We screamed, it was blinding. We were Samurai.
Where our garden ends by the barbed wire the field starts. Crop in there, oilseed rape. Clackety-clack it goes in the wind, like applause in a giant stadium. Good evening, Wembley. I take a bow. Split the pods with your thumbnail and black seeds fall out. A knob comes on a tractor and does it. I watch him smoking his fags, taking his breaks, staring at his mobile phone. He’s got a big red ear that doesn’t match the other. Who’d text him? His sister probably. Dead romantic. The phone mast is on the west side. One of them with sponge fingers. They give you cancer apparently. Not sponge fingers, phone masts. Maybe sponge fingers do too, I wouldn’t like to say.
On the east side ridge is oak and elm in a line like they’re waiting. Everything waits. Crows sleep there at night, fifty million judging by the sound.
From her bed she watched this field: the weather, the mechanical sprayer, the red-eared knob. She liked it. We put her ashes there. We waited till the wind dropped, around March time.
This morning from the landing window I catch sight of Ned running in the field along the set-aside. He is wearing flip-flops. I watch. He stumbles, runs on. Must have seen a hare or something, he likes hares. He won’t get close flapping about like that: unaware of the noise he makes. I try to imagine what someone not related to him would think. I know what I’d think. I don’t know how he got this way. I try to rewind in my mind but I just go around in circles.
I used to carry him on my back. He liked it, bit of a laugh. Started when he was a nestling and I was six or seven. We still do it on a special occasion. Dog, he called me when he was learning to sign the alphabet, but he got it wrong. Gog, I was instead. Gog I remain to this day. He signs it as a shape now, a finger drawn across one eye, like I’m half-blind, when in fact I see everything, clear as. One of his foibles.
The JobCentre have Ned’s details. He’s hoping for BSL interpreter work. He could teach but he won’t do the exam. Problem is he won’t travel any distance on his own. He lip-reads fine, but. People shout, make like he’s stupid. More than likely he’s lost his self esteem. Les will look for work once his health is on track. Plan is to sell the cottage. Get solvent. Get a flat nearer town. It is for the best. This is our motto. We should have it over the door, we should have it strung in fairy lights at Christmas. I aim at Ned, a single head shot with my bare hands. Down he do go.
2
Windy, but with hazy sunshine developing for most, with occasional hill-fog
FOR MY NEXT trick I shall make a dead man walk. No drum roll, please. Is that kettle on? Derek has a box of make-up, a box of tricks, he calls it. He opens a palette of eyeshadows and brushes.
There are two chilled rooms, chapels, we call them. Relatives can view their loved ones in an open coffin. We don’t embalm, we don’t have the facilities or the space or an embalmer. If it’s required they go to Redhill to be embalmed, a day trip. We are a small outfit.
Derek begins. He talks as he works.
It’s a question of light and shade, Lee. Rembrandt was the master. It’s the subtle touches, shade here, dab there, a client should look their best. This is a big day for them, big as their birthday.
Derek brushes Peach Flush over Mrs McKinnon’s cheeks and brow. He cocks an eye in my direction. It’s a talent, he says, but don’t be intimidated by that. Technique is the byword. We tender a service, that’s all.
Derek blows the excess powder off Mrs McKinnon, steps back, narrows his eyes at me. It’s not for us to have an opinion, Lee. The fewer opinions you have, the better you’ll get along, son; the dead don’t care what you think.
Using a wider brush, he adds a dusting of Sunset Tropic. He opts for cocoa eyeshadow, blending it with a paler shade. He picks Hot Sensation for the lips.
In my opinion Derek overdoes the make-up. I’m not talking about the men but these ladies are ringing alarm bells for me. Unsubtle is the word. Only one relative has remarked thus far, but. Then again he works miracles with disguise, when it’s required. You can’t have your cake and eat it. In his defence Derek says, No woman wants to meet her Maker without her lipstick on, fact. Personally, I reckon that’s out of date. Then again most of our clients are Derek’s era and beyond. It’s not my place to say anything, I’m only the trainee.
Howard Day has a hurried step. He takes pride in his appearance, smart in his suit. He has his hair cut twice a month, buffs his nails. He is a fan of the Tour de France.
He has a special, hushed voice for relatives.
Do please take a seat. Sit yourself down. Can I get anyone anything? Tea? Coffee? Milk? Sugar? Sure?
A soothing voice. You could nod off. Not to be funny but Howard has the touch with the relatives, the full package: patience, interest, concern.
Take your time, he says. Would you like me to run through things again with you?
He keeps his knees together, his head on one side, his voice soft. I’m making it sound easy, it’s not. He knows what to say and when to say it. He could’ve been a vicar, no problem, could’ve done it with his eyes closed.
Shall we take a little breather for five minutes? he says. Is there anything else I can help you with? He leaves a gap after he speaks. Putty in his hands, the families are. His Achilles heel is personal property. No one is allowed to touch the silver-topped cane he uses when he steps out in his topper to lead the coffins. His broomstick, Derek calls it.
Outside I can hear Mikey whistling. He calls his hearses by name, created from their registration plates. Now, now, children, he says to them. They just stand there in the garage.
That’s you lying there stark bollock, Derek says. It’s always you, Lee, because one day it will be. Pure Derek, that one. A Derekism in fact.
They look asleep after Del and me have done our secret tinkering. I say secret because it is. There is no Magic Circle per se, no pledge, but still. You don’t talk about it, truth be told. It’s a secret you have with the deceased, a pact.
Saying that, there is a peacefulness to this job. You come at the end, after the fact. I’m not cut out for illness, suffering. I prefer to step in when that’s done. People say to me, What’s it like then, a dead body? I always hesitate, but if I were forced to describe it, at gunpoint so to speak, a dead person is like a newborn, weird, other-worldly, but. Familiar as your own face in the mirror.
I bring in the post for Irene. She mans the office phones. Irene has a sympathetic voice which, even so, manages to make you feel you have let her down in one area. A lot of women have this talent, but Reen has honed it to perfection. She says she was born with a good phone voice, now she uses it to chase up unpaid bills; hers is the first and last voice relatives hear at Shakespeare’s. She extracts large sums off the grief-stricken. A dirty job but. Someone’s got to. A youngster couldn’t do it, you need someone with a bit of experience, like Irene. Behind her back it has been mentioned that Reen could get a PIN number off a dead man. I’ve witnessed her performing her phone voice while picking the radicchio out of her chicken ciabatta and still achieving a positive result. You can’t teach that. Respect, Reen.
*
DEREK SAYS I can leave early, so me and Ned go to Casteye Wood. I take my .22 air rifle. I added a scope and mounts last year. I get the odd pigeon now and then. Ned doesn’t like pigeon meat. When I hit one he cradles the thing home in his arms, its head lolling. When it comes to animals, he speaks their language. He lost his job at the kennels when they closed it down. I tell him I’ll help him get another job, but he won’t have it.
We both frequent these woods, though I consider myself more of a regular. The air is green in here. We stumble on the tree roots, quite a laugh, seriously mental underfoot. I push him and he pushes me back. Ned has a laugh that puts people in mind of giant elves: deep, but with a hint of Disney. We share a smoke, take our time, think on. These beech are two hundred years old, they grow like webs. Ned gawps up at the canopies, mouth open, arms spread. I could aim but of course I don’t.
*
Same old on TV: first they destroy someone’s home, then they build them a new one for free. Someone shouts, Would you like to see inside your house?
I take the weight of the .22 on my arm and stare ahead at the bald patch on the back of Lester’s head. A TV reality woman covers her mouth with both hands. No one would ever know. Not even Les. I picture his brains on the rug. Only joking, but still. A pigeon is one thing. No way could I harm a human. Wrong weapon anyhow.
Tesco Mince & Onion Pie it says on the box. I pop it in at one eighty.
You hungry? I call. Nothing.
In the old days we watched TV together, nowadays Lester has assumed sole control of the remote. Seen one Extreme Makeover, seen them all, I leave him to it. When Ned lost his job I let him have the MacBook upstairs in his room. Mistake. That leaves me with the microwave and the kettle. Whatever. I usually have a can in the kitchen, a Stella, relax in the chair. I listen to the radio. Not just music. Last month they had a funeral director. Game on! Runs his own business in America. He wrote a book on it. Everything he said, it could have been me. I put my fist in the air. Fame at last. Nice one. I rang Derek. We’re on the radio, I said. Guess what? Americans say casket instead of coffin. I rang Mikey. Guess what, Mike? I rang Howard. Please only use this number for work, Howard said. Then he said he would listen to the programme, definitely. Thanks for the tip, he says.
I have given up asking Les if I can watch something on telly. He won’t speak a whole sentence, just the odd word like, No.
Dial.a.TV offer a 28-inch Widescreen for £4.84 a month. As a rule I avoid Direct Debit but. This time next week I could be watching I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here.
*
CROWS DON’T LIKE the woods, they leave it to the pigeons. One there now, blowing out the same old notes. My mate, Raven, says the wood pigeon’s song is the Close Encounters theme backwards. I keep meaning to test it, but my schedule’s pretty full. You can see the lane through the trees from here.
An incident took place last month, people are still talking about it. One of the farm workers frightened a girl, chased her down the lane. I’d put my money on the red-eared knob if I were a betting man. Reckon it was likely him. Policeman came a-tapping. Did we know? Did we see? Description is of a blonde man, possibly of Nordic origin. Sorry, I said, we knew nothing about it.
Ned stood behind me reading the policeman’s lip talk, shaking his head. No, no. Neither of us know anything at all. Sorry about that. Then I mentioned the red-eared knob. You might want to talk to him, I says. Something about him, I can’t put my finger on it.
Is he blond, they ask.
More or less, I say.
Thank you, they say. They would look into it.
Cheers, I say. No problem.
You can’t be too careful. The girl is eighteen, I heard. She’s got three A levels. Fortunately she ran to Rowntree Road and hailed a passing car. If she’d gone the other way, she would have run into fields. Different story then.
Funny thing is she ran right past our door. We might have seen her had we been in. I might have seen her running towards our house, frightened. She might have beat her fists on our door. I could have let her in, reassured her, phoned the police, settled her down. Never fear, Lee is here. But she ran past our house. She headed for a busier road, looking for motorists. Pity. I would have helped. I would have sorted it for her, no problem.
* * *
Mrs Carmichael is light as a feather in my arms. I have a problem with hospital sticky tape, as it leaves a grey mark. We have the greatest regard for our friends in the medical profession but they tend to act on the spur of the moment, needs must, but still. Sticky tape and bruising for ever.
What’s done is done, Mrs Carmichael. The worst over now.
Just because a person is dead I don’t see any point dwelling on the dark side. Here is a woman bid arrivederci to pain, sadness, discomfort, whathaveyou. Her suffering is done. Free as a bird, aren’t we Mrs Carmichael? I don’t blame the medical profession, they have a job to do, same as, but. As far as they are concerned life is everything, end of. The difference is they don’t rate you once you’re dead and we do. I’m just saying. It all boils down to this: they believe life is sacred, we believe death is too.
I go up the road lunchtime. Crow sits on the telegraph pole by the old post office. He waits there like a chess piece. Crow thinks he’s an eagle, you would at those heights. He steps off casual, skateboarding, wheels, lands on a No Parking sign. When the sun hits him, he goes like a mirror, even his eyes.
I like the Healthy Living Salads from Tesco, though the dressing stains my trousers. In the afternoon the lovely Lorelle drops off the sympathy blooms from Fleurtations. I toss away my yoghurt and hurry out when I see the van.
Hey, I say.
Hey, Lee, she says. All right?
Lorelle: One of life’s optimists, always smiling. Possibly from working with flowers or she could’ve just been born like it. Happy as Larry, Derek calls her. Lorelle experiences the peaks and troughs of life, whereas here we’re a lot more skewed being that we are merely death death death twenty-four seven.
It’s not just her happy-go-luckiness, I like the gap between her front teeth, the freckle under her right eye, the way her brown eyes slant down. She has a piece of hair that collapses now and then over her face. She tucks it behind her ear. I put my hands in my pockets to stop me tucking it for her and getting done for harassment.
The phrase, dazzling smile, was made for Lorelle. Talk about knock you down, her smile could send you through a hedge. From her perspective life looks like one mad raving bender of birth, baptism, marriage, death. All the big dates in a human life. P’raps her view is as skewed as mine after all. Nice to have things in common. Saying that, we don’t just natter about work. If I bring a brew from the office we discuss varied topics. Or sometimes we just stand with our tea, thinking on.
She has no flaws as far as I can tell other than when she parks the van she mounts the kerb but, I think to myself, So what? She could have her pick of men so I’m not taking anything for granted. I haven’t asked her out yet. I don’t want to frighten her off. Nice and easy. Tiptoe through the tulips.
What d’you call that? Derek is referring to Mrs Whitmarsh. I have finished Mrs Whitmarsh and reckoned her to look good for someone who is dead.
She looks grey, says Derek. She looks ill, son. Get some colour on her before the resus team arrive.
Despite Derek’s superiority I do not take this lying down.
I was going for a natural look, I say.
Well, you’ve overdone it. She looks terrible, he says. Dear God. No one wants to see their relative looking dead, Lee. They want to see the face they loved back when, OK? An approximation of the good old days, Christmas morning after a nip of sherry. That’s the look you’re after, he says. Are you with me?
Yes, I say.
Derek smooths back his hair, fastens his waistcoat, turns on the tap to wash his hands. No good them going out looking worse than when they came in, he says. Get some sherry down her, glad tidings to all men, get some peace on earth. And get a move on.
Of all Derek’s foibles, having the last word, to my mind, is the most grating.
*
I LIKE TO walk the long way. Blow the cobwebs. I forget about them afterwards, I don’t take my work home. I like the wind pushing down Bursthill Lane from Cinder Hill, blows their old selves off me. Wind takes them, the deceased clients, off they go. I get the taste of the woods in my mouth and my legs know where to roam.
Welcome to Our Historic Village, it says on the sign.
OK, cheers!
There is a bird by the public footpath who whistles like a human, every day the same, like he’s doing someone’s wind
ows with a bucket of suds. No sight of him, but still. I know he’s there.
Buonasera, I say. He stops whistling for a moment.
I look for Crow. He waits on the telegraph wire by the postbox. He tilts his shiny eye.
Late again, Lee. You’ll be late for your own funeral.
Such wit from a carrion bird.
You got nothing to crow about, I say.
That round goes to me, I reckon. Laters, Mr Corvid.
*
I ALWAYS SLAM the door when I come in. I could just say, Hello, but only one of them would hear and neither would reply. I could say, I’m home! But what would it achieve?
First thing I see is the dirty dish stack, frying pan on top, upturned like a sombrero. Buenos dias.
The best view in the house is from the sink. I wash the dishes, watch the sun drop into the woods, pyrotechnics. The house makes a giant shadow of itself on the lane. I hang the tea towel on the cupboard door.
Lester has a beard. A result of his TV marathon. He has watched TV non-stop since she died. If you measured his beard you could p’raps even get the date she passed. Possible Les has broken a round-the-clock TV-watching record and none of us know it.
Reality TV is Lester’s reality. He won’t watch a quiz, game show or drama. The only good news is no news, he says.
A Trick I Learned From Dead Men Page 2