coffin. An Eternity model. Come,’ he said, and led me to the storeroom.
‘We keep about twenty caskets in stock and can get them here overnight when it’s a special order. The names are on the packing labels.’
We carried the Crenmore Eternity into the coolroom and positioned it on a lowered gurney. The plastic covering was dispatched with scissors so sharp they needed no cutting action. For transport, the upturned lid had been screwed to the base.
‘Use this,’ John Barton said, handing me a battery drill. ‘Take care not to scratch the finish. The lid is in two parts. You’ll find hinges, handles and screws to fit them inside. Bit of tab-A-goes-into-slot-B. Think you can handle that?’
I nodded.
‘Need I have asked?’ he mumbled to himself.
The hinges and holes for the handles were all pre-drilled. It took me ten minutes to put it together.
John Barton dumped an armload of silky white fabric into the box. ‘Lining is attached with the staple gun.’
He murmured instructions and stapled the lining in place.
‘Mattress,’ he said.
I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. The coffin had a luxurious spring bed that we lowered into place.
Finished, it reeked of new paint and plastic but I doubted Mrs Carmel Gray would mind. With John Barton cradling her head and me lifting her sensibly shoed feet, we lowered her in. The mattress springs creaked as they took her weight. Mrs Carmel Gray’s final bed felt more comfortable than the floor I’d woken on that morning. My dream from the dawn raced in and made me hold my breath. I blinked and shook the image of the orange toenail from my thoughts, replaced it with the squareheeled shoes on the body in front of me. Utilitarian and, yes, dignified old ladies’ shoes.
We retired to the house for morning tea around eleven, and on the way past the chapel I caught a glimpse of a closed coffin and an insight into how hard John Barton worked while my eyes were elsewhere. I guessed this was the old man from the coolroom. John Barton had collected and prepared, lifted and clothed, made up and presented the body and coffin by himself. I felt superfluous and in awe, and then my place in this world became clear – he could do all those things by himself, sure, but my back and my hands could share the load.
Mrs Barton presented me with a package. Apparently, Tommy So had had a suit on the rack that needed very little alteration to fit me.
John Barton was suspicious. ‘Try it on, Aaron. Seeing is believing.’
I discreetly kicked the wet towels deeper into Skye’s bathroom so I could close the door. The fabric was silken and light – boxer shorts without the colour and shine. The loops on the pants were too narrow for my belt but the rest of the suit fitted well. In the mirror, my transformation was almost complete.
John Barton produced a narrow black leather belt from his wardrobe but had to punch a new hole. Like scientists,, he and his wife examined their creation. I slipped my hands into my pockets.
‘Ah!’ John Barton growled, waggling a finger. ‘Your hands only enter your pockets to fetch something.’
He gestured that I should copy him – hands clasped behind his back, hands hanging by his sides, hands clasped in front.
‘Very good. If I see you with your hands in your pockets it’ll be your turn for a ride in the hearse. In the back!’
I chuckled. It caught me by surprise.
John Barton and his wife stood stock-still, as if they were equally surprised.
I covered my mouth.
>
‘That’s quite enough of that, too,’ John Barton said. ‘There’ll be no laughing in here.’
His finger was waggling again but something akin to a smile had messed with his funeral director’s expression.
We drank tea and I wasn’t required to open my mouth except to drink or shovel food in.
Eventually, John Barton looked at his watch and stood. ‘Will you give us a hand with Mr Dean’s flowers, please, my dear. People will be arriving in about an hour.’
My rib cage seemed to tighten around my heart. I should have known there would be people. I should have guessed that the suit was not just for my own amusement.
The garage floor between the vehicles was a brawl of colour. Giant bunches of flowers – eleven in all – shamelessly lit up the grey concrete. Mrs Barton took one arrangement, then stood beside the coffin placing the others that John Barton and I carried in. The smell of real blooms, all sappy and green, overcame the ubiquitous scent of fake flowers.
John Barton tugged on my sleeve and beckoned me into the hall.
‘Same rules,’ he said. ‘Be silent and do as you’re told.’
I nodded.
He dusted a white petal from my shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. Remember to keep breathing.’
My job was to greet the mourners and hand them a copy of the service for the late Mr Arthur Terrence Dean. I didn’t do much greeting but I did hand out the programs. The photocopied picture gave him the most evil-looking skin and his mad-scientist glasses made the overall effect a bit cartoonish. The body in the coffin wore the same glasses.
The bereaved took their seats and I stood at the back of the chapel, my damp hands clasped in front of me. I could see the backs of their heads but their eyes were on the celebrant at the lectern, above the coffin. Flamboyant in purple and green, he made the rotund John Barton look like a swimsuit model.
‘We’re here to bid our farewells to Arthur . . . Arty . . .. Terrence Dean. To celebrate his life and lay him to rest.’
Why was my own heart hammering so loud? Could the tall man in the back row hear it?