I stroll up the woods; same old, but never the same sky, trees, wind. You have to pay attention. You can go through your life half asleep. You may never wake up. You may never realise you were even alive if you’re not careful. I am careful.
I walk the same way. Past the stumps by the fence then along a twisty path into the heart of the wood where it gets dark. Me and Ned used to play here. I used to sign him the names of things he should know: squirrel, pigeon, bra, knickers. Mum and me used to walk here, once upon a time. The three of us would watch the sunset through the trees. This earth is a beautiful place, she’d say. Don’t waste your lives. We won’t, I said. As if. I still collect sticks for kindling, short ones. Dry them in the kitchen, right size for the wood burner.
The last of the sun pulls the trees into thin shadows. Somewhere a fox is barking. Reminds me of our first ever trophy when we were kids. A dead fox flattened on the south-bound fast lane. A beauty. Ned’s mission was to collect. This was then, but it could be yesterday. I gave him his instructions. Speed was critical, I told him. So, trot-trot. Off he goes. Arms out. Hurry up. Look at him, dainty as. Watch me, Gog! he signs. Yes yes, get on with it. Taking his time. Come on. Peels it off the tarmac. Get a move on. For fucks. Sort it out. Here he comes. Better late than. Mad dash. Through the gap in the traffic. Took your time! Pleased with himself he was. Draped in his arms was our fox: twisted, innards swinging. Stinking to the highest. Then he wants to take it home. Talk about a few bricks short of a load. We bury it in a ditch by the flyover. Ned drops to his knees to pray, God knows where he saw that.
The sun is nearly gone. The last light turns the trees black. I sit down under the big beech. I wait. I don’t know what for.
It’s late when I lock up at night. Les watches TV till the early hours. I boil the kettle for Ned’s drink. I shouldn’t baby him, but. Helps him sleep. It’s only Tesco Value Instant, not Cadbury’s. Calms him down. From the landing window you can see plenty if the moon’s up. Woods, field, lane. The mast is a giant’s dagger plunged in. Magic could happen but it never does.
5
Rain will clear in the east, leaving a warm bright day, if changeable at times
FIVE THINGS GIRLS Can’t Resist. For this article alone I buy the magazine. I have Lorelle in mind, in a nutshell. Anything that puts me ahead of the competition. Needs must. I am surprised by the five things, frankly. I was reckoning, cars, money, looks, usuals, but no. Number one is Romance. Girls like a romantic guy, it says. Romantic Guy brings her flowers, chocolates, gifts, it says. He gazes into her eyes, tells her she’s beautiful, blah blah blah, thank you very much, bish bash bosh, job done. I think about this. I am pretty romantic. Next is Confident Guy. This gent is totally secure and at ease with himself, it says. He gives off an aura of power and control. Tougher one, this, but not beyond the realms of whatever. Then there is artistic guy. Artistic Guy is spontaneous and lives for the moment. He uses his creativity to woo her. Woo her. Can’t say with authority if I am artistic or not. Not off the top of my head. I could ask, but who?
Lee?
Makes me jump. It’s Derek. I shove the magazine into my holdall. Spring out the door, like I’m busy. I shall think on.
I can’t help feeling sorry for Mr Delapoint in Chapel 1. He’s got a look on his face like he’s in trouble, though it’s not his fault. He had a single tooth at the front, the others were fakes. They lifted out on dental plates, like little horseshoes without the luck. His hands rest in his lap. His gold wedding ring shines under the work light. Till death do us. Irene calls him Mr Dela-pwan, like he’s Japanese. Says it’s the correct pronunciation, French. I go with what’s written down. I don’t think it’s fair, second-guessing. Mr Delapoint can’t answer back.
Howard puts his head in. Let me know, he says, when Monsieur Deelapwon is ready, would you, Lee?
Each to his own. Howard has his own perspective on things. That could be from pole vaulting, I don’t know. Apologies, Mr Delapoint, we are not what you’d call multilingual here. Lucky all Derek has to do is engrave it.
* * *
There’s an old lady crying in the foyer. I say foyer, it’s just two chairs and some dried ferns, but that’s what Howard calls it. I hurry over to her.
Everything OK? I ask. And then I think, Lee, you knob, obviously things are not OK.
Mrs Jenson, Let’s have a sit-down next door, shall we? Howard is at her side like he dropped through the ceiling, offering his elbow, speaking the words, showing the way. He guides her gently towards Relatives 1, with its thick carpet, padded settees, boxes of tissues. Lee will make you a lovely cup of tea, he says. We’ve got some shortbread today. Let’s take our time, shall we?
You learn this job as you go. You start at the kettle and work your way towards the funeral director’s desk. It doesn’t happen overnight.
Mrs Barry is a tad leaky at this stage. I plug where necessary, mouths are the worst offender. Remedy is to get wadding into the throat and raise the head. Once the nose is plugged you’re home and dry. I don’t know where we’d be without Webril Roll. I tuck a head block under Mrs Barry. There we go. She can relax while I get on.
Your needle must be long and curved like a half-moon otherwise you will go in but never come out. A closed mouth is hygienic and pleasant to look at. Who wants to peer inside a loved one’s gapery as you whisper your final goodbye? Calm and collected is the look, a little assistance is required, the dead don’t pose. Under the chin we go. Clever part is diving into the nose from the soft palette and back again through the lip so that when you pull the two ends together the mouth closes, like so, a drawstring purse. Lovely. On our way, Mrs Barry. Once you’ve got a nice relaxed Mona Lisa smile, you’re on; I’m quoting there. Eye caps prevent eye drift, we use perforated ones. Eyes and hands are important to the bereaved; it’s where they go to, the places that used to communicate, you’ve got to get it right. Eyes sink, fact, mouths gape, hands flop. We all require a little help to look our best, the dead are no different. These eye caps come clear or flesh-coloured, we use the clear. The perforations stop the eyelid sliding back, grip it in place. The dead are not supposed to stare, sneak a peek. Inwards is where they are looking, like Saints.
What have you got today, something nice?
Reen likes to know what everyone’s having. Reen herself sticks to Tupperware, as does Howard. Me and Derek prefer to experiment with wraps, baguettes, tortillas. Tesco do a range. Pricey but a treat, a bit cosmopolitan. Cheers you up. Plus you don’t have to decide the night before.
Brie and Cranberry.
Sounds nice.
I had that. I prefer Chicken Tikka.
What have you got then?
Ploughman’s Wedge.
Is that Healthy Living?
Dunno.
Doubt it.
Open a window, Irene.
Sorry.
That’s why I bring Tupperware.
The office doubles as a canteen. The phones go, even at 1 p.m. If Reen’s got her mouth full someone else has to pick it up, it’s Russian roulette. We only take thirty minutes for lunch as most funerals and cremations are between 2 and 3 p.m. It’s the nature of the beast, as Derek puts it.
After lunch I return to my Five Things Girls Can’t Resist. Here we go. Romantic, Confident, Artistic. OK, number four is Foreign Guy. Foreign Guy is foreign. Cheers. Ta. I read it anyway. Foreign Guy comes from a faraway country and probably has a cute accent, it says. His social customs and everyday behaviour might be a little quirky. He is uniquely charming, it says. For fucks. Whatever. Not to worry, four out of five’s not bad. Number five is Intelligent/Witty Guy. That’s two things. You have to be both in one? It says in the article Intelligent/Witty Guy instigates conversations that are intellectually stimulating. He makes her laugh with his clever sense of humour, it says. He is an intellectual athlete, springing from one topic to another with informed ease. He is never boring. I let out a lungful of air. That is the five things girls cannot resist in a guy. I roll up the mag.
I feel depressed. I don’t know why. Not that I’m zero out of five, obviously I’m not. Just the tone of the thing, like yeah right, mate, sorry but nowhere here do it say: number six, Total Knob Guy.
Right. Stand back. Miracles are us. I can feel the force. Chop chop.
Derrick snaps on his gloves, spreads his arms. You’re no sooner sat down than you’re off again.
When they stop dying, Derek says, we’ll put our feet up, won’t we, Lee? Right. No time like the present, he says.
He points a right-hand finger at me, bends his knees. It’s one for the money. Two for the show. Three to get ready and …
He points his left-hand finger at me.
I don’t know what comes next. I wait, blank.
Come on!
Is it Elvis?
Derek straightens up, drops his pose, irritated. He sighs as he turns to dig inside his instrument box. Too late now. I have been slow on the uptake. Timing and general knowledge: two of my weaknesses. Elvis. If he’d sung ‘Love Me Tender’ I might possibly have caught on, but. The trouble with Derek is he has a temperamental streak, slightest thing can throw him, rub him up the wrong way. He was psyched in order to transform Mrs Barry, return her to her former glory; I let him down on the starting grid. Elvis Presley, before my time. In death, as in life, nothing’s perfect.
*
LETHAL! A SWIFT half? No harm done. The Arms waiteth.
Ravester. You read my mind.
I enjoy these evening pints with Raven. I do not even bother to call them halves. Our usual seats. Vacant as per. Rave faces the door and tells me if someone comes in. We always sit the same old. I face the stuffed seven-foot bear and the toilets. Cosy in the corner, old Grizzly roaring over our heads.
Been busy?
Keith always asks that. He has been landlord here nigh on five years, but he always says the same thing.
Pretty busy, I say. Not as bad as this time last year. Run off our feet in the cold snap.
Keith tuts and shakes his head. He always does that.
Gatwick busy? he asks Raven.
Armageddon, he says.
Keith tuts and shakes his head.
You’d think he was flying the planes, I say to Keith.
Keith slides off with his cloth.
Rave necks his beer. A dagger of hair sticks out of his head. He is a proven exaggerator.
I saw a massive bee earlier, Rave says into his glass.
I do not reply. I was thinking we could discuss women and their foibles and my plans re Lorelle but I’ve changed my mind. In my head I have prepared a slam-dunk combo of Romantic/Confident/Intelligent/Witty and even Foreign guy all in one, just like that. Kerboom. This time next week I should be high-fiving. Livin’ la vida loca.
A man comes in rubbing his hands together. We sit up. We watch him. We look away before he speaks to us.
I’ve got gammon for tea, Rave says.
Raven’s mum does all his cooking and washing. I am tempted to point it out. One for the road? he says. He checks his watch. Before the clock tolleth?
It’s only twenty past nine, I say, double-checking. Go on then.
The gammon hangs in the air. I careth not. Things wear you down.
We just sit after that. Think on. The gammon floats off into the stratosphere.
*
I FIND LORELLE on my mind almost all the time. When I am asleep she has a habit of creeping up behind me, putting her hands over my eyes. Guess who? I’m not one for games, even in dreams. I’m a big boy, a professional in trade. There are codes of conduct. I’m not up for this sort of thing generally, but. Needs must. Just make-believe of course, but still. When a girl like Lorelle kisses you without prior warning, you sit up and pay attention. And that’s when she makes her move. Nice one. Gobsmacking. Even when it’s all in your head. Not that I’m complaining.
My brain makes it up as it goes along. Game on. The girl from the chemist, for example, climbed in yesterday. Talk about awkward as. Hello, there, she says cheerily. What can I do for you today? Without waiting for an answer she disappears under the covers. She is very precise. Summer plums, six for a pound. Very reasonable. Methodical you could say, probably because she works in a chemist. For a moment I feel peaceful. I can hear the sea. Doesn’t last long. The light dims, a chill sets in. I listen to the click of my breathing.
6
Mainly dry across the south and east, mild and breezy nationwide
I REMEMBER THINGS. Not to dwell, but. In the old days me and Ned would sometimes take off, leave Les struggling, rinsing bowls, washing sheets, swearing under his breath. We would take things from the kitchen: the big bottle of Tango, the Sunday biscuits from the cupboard. We would run to the woods to eat. Then maybe run to Ditton Road to the shops, sit outside the newsagent, burp and fart until the woman from the CoinWash told us we were pigs. What a laugh. Give her the finger. Ned loved it. I would do it again behind her back, copy her waddle walk. Right laugh.
Sometimes we bought sandwiches from the motorway services with the pound coins from the kitchen jar. We’d leg it to the tracks. No trains any more. We’d use a brick to smash things, boring after a while. We’d lie down. We’d pretend train after train was flattening us on the tracks, whistles blowing, brakes squealing; we wished ourselves dead over and over, but not for ever. We’d take a stroll in the open air, two ghosts out and about. I’d light up one of Lester’s Dunhills, like a proper country gent, while Ned tossed the tomato slices from his BLT into the trees. On the way home we’d chuck stones at the pigeons in the woods to cheer ourselves up.
Ned would be tired by the time we got back. I’d put him in the pram for a sleep, push his knees down under the blanket. I’d park it behind the shed so he wouldn’t disturb her. I’d leave him there till dark. He was a good kid in those days; when he was little he was cute as. This changed of course as he grew slowly but surely into a knobhead, but. I remember I stole him sweets and Fanta from the old newsagent at the bottom of the High Street. I’d clean his face after so he wouldn’t get in trouble. He’d do anything for me then and I’d do anything for him. I try not to get nostalgic. I used to conduct simple experiments for his own benefit. Simple things. Teach him to react without the aid of audio sound, stand him in good stead. I’d launch missiles for him to avoid. He didn’t always avoid them. Now and then he’d run to her, booing like a baby. I meant no harm, I would not harm my own brother. I was preparing him. Life is hard, no second chances. No one prepared me.
He got me back one time only. What the Sunday paper would call a frenzied attack. He planned it. We both had our shirts off for a tan. He did it by the ditch in Lower Field so he could use the giant nettles. Lashed me with such force he laced his own shoulder too, on the back-swing. It could have been either of us screaming or both, I couldn’t tell.
I got him back on the way home. Two can play. Surprise! No probs. Half a brick I used. Surprising amount of blood.
Mental she went.
What have you done? What have you done?
Keep your hair on. I remember saying that.
She hit me so hard I landed in the road. Ned loves a bit of slapstick. He laid himself down beside me. Two knobs in the gutter. Put his arm across me in case she tried it again. We still laugh about that. A classic. Years later on TV I saw a man in Pakistan whip himself with chains and it made me think of him.
*
YOU CAN FALL into a rhythm in the workshop, I like that. I set the Gravograph and off it goes. Evelyn Ann Barry.
You type it in then the robotic arm does the job. You can turn your attention elsewhere, you can leave the building. The Gravograph cuts the name all by itself. Modern technology, it does your head in. I staple the frills in the box. The York, smart. Once the plate is finished you fix it to the correct coffin. Tap tap, on it goes. With the polonia woods, soft woods, the Salisbury for example, Derek pushes the screws in with his thumb. Mike said he should go on Britain’s Got Talent with that.
Important to get the plate straight
, no excuses. The plate is you: name, dates. It is all you are, a name and two dates. Tell it straight. Derek does it in inches. You use the name on the plate as a guide, measurements down and across; double-check. Your life on a plate. I made that up.
Not to be funny but. You get perspective working here, it can’t be helped. We’re ready for Mrs Barry.
Derek is blowing on his mug of tea.
Mrs Barry ready? I say.
Ready as she’ll ever be.
Derek has done her hair with heated rollers. Combed and sprayed in place it doesn’t look too bad. She has a rosy glow. The lipstick makes her look like she’s ready for a party. I straighten one of the gold earrings. She looks festive; the red dress, the green silk scarf. Her shoes look brand new. Sure enough there’s a sticky label on the sole, £59.99.
Merry Christmas, Mrs Barry, I say. It’s not Christmas but Mrs Barry doesn’t know that.
Want a hand? Derek calls.
I fold the sheet across her on both sides.
I’ll manage, I call back.
I wheel the trolley carrying Mrs Barry’s coffin level with Mrs Barry. I swing her feet in first. I get hold of both sides of sheet and lift Mrs Barry across and lower her into her coffin. If you get it right the head should drop directly on to the block. You can make adjustments. Not a textbook landing but Mrs Barry is near as dammit. A tweak here, tug there. I check the paperwork. Wedding ring, earrings, pocket prayerbook, photograph of grandchildren. I tuck the prayerbook under her fingers. The grandchildren in the other hand. I check again. Items in the wrong coffin, items gone walkabout equals professional suicide. I add my signature to the paperwork. I pop the lid on. Bob’s your uncle, Mrs Barry. Chapel 2 it says here, viewing at four o’clock. Forty minutes start to finish. Most of that was Mrs Barry’s hair. Thirty minutes is my tops, you don’t want to rush if you can help it.
A Trick I Learned From Dead Men Page 4