*
AN ENGLISHMAN’S HOME is his castle, so sayeth Derek. He lives on the Peabody Estate, an end of terrace. I go to help him manoeuvre his three-piece suite, so he can repaint his front room. I end up staying all day to help tape his windows, prime the walls, shift the rest of the furniture. We stack it in the garden.
You and me, he says. In my estimation we make a good team.
I don’t disagree. I am glad. He makes me a ham sandwich and we sit on the settee under the tree and let our conversation wander.
There is an empty mud hole in the front garden, like one of his graves. It used to be a pond, he says. Somebody poisoned his fish, he says. Envy, he reckons. We stand looking at it for a long time. Now he has geckos indoors. They use a lot of electricity, he says.
7
A grey start followed by clear spells, then comfortably warm with some sunshine
LORELLE IS IN. I skid on the prep room tiles. Hurrying is frowned upon here. She has laid out her blooms and is double-checking the names. I only just make it.
Phew, I say. Caught you.
All right, Lee? she says.
Not too bad, I say. Nice blooms, I say.
Yeah. From abroad, she says.
Mikey breezes past.
Selhurst Gardens, Selhurst Gardens, he says out loud. He turns over his shoulder, shouts towards the office, Why didn’t you tell me before then?
No answer.
Might as well talk to the wall, he tells Lorelle.
I take her hand. Bold or what. Number two: Confident Guy. I lead on. We find ourselves in the storage room, where it’s quiet. No electrics allowed here due to the cremated remains. No good the ashes in ashes. We only burn them once. The poly containers are stacked high against the glass partition, making the room dim. Each tub is labelled in permanent marker. Please label urn and file alphabetically, it says on the wall. Please make sure cremation certificate goes to office for filing. Thanks!
The names climb high above Lorelle’s head. Janine Boyce, it says beside her ear. The remains are transferred to caskets when required for burial, scattering, whatever. Some hang about here a long time. Surprisingly heavy, you don’t want to drop one on your foot. I have a line of conversation prepared, but she gets in first.
Been busy? Lorelle says.
Mental. You?
Same. Wedding, Saturday. Sit-down at the Manor and Spa.
Nice.
Very nice.
It’s now or never, I think to myself.
Ever heard of the Pamplona bull run? I say. They do it in Spain, July 6th. Dates back to the fourteenth century, I add. I find it interesting. I’m considering doing it myself next year, bit of a laugh, I say. I do speak a little Spanish. Hola.
No. Don’t know that one, she says. She checks her watch. I never knew you knew Spanish, she says.
I do indeed. Hola. Como esta? Yo soy un hombre.
Lorelle covers a yawn with her hand. Wow, she says. That’s good.
In the nick of time I realise this is all me me me. How about you? I say. Any plans for summer?
Not yet, no, she says. Wait and see, I suppose.
Might put some people off, hanging around with cremated people, but not Lorelle. A true professional she is. I tell her so.
She shrugs. I’ve seen it, done it, been there, she says.
To look at her you wouldn’t think it. Butter wouldn’t melt. Respect though, total.
Ever been to Il Terrazzo? she asks.
Rings a bell, I say. Think, think, I think.
Italian, she says. Three stars. I know someone who went there last month.
Got it, I say.
I’d love to go there.
Yeah?
What I wouldn’t give.
She laughs at herself. She’s got a good sense of humour.
Not been before then?
Not as yet, no.
She smiles. She has lovely teeth. It’s not all death and misery here.
Sorry, I should have offered to make you a tea, I say. I can brew up in the office.
No time. Got to go, she says. It’s all rush rush, she says.
Need a hand? I say. I follow her out to her van.
She checks her phone, slams the door. Flashes her smile.
See you later, Lee.
I lean my arm above the passenger window.
Arrivederci then. Mind how you go.
I watch the van pull away. I give myself a little pat on the back. Not at all bad, Lee Hart, if you do say so yourself.
*
I AM OUT the back, labelling, checking paperwork. Everything labelled big-time. You can’t have a gents Seiko getting muddled with a ladies Swatch, upsetting relatives, messy. The dead are labelled same as newborns, but personal effects can go walkabout unless carefully handled. There are things you wouldn’t think of, apart from the usual falsies: teeth, wigs, glass eyes; there’s implants, lithium-powered devices, including radioactives and prosthetic limbs. Some people are lethal when it comes to what’s concealed inside them. When business is slow we do catch-up jobs: coffins, plaque engraving, orders, re-stocking. Now and then there are quiet times, lulls. Feasts or famines. Last month it was quiet for a week. It’s dead around here, says Derek. We all laughed, even Reen.
Mikey cleans and polishes the vehicles. I give him a hand. Gets us out in the fresh air and at his age a helping hand is welcome. We take frequent breaks, due to Mikey’s blood pressure warnings. We stand out in the parking bay, survey the darkening sky, the oncoming weather, the houses stretching on and on – left towards the railway line, right towards the High Street. So many houses. Dwellings, Mike calls them. We take it all in. He lights his fag. Over the years each one of these houses will give up their dead.
I am diving down the corridor, lightning-quick, me. Never fear Lee is here.
Sorry I’m late.
A man comes towards me. He walks like someone in bomb disposal approaching a tunnel.
That’s alright, Sir. Not to worry.
Not a problem, I say. He doesn’t hear me. You use your judgement, when, how. The grieving are not the living or the dead. They are in a place of their own.
I put my hand on his arm. Touch is the language of grief. When a loved one dies you speak it fluent, bosh, overnight. This way, Sir. Here we go. Shall we have a sit down? Follow me.
Here we learn to communicate with the bereaved as we go along. Some of us are fluent already. Every one of us in this life speaks it in the end.
Like any language there are rules. My hand mustn’t remain on his arm too long else I will have intruded. Too short and it’s offhand. Pat the arm and you create the impression this is not a priority for you. Timing. Hands are everything, what you do with them. The worst is hands in pockets, forget it – bad as blowing your nose, clearing your throat and looking at your watch all put together. Death is a high-wire act.
By two o’clock the sky has burst. Pouring. Cats and dogs. Me and Derek are soaked. I’ve not done Horse-Drawn before. Two black gee-gees, all the trimmings. The driver, Terence, he’s rainproofed, all the gear, jammy git. Me and Derek are toppered and tailed, nothing more: drowned rats. Only the coffin is dry and toasty behind us under glass. You twats! someone shouts from a white van as it skims by. Me and Derek ignore it. The horses are called Tiff and Toff. One of them takes a crap and it steams in the rain. Howard dashed out this morning to cover the grave. Jacuzzis, Derek calls them when they fill up. Humour is an essential weapon in the undertaker’s arsenal. I bear this in mind.
I text Lorelle a joke.
2 cannibals r eating a clown. 1st cannibal turns to 2 other and says, does this taste funny 2 u?
Haven’t heard back, as of yet.
*
A MAN CAN’T survive on that, Irene.
Reen is in charge of the biscuits. She passes round the tin, a giant Christmas special, two each, no more. Derek reckons he is built larger than the rest of us and, due to the physical nature of his work, he should get extra. Reen’s not having it
.
Fair’s fair for all, she says, and slams the lid.
Hands up who likes marzipan, Derek says. He puts up his own hand. Howard is peeling his banana but pauses to raise his hand. Me and Mike do not. Reen, busy hiding the Christmas tin, doesn’t bother.
Proves my point, says Derek. That people are split fifty-fifty over marzipan. Love it or hate it, like Marmite.
I don’t care for Marmite, Howard says.
Nor me, says Mike.
Doesn’t bother me either way, I say.
Proved! says Derek, putting his hand up. I thang you.
Many people don’t like cumin, Howard says.
Marzipan, Derek goes on, ignoring Howard, was Henry VIII’s favourite sweet thing.
Is that right? Mike seems genuinely intrigued.
As well as apricots and spiced fruit cake, Derek says. I’m talking sweet things not savoury.
How come you know so much about Henry VIII? asks Howard, narrowing his eye, brushing crumbs.
History, says Derek, is a subject of mine. What are we without the past? Nobodies that’s who. It’s going on under our noses every day. This tea break for example, he says, is history.
It is now, says Howard, standing up. Interview in Two in ten minutes.
I begin to clear the mugs.
I wonder if I should mention my own connection to history. Derek stretches, hoists his trousers, checks his watch.
I am related on our mother’s side to James Phipps, I say.
Derek stops, thinks, flicks his head at me.
Come again? he says.
James Phipps. First person in the UK ever vaccinated. Good, eh?
Doesn’t ring a bell, he says.
They experimented on him as a kid, I say. And he doesn’t get the pox, he survives. Job done.
And you are related to him?
Phipps, yeah. He’s my great-great-great—
Any chance of us rejoining the deceased and the grief-stricken? Howard enquires, head around the door.
Skates on, everyone, please, says Derek. How many times have I said it? The dead don’t bury themselves.
8
Rain and cloud at first but drier and brighter conditions developing
I TRY TO observe, keep alert, so I don’t end up like Les, cabbaged in an armchair, fuses blown. The front door slams, quakes the house. I lean towards the window, catch sight of Ned’s bony arse vaulting our gate. He is athletic for a knobhead. How is it a deaf man who never checks for oncoming traffic is still alive? He is wearing one of Mum’s deerstalker hats and his trackies hang low on his hips. Some old dear will die of shock. An offensive weapon, that’s what he is. I should open the window and shoot him. He’s quick, though. You’ve got to wonder what he’s running from. No good asking.
It occurs to me that if I go blind we will be the three hear-no speak-no see-no-evil monkeys. As it is, I am the only one with a plan. I am no saint but I am twenty-first century. I can hoover the house, including the stairs, in two and a half minutes flat with the tube attachment, I timed it.
I do ask myself, Lee, what are you doing? I could walk away and never come back. Granted, I could put my foot down. But I would always wonder. This way I know, I don’t have to think on, worry, fret. They are here under my feet, getting on my nerves, costing a fortune.
Lee and I have an understanding, she used to say. Lee is my soldier.
That day we stood, me and Ned in the field; she must’ve been cremated ten weeks or more. We’d waited for decent weather. He carried her casket, her name was on the plaque. We stood at the edge of the field waiting for the right moment. I wore my red tie. Ned had fastened the top button of his shirt. I read out the prayer. I liked the bit, risen with healing in his wings, but the rest went over our heads. Ned watched my lips to listen. His hair blew in his eyes. As the clouds shifted I did it. I couldn’t tell if it was the right moment but the light breaking seemed like a signal. The sun was weak but it warmed our necks. Her ashes blew on to our jackets, up our sleeves. We were sixteen and eighteen but Ned knelt down like a little kid. I saw her ashes in his hair. Clinging, I thought. I waited. By the time he stood up the gap in the clouds had closed over.
*
OUR DAD WAS a plant operator, he specialised in static tower cranes and mobile elevated work platforms. He worked his way up, he used to joke he’d made it to the top of his profession.
He accepted a job in Dalkeith, Midlothian, as plant and maintenance manager, and he came back less and less until he never came back at all. Me and Ned imagined he must have met someone. We decided she was blonde, a dancer we reckoned: Candy, Sheryl. Something like that.
The cranes suited him, our mum said. Alone up there among the clouds where no one could reach him. He spread his wings, stepped off, floated away.
Lester had no skyward leanings. Never mind what might have been, could have been, never was. Les was as plain as the nose on your face. He took us on day trips: model railways, garden centres, car boot sales. We ate pasties, visited the gift shop. He sang along to Bruce Springsteen in his Ford Mondeo. He made her happy. We kept our opinions to ourselves.
I have wondered if our dad is still alive, swinging among the clouds in a crane cab. She was the only one who could’ve found out. I have an inkling he is still with us. He must wonder what has happened to his sons, Lee Paul and Ned Joseph. Here we are, Dad. He said to me once, At the end of the day, Lee, you come back down to earth, no matter how high you go.
*
I REMEMBER ALL our roadkill trophies from back when. Hard won they were. We had to position ourselves very carefully to make a play for the smashed pheasant. It was lying by the central reservation, torn like a puppet. I count Ned down for the oncoming traffic. He takes his time. Typical. Reckons himself the expert now. Like this is a useful expertise. Like it’ll be his career, scraping up dead things.
He waves at me. Gog! Look at me!
I wave. I jump up and down. Cars are coming. She’ll kill me if. Hurry up then. For fucks. Come on! Now!
*
WE TOOK OURSELVES out when she was bad, when she was weepy. Take our minds off. Get some fresh air. The doctors, the mastectomy, the chemotherapy, had all worked then failed. She made a new plan. She was in charge of plans in those days. We all agreed the new plan would work a treat, even Les. The new plan involved a new approach. To help us all understand it there were leaflets offering advice, information, facts.
I took money from her purse. Me and Ned bought sandwiches and crisps at the garage. I read a leaflet while we ate the crisps.
The single most important key to surviving advanced CANCER is working with an expert who knows fighting advanced cancer is like fighting a raging house fire! You cannot fight it with 5 or 6 garden hoses. You need firemen!
Lester was her fireman. Day and night down the pole. Peeling, chopping, dicing, grinding the juicer. He drove her to a place for doses of intravenous vitamin C, a place for intravenous vitamin B17. A clinic where they plugged her in, like Frankenstein’s monster, to a Frequency Generator. Les read the leaflet. I read the leaflet. Ned read the leaflet. Electromedicine produces miraculous results! You can’t argue with that. A machine that turns cancer cells to normal cells. When used with a water ionizer, it says, the process allows clusters of water to get inside cancer cells, detoxifying dead microbes and the toxins they create. Result. Impressive. Ned steals one of my crisps. I kick him.
The vast majority of alternative CANCER treatments out there are garden hoses. We will supply you with the fire hoses you need for both home and clinical treatment. Survival means acquiring 3 things!! (1) At least 1 fire hose. (2) Several garden hoses. (3) An expert to work with patient and/or caregiver.
You can’t take it all in, it’s too scientific. We take extra copies of the leaflet to read at home. We walk home the long way. I used to prefer to get home after dark, after she’d fallen asleep. If we were lucky we would hear the owl hooting, just like when we were little kids, same old, as if nothing had changed.
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9
Some outbreaks of light rain and intermittent drizzle expected in the afternoon
LES REMAINS IN his TV armchair, finger on the remote. We all know Raven is here. He is at the kitchen window, hair standing on end in the crosswind. He never uses the door, we don’t bother wondering why. He goggles at us through the glass, babbling on, as if we can hear him. Ned could translate, should he choose to read Rave’s lip-flapping. He doesn’t. Everything is always me. I let him in because no one else will. Never has a family group ignored each other more, I don’t even bother pointing it out. It’s like we’re in separate jars in a museum.
We’ve got a door you know, I say.
A new one? Rave asks as he steps in.
Ned lays his head on the table.
How do, sirrah? says Rave.
Tea? I say.
If you’re making.
What’s new? says Rave.
Nothing. You?
Grief, strife.
Les has not yet torn his gaze away from the TV. Rave could be wearing a Superman costume for all he knows.
Ned closes his eyes. Rave sits down and reads our fuel and electric bills that are lying on the table.
Two sugars? I say.
Please, says Rave.
I’ll have coffee, Les says to the TV.
When I go they might as well bury me with a kettle, I say.
No one replies.
When you’re in the tundra your blood freezes at between -2 and -3 degrees Celsius, Rave says.
I wait while the kettle boils. Is it cold out then?
No.
Blind leading the blind. Love it, Lester informs the TV.
I notice Rave’s trainers.
New?
Rave lifts his foot.
Nike clearance. Thirty-eight quid.
Aware of of a switch in focus, Ned lifts his head.
A Trick I Learned From Dead Men Page 5