Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Kitty Aldridge
Dedication
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
1. Some clear spells in the east, clouding over later in the evening
2. Windy, but with hazy sunshine developing for most, with occasional hill-fog
3. Cloud at first but drier and brighter conditions developing throughout the day
4. A grey start but brightening up in the morning with some patchy cloud later on
5. Rain will clear in the east, leaving a warm bright day, if changeable at times
6. Mainly dry across the south and east, mild and breezy nationwide
7. A grey start followed by clear spells, then comfortably warm with some sunshine
8. Rain and cloud at first but drier and brighter conditions developing
9. Some outbreaks of light rain and intermittent drizzle expected in the afternoon
10. Any cloud in the south of the region will soon move away, leaving a dry day
11. A dry evening, with some clear spells and cloud increasing through the night
12. A dry start, with keen east or southeasterly winds, particularly on summits
13. Cloudy with light rain at first, becoming brighter and clearer by the afternoon
14. Cloudy and dull, with some light rain or drizzle at first and sunny spells later
15. Mild with strong winds, gradually easing throughout the day
16. Perhaps a bright start but soon somewhat cloudy, with showery rain
17. Drier, clearer, with more moderate winds, which will ease later on
18. Early rain and brisk winds will ease quickly and move eastwards later on
19. A fine day, sunny at first with light showers developing in the south-west
20. A fine and dry day with a good deal of sunshine and some light winds
21. Dry overnight with long clear spells. Mist and fog patches will form in places
22. Patchy light rain possible initially, otherwise dry with some sunshine at times
23. Some low cloud and mistiness, turning foggy later with drizzle possible
24. Dry and sunny, light north-westerly winds mid-morning onwards, cloudier later
25. Mainly dry and sunny. Some mist and fog patches will form in places, especially in the south-west
26. Generally cloudy, drizzle in places, turning bright and sunny late morning
27. Perhaps a bright start but becoming cloudy, with showery rain a likelihood
28. Becoming warm in sheltered areas, unsettled later in the evening, a dry night
29. To the south and east spells of fine, dry weather. Possibility of showers in the west
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
After the disappearance of their father and the sudden death of their mother, Lee Hart and his deaf brother, Ned, imagine all is lost until Lee lands a traineeship at their local funeral home and discovers there is life after death. Here, in the company of a crooning ex-publican, a closet pole vaulter, a terminally-ill hearse driver, and the dead of their local town, old wounds begin to heal and love arrives as a beautiful florist aboard a ‘Fleurtations’ delivery van.
But death is closer than Lee Hart thinks. Somewhere among the quiet lanes and sleepy farms something else is waiting. And it is closing in. Don’t bring your work home with you, that’s what they say. Too late.
Sometimes sad, often hilarious and ultimately tragic and deeply moving, A Trick I Learned from Dead Men is a pitch perfect small masterpiece from a writer described by Richard Ford as having ‘a moral grasp upon life that is grave, knowing, melancholy, often extremely funny and ultimately optimistic’.
About the Author
Kitty Aldridge was born in the Middle East but grew up in England. A graduate of the Drama Centre, London, she has since worked in theatre, film, and television as an actress and writer. Her first novel, Pop (Cape, 2001), was longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction 2002 and shortlisted for the Pendleton May First Novel Award 2002. Her second novel, Cryers Hill, was published by Cape in 2007. Her short story, Arrivederci Les, won the Bridport Short Story Prize 2011 (Bridport Prize Anthology 2011).
For Esther
Also by Kitty Aldridge
Pop
Cryers Hill
A Trick I Learned
from Dead Men
Kitty Aldridge
It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.
Woody Allen
For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
Genesis 3:19
So it goes.
Kurt Vonnegut
Prologue
NEVER SAW IT coming. Not in a million. You don’t. The story fattened up in the retelling. They do. A shame, they said. A pity. It started with her, of course, that was the beginning. Then him that didn’t deserve it. Then it was the youngest. Or was it the eldest? Or both? None of us could explain it, not even me. I should know. I am the eldest. Or was. I have forgotten. That is to say I remember but I don’t look back. That is to say I look but I don’t dwell.
It was talked about. Still is. One of them was deaf or was he blind? Tragic, yes. This is how they talk. Of course, looking back you could see it coming, they say. The hand of fate, the finger of God, or was it the wheel of fortune?
Nice boys, they didn’t deserve it: this I have heard at the post office, the pub, Somerfield. And I have heard: They were strange. And also: They were perfectly normal. I’ve heard it all: They deserved it. It was foretold. And more.
Hard to recognise yourself in the tale they tell. This new folklore turns you and yours inside out till you can’t see what was once your own. Out of the mists stroll you, re-drawn. The new you is a fable, a warning. So our lives go. The trouble comes slowly at first. It always does. These things happen. C’est la vie.
1
Some clear spells in the east, clouding over later in the evening
YOU KNOCK FIRST before you go in. You don’t wait of course.
Good morning, Mr Gillespie. Lee here. Nice day.
Everyone is known by their formal name: Mr, Mrs, Miss. We have not yet had a Lord or Lady, but we had a Doctor and a Major. Babies and kiddies are their first name. Everyone is someone. They have status, the dead. Derek said that. It’s true, you’re somebody when you’re dead, you get respect.
Derek has started on Mr Gillespie, but I must take over, as Derek’s off to the crem for a two o’clocker. I pull on latex gloves. Three out today, Mr Gillespie, I say. We’ve got our skates on, I say. I find a bit of chat breaks the ice. I thread up and open Mr Gillespie’s mouth. Here at Shakespeare & Son it matters not what you did when you were alive, we don’t look back. What matters is the here and now. Your status as a deceased individual makes you important, a VIP. True to say for some it’s a first taste of VIP treatment. Death is an egalitarian state, red carpet all round. All are equal at Shakespeare & Son, no one is better than.
A great leveller, death, Derek says. He tends to talk through his nose. Derek Locklear has been an undertaker for nigh on eighteen years. He fell into it when his establishment, The White Stag, near Junction 4 by the flyover, went bust. You never know what’s around the corner, he says. On day one he tells me, Lee, you’ve got an old head on young shoulders. I took it as a compliment; I’m twenty-five next birthday. Granted he rabbits for England, but Derek is chock-full of wisdoms. A waste really, as most of it falls on deaf ears.
Derek’s still got his mutton-chops and waistcoat, but he took to f
uneral care like a duck to water. Derek is not the boss; Howard Day is our funeral director, he runs the shop. He speaks poshly, which is important when you’re dealing with the dead, people expect it, it gives them faith.
Lee Hart is a knob. Someone wrote it on the bus shelter. I know who. Sticks and stones. You have to rise above it. I no longer use the bus service, I walk everywhere, it’s better – get out and see the world.
Some people reckon there’s not much to funeral care, but there’s more to it than meets the eye. I am learning at Derek’s elbow, as he’s been there and back. I am Derek Locklear’s apprentice. Some people call him Del. I didn’t expect to wind up in the trade either, funny. I had my eye on Communication Technology, a pipe dream, as it turned out. We all enter these doors in the end, think on. At my age I am what you call the early bird here, but still. Basically it helps to have the right personality, death doesn’t suit everybody; lucky I was born for it.
Hang on while I fetch my scissors, Mr Gillespie. Nearly done, I say. I don’t see the need to work in silence, it’s not a library. Derek has Radio 5 on.
Everything sinks after death, Mr Gillespie has loose folds. Funny how bones rise up as deterioration begins, but it’s natural as. Everything dissolves in the end, it’s the process. A face shows its skull, a challenge for us. No point dwelling. The trick is be positive, be respectful, even when you’re pushed for time. Mr Gillespie has all his own teeth, not a full set, but still.
Here we go, Mr Gillespie, I say. I tilt his jaw and go through the soft palate with my long needle; there is a little pop – same as when we needle-threaded our paper mâché sculptures at school for hang and display – a million years ago seems.
* * *
Shakespeare & Son Funeral Services is situated between the old council estate and the playing fields. A pebble-dashed single-storey, you wouldn’t look twice. Mind you, when the sky is blue the roof looks red, when it is in fact brown. At the other end of the street is a pub called The Ship. We don’t drink there.
I tend not to vary my route. Often you don’t see another soul, just the birds calling, sound of your shoes on the lane. Animals raise their heads when they see you. Just me, Lee, I say. Same old. Harvest time you might meet a giant contraption coming the other way. The combine is wider than the road, hung with choppers, spreaders, you name it. You have to step in the ditch for it to pass. Contractors nowadays, strangers in the cab; everyone knew everyone when we were at school. I’m not saying it was better.
Takes a minute to get out of the ditch without making a mess of my trousers. I wear a suit for work. It’s a question of respect. I have two suits and I rotate them. I have three self-ironing shirts off eBay. I bought them with a pinch of salt, but they have proved to be worth their weight in gold.
On clear mornings you can see the forest from the bridge over the dual carriageway. It sweeps to the left, widens, curves around to the right. I hadn’t realised a forest could do that, turn like a river. Not a natural forest of course, but still. Sometimes there is mist on the carriageway. Cars hurtling blind, dangerous. I catch the face of a driver looking up, seeing me, afraid I might jump. Funny. I wave but they’re already gone.
My friend, Rob Avon, works at Gatwick Airport. The Red Lion is our local. It is your average pub, a few hundred years old with a resident ghost and subsidence. Rob Avon, aka Raven. The name harks back to his Goth phase – he still dyes his hair black, but he’s left the eyeliner behind.
Local ale we do partake of. We sit in the corner beside the grizzly bear; a feat of taxidermy, the landlord calls it, which is fine if you speak good English. The bear was a performer, once upon a time, he still wears the collar and chain. You could feel sorry for him, except that he’s roaring his head off, even now he’s dead. Not to worry, he won’t hurt you.
You don’t have to be mad to work here. Someone’s crossed out mad and written dead. A stab at humour. It was Derek who brought the word foible to my attention; I try to use it in conversation, without wanting to come over as a ponce. I also find per se creeping into my everyday speech. I was wary but so far no one’s said, Don’t be a knob, Lee, that’s French.
Amazing what people take with them. Ancient Egyptians, all of us. You couldn’t make it up. They say you can’t take it with you; you can. So long as it’s not cash. If the family requests it, we do it, within reason, nothing flammable obviously. Personal Effects are the items accompanying the deceased inside the coffin. First time I tucked a cheque for a million between the fingers of one of our gents I thought, nice one. Brilliant, basically. I’d like that for myself. Who doesn’t want to die a millionaire? Tax free.
It’s the little things, the in-jokes, the ironic touches that lift people’s spirits. Death can leave a person’s sense of humour intact, it’s not all doom and gloom.
Any coffin details for these?
On the side, right in front of you. Mr Keegan’s done. Other two need doing. Is that kettle on?
Mr Keegan is going to wear his own clothes. Winchester coffin. White lining. No crucifix. Personal Effects: Panama Slim Panatellas 6 Pack. Omega watch, initials engraved. Letters. Photograph of a smiling woman. Everything must be recorded in the big book. Everything is written down.
Mr Tomlinson is wearing his own clothes, to include a PJ Brown construction helmet. Embalm yes. Viewing to be arranged (TBA) but yes. Cremation. He will lose his hat in that case. Health & Safety v. Health & Safety, ironic. But not as ironic as the cremation of the fireman last year. Death is full of irony.
Mrs Ferguson: Oyster gown. Oyster frill. The Ripon. Embalm no. Ashes Casket: Standard. Personal Effects: Musical box. Photograph of canal boat. Packet of Bird’s Custard Powder. Viewings: TBA. Jewellery: TBA. I wonder if the boat was owned or rented. I’ve never tried Bird’s custard.
Mr Muldarney is causing a stir. The Basic Coffin. Blue frill. Gown. Embalm no. Viewing: TBA. Awaiting crem details. Personal Effects: A photograph of a little boy, smiling. Set of teeth. An onion.
Yours truly despatched to Somerfield for said onion. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. I said that to Derek. I produced the onion from behind my back. He said, Don’t piss about, Lee, there’s three still to do.
Nil effects it says on Mrs Parkinson’s column. Derek puts her in the basic pink and matching coffin frill. No viewings. Derek brushes her hair out of respect, but he doesn’t fetch his make-up box. I check her sheet and tuck it under her plate. All done and dusted.
* * *
Two funerals out. Four in their boxes. Three out tomorrow, two Thursday, two Friday; busy but not murder. Five out is madness, happens now and then, total insanity. Getting from one to the next, it’ll turn your hair grey, it did Mikey driving the hearse, fact. You can’t put your foot down.
*
WE LIVE IN the end cottage on Cinders Lane, where it meets Lye’s Cross. Our mum remarried: Lester has been ill of late. He is on medication. He has to write down his dosages, or else he gets muddled. He had to take early redundancy from his work at Dinnages. Downhill ever since, worse after she died. Our real dad is a plant operator; currently we are not sure exactly of his whereabouts.
As I raise my door key, I catch sight of my brother, Ned, stepping out of his bedroom window on the first floor. Ned is not everyone’s cup of tea. I hear the twang of springs. Ned appears over the hedge in mid-air, frog legs, then drops out of sight again. Twang. I let myself in. I am the eldest.
She used to say, Lee, if you can’t love your own blood, then who?
We got the trampoline second hand: an Emperor twelve-footer (no safety net), thirty-nine pounds off eBay.
I put the tea on, sausages. I boil water for spuds. I open a tin of peas.
Cup of tea would be nice if you’re making, Lester shouts at the TV. I’ve only got one pair of hands, I say. I put the kettle on. Extreme Makeover, he watches it around the clock. She would’ve switched it off. Different since she died.
Ned seems to step out of the wall, gives me a jolt.
Fuck! Frigh
t you me, I sign him. He laughs.
My brother was not born deaf. His deafness arrived in disguise when he was four months old. His deafness is my fault, this has been proved. I don’t dwell because you can’t turn back time.
Ned looks at the steam coming off the spuds, hair in his eyes, sweat on his nose.
Gravy? Gravy? he signs.
Patience, I sign back. Bollocks, I think to myself.
He is breathing through his open mouth, air whistling through the gap in his teeth, his long bare toes are splayed, his back slightly curved. In the old days I used to imagine him with a tail. He spins out, slamming the door. Ned’s got a temper, always did. She used to say he got it off the elves. Whatever.
You wouldn’t think we were brothers. Ned has a mole below his lip, like a girl, his hair belongs to our mother, thick, shiny; if it wasn’t for his stubbly Adam’s apple you might be fooled. I have someone else’s hair entirely, frizzy, our dad’s probably. If I knew his whereabouts I would complain. I have no moles or free gifts from nature. I have thin legs and high eyebrows, like I don’t know what the hell’s going on. I have a long back which Lester says will turn against me in later life; he takes co-codamol for his.
We learned to sign together, she taught us. Ned’s hands are two birds: tap, bounce, glide. My hands are slow, even now. His hands can tell you any story, plus exaggerations, in seconds. The beads on his wrist make a noise like rain: it is the sound of Ned, like a human black cloud pouring down. He will never know.
I have a photo of her: me and Ned under each arm, two chicks, she called us. Back then I used to put our old washing line in his mouth and whip him with a birch. We were ten and eight. This was our carriage, Ned was the horse. I steered by pulling left or right. If he disobeyed he got a tap, if he was slow he got a tap. We went all over, lanes, fields, woods. He never whinnied and no one saw our carriage because it was invisible. I don’t ask him if he remembers it.
He was a gifted child. She told me that. I believed her. She was terrified he might wander on to the dual carriageway: Ned was drawn to electric fences, lightning, canals, traffic. I thought about that. I told him deaf people couldn’t die. I thought it would cheer him up. I led him to the dual carriageway. Not to hurt him, on the contrary, I wanted to watch him survive, use his gift, see how he did it. A gap in the traffic, off he ran, arms out like a bird. No fear. Halfway across he stood at the crash barrier, waving, watching the cars rocketing. The horror on the drivers’ faces made us laugh, the brake lights flashing as the cars slowed. Result! I was proud, the effect he had, definitely a gift. What a laugh. I waved. He waved. And when he sprints back, the blare of horns. Magic. We scarper before someone calls the police, change our clothes so we won’t match any description.
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