I compose a poem to Lorelle. I have not addressed Artistic Guy vis-à-vis Five Things Girls Can’t Resist. It’s now or never, as Derek would say Elvis would sing. Harder than it looks. In the end I go for short and sweet. I send it as an SMS.
You and me. Just the way we talk, stand around. It keeps my feet on the ground and my head in gear. In the summer sun at this time of year. You and me.
I’m not saying it’s Shakespeare, but. Reckon it might touch a nerve, slant things in the right direction. Girls like things to rhyme.
*
SPEAKING OF GIRLS, Ned has met one online. On Chatroulette, the site where, play your cards right, you’ll likely meet a mass murderer or two. Lovely. Her name is Debra-Ann, according to Ned. His hands fly, two birds in a net. Of course this will not be her real name. I sign this to him. Her real name will be Graham, she’ll have three bodies under the floorboards, two more in the Ford Transit. Talk about gullible. He finds this funny.
Jealous! Jealous! he signs.
Ned believes anything anyone tells him. Without me he’d be eaten alive. I’d love to see a picture of Debra-Ann. I could admire her piercings, her display of dentistry, her Adam’s apple. I wouldn’t mind but someone’s got to look after him. Ned says he can talk to people online without them having to know he’s deaf.
Wear clothes, I tell him, when you chat. Reckon he’s more chance of meeting someone sane if he’s dressed. Life would be better in general if Ned wore more clothes. He goes shirtless because he’s big on sensation, he likes the feel on his skin: wind, water, psychopaths. He goes shirtless in the field, he thinks I don’t know.
He falls asleep like a cat. He curls up anywhere. Ned can bend himself any which way, God’s gift to yoga, a waste really. He is spark out on the settee, mouth open. Silence is golden. Sausage casserole we had, my own recipe. Plates are drying on the drainer. I am concerned lately that he has maybe joined an online cult. He has begun to smirk and grin at inappropriate times, as if he’s some kind of enlightened soul. Arsehole, more like. Let’s face it, he is easy prey for wackos.
As well as communicating with nefarious psychotics online and staring at naked girls, Ned also spends time on air disaster sites: emergency landings, near misses, crashes, you name it. What would poleaxe you and me lights him up like Christmas. He can’t see the horror, don’t ask me why. He can watch those planes skid, spin and break up no problem at all. Like when we scattered her ashes in the field, it’s not that he doesn’t feel it, he just sees another side. To him normal everyday things are madness and vice versa. Like he’s looking down the wrong end of a telescope.
I let myself out. Quiet. Birds beginning to roost. No wind. Decent moon up. The field is full of rabbits, as I walk they flow away, puts me in mind of locusts. I have never seen a locust except on TV. I climb the stile, walk the set-aside. Pigeons in a corner of the field. They rise up, clatter clatter, and swerve towards the woods. I turn my attention to the mast instead.
Greetings, mast. Buongiorno.
Me and the mast have a lot in common. We stand tall in all weathers, no funny business, no shirking, no day off. No one notices. No one thinks what if the mast/Lee didn’t exist. Then what?
I stroll towards the lane. I have a gander. I don’t think it’s right, some Nordic knob chasing an A-level student on a public highway, ditto GCSE, it makes no difference. It’s not on, that’s all I’m saying. If I see anyone suspicious I’ll have a word.
The lane is empty. Just Crow laughing his head off. Private joke, I assume. I leave him to it.
I can’t put my finger on what’s gone wrong in my life. Mainly it’s Ned. Not his fault per se, he’s just a pain in the arse. He wasn’t born deaf. At four months old he caught measles off me. She set up his crib beside her bed and watched him through the bars. I remember his cry, like one of the farm strays.
I used to spy on them through the door crack, wishing she would come back to me, watch me sleep instead, wishing I was iller than him.
By the time he was seven months old she had to admit Ned was deaf as a result of his bout of measles. We were not inoculated. The GP told her it might be permanent. It was.
A poison cocktail, she called the MMR vaccine. A time bomb. No one knows what’s safe, she said. The doctors are experimenting on our children.
This was all about baby Tom from her childhood. I reckoned it so. I’d put money down. As a kid she’d played with baby Tom’s big sisters, up Copthorne way. After he was born, baby Tom had been given the whooping cough vaccination from a toxic batch and was brain damaged. Everyone in the village knew. All the mothers nattered about it. She still went on about it and baby Tom’s mother, all these years on; a saint, she called her. Over twenty years back but fresh in her mind. Things can haunt you just as well as ghosts. For our own protection we weren’t inoculated; as far as she was concerned the doctor’s verdict that vaccinating me would have protected Ned was rubbish. She liked a good ruckus with a person in charge.
Deafness is not a disease, she told the doctor at the surgery. There’s nothing wrong with my son. Ned is a clever boy, hearing or deaf, she said. And no, she would not consider a cochlear implant or a hearing aid, not now or ever. You can’t force me, she said. I have rights.
So does he, the doctor said.
I stared at the doctor. I took my time. I thought about punching him. Smashing his face into his desk. Breaking his nose, splitting his lip. Talking to her that way. She refused to sit on a chair, she gripped my hand instead, swaying, head high. I am a mother, she told him, I know what’s right.
The doctor rubbed his eye as he spoke. The vaccination works, he said, it protects children. He sounded at his wits’ end.
There is evidence that the vaccine is unsafe she replied. It will probably be proved, she added. I have done the best for my boys. We shall see, won’t we?
She had the last word. She swept out, leaving all the doors open, like royalty. I was proud. She stood up to him. She was a warrior. And the fact that my brother was deaf was not my fault in any shape or form. No way was I to blame. She said so.
She never mentioned baby Tom. I didn’t know why then but I do now, no one likes to admit to ghosts, it’s like admitting you are afraid.
She waited for her day to arrive. Then in 1998 it did. Andrew Wakefield declared the MMR vaccine was responsible for autism. She bought a bottle of red wine and we toasted her in the kitchen while she cooked spaghetti.
Hallelujah! she said.
We gave her three cheers. Hip hip! While Ned looked silently on.
You were saved, she said, holding my face in her hands, by the skin of your teeth.
Thanks, I replied.
She loved us. Let sleeping dogs lie.
*
WHEN THE ALARM goes off I do not get a sinking feeling. Raven says his heart sinks every single day. I would rather go to work than stay here, listening to trampoline twangings. I have borrowed Raven’s hair mousse. RokHard, it’s called. It will do the job re my wavy fringe. I can’t see Lorelle going for curls, frankly. Speaking of which. I have not heard a dicky bird. I am concerned the poem has muddied the waters. I text her again.
Hey u. howdy. having fun? sorry not been in touch. total madness here! c u soon. Lee.
The clouds are low today, everything drips from the morning’s rain. On my way back from the crem in the hearse I have a brainwave.
Just drop me here, I tell Mikey. I can walk back. Just got to check a floral order, I tell him.
Right you are, he says.
I have a gander through the glass before I go in. Not a curl to be seen on my whole head. Ding goes the bell. The room is cool, empty, perfumed with the smell of flowers.
Hello, can I help you?
It’s not Lorelle. It’s Jan, the other one.
Howdy, Jan. No, I was just wondering if Lorelle was about.
You just missed her by two minutes, not even. Can I give her a message?
No, it’s all right. Yes, OK. Just tell her Lee was passing a
nd says, Buenos dias.
Okey dokey. How are you spelling that?
I prefer to walk, given the option. You miss so much in cars. There is a weeping willow by the postbox grown over the fence, a group of starlings circling over the old schoolhouse. I see the milk float parked. I often see the milkman. We had a conversation about asteroids once. I do not know his name, even though we discussed the universe at length. Change is in the air. I can feel it in my bones.
Irene’s got the fan heater on in the office.
Hello, Lee. What have you done with the sunshine?
I find Derek sitting on a Winchester Mid Oak Veneer eating a bacon butty.
Get that kettle on, son.
I find Mikey to ask if he wants a brew. He is still sitting in the hearse in his anorak, reading the Sun.
Young man, you’re a star, he says.
I take Howard his usual coffee, one sugar, two biscuits. He is checking his tie in the mirror. He sees me in the mirror. Teethfest.
Hello there, Lee. All right? Have you cut your hair? You look different.
12
A dry start, with keen east or southeasterly winds, particularly on summits
MRS GRIERSON IS nice and clean except for iodine discoloration. The wound is stitched, taped, neat and tidy. I cover her. Her belly is full, though her baby is at the hospital in his father’s arms. I rinse her hair. Lucky to have a natural shine. I pat her face dry. I don’t want drips running down. They do of course. They become Mrs Grierson’s tears. I am careful with my stitching. It is wrong to close a mother’s mouth before she has spoken her baby’s name. I stop, I step back. I try to put some distance between but the gap won’t widen. Sorry, I say. My voice dings off the metal dish. It was better before when I said nothing. Shut up, Lee. I plug in the hairdryer. I don’t switch it on. I sit down. I touch her hand. I hope she saw him. You are not supposed to touch clients unnecessarily. Or think about the circumstances of their death. You are not supposed to mull over, think on, or be maudlin. I touch her fingers. You are not supposed to hold their hand. It’s on the list of things considered inappropriate, a step too far. Lee, you have gone too far. Mrs Grierson doesn’t seem to mind. Her fingers start to warm under mine. Not to worry, Mrs Grierson, take your time. I am here.
Miss Langley, I presume?
I prefer to greet people my own age with a joke, puts us on a par. Miss Langley’s tray flies out on her runners just as Derek steps in.
Evening all.
The sky is pink over the dual carriageway, turned the pine trees black on the west side; they look like a crowd of mourners. One of them is the total spit of Howard leading on with his silver-topped cane. You can’t count on a sunset around here. As I look my phone tings.
Hey u. crazy here 2! L8ers! L.
Reason to be cheerful. Result. I check for hidden meaning. I read it again. Then I read it again. If it was a normal Tuesday I’d meet Raven at The Lion, but he’s on Lates this week. Just as well as it happens.
* * *
I put the tea on, beefburgers: a treat. I wait for Ned to come down. He likes burgers. Twelve buns, 48p. Bargain. I’ll freeze the rest. I take Lester his as usual. It’s only as I’m putting it down I notice. I look at him and of course straight away I know. The TV is blaring. Same old, but.
I look at his head, lolled, like one of Ned’s pigeons. Would you like to see inside your house?
Only then do I notice his eyes. Then the smell.
Les?
I switch off the TV.
I can’t think what to do next. Funny. This is my daily bread. If I was going to expect the unexpected it would not be death. Death is my Monday to Friday. Don’t bring your work home with you, that’s what they say. Too late. I hold my head in my hands.
Take your time, I tell myself. Sit yourself down. I’m ready when you are.
13
Cloudy with light rain at first, becoming brighter and clearer by the afternoon
MY HANDS EXPLAIN it to Ned. Dead. My hands flatten. Dead Les. I realise this is only the second time I’ve had to think how to sign the word dead.
Ned folds his arms, looks at the floor. I put my hand on his shoulder, same as we do in the Relatives Room. We stand for a bit like that.
Embarrassing. The fact that I didn’t twig. Mortifying. Me, a trained professional. Lee Hart, specialist subject: being deceased. There is evidence Lester died some time ago. Around lunchtime? I had a Chilli Texan burrito. It’s possible he’s been dead all day, or longer. I wish the ground would open up.
We wait while the kettle boils.
Ned wants to bury him in our garden, like a hamster.
No, I sign.
Privately I admire this idea. But. We need to sell the cottage pronto and this is something not to add to an estate agent’s particulars: Garden laid to lawn with beds. Tool shed. Mature tree. Grave: one occupant.
Ned wants a plan. I’m in charge of plans.
Tree dig us yes, he signs. He sniffs. He folds his arms over his head as if, next, the house might collapse on us. I don’t answer. The tree is a sycamore. She loved it. It tilts away from the house at an angle, like the house is afloat, like we’re setting off somewhere. Ned presses his hands over his face. Since he was little this is his way: sightless, soundless, locked in. You have to wrestle him to get his attention. He peeks, one eye.
Doctor, I sign.
Ned rolls his eyes, shakes his head. He is frightened. As if we murdered Les, as if. Ned points at the freezer. I close my eyes. Think think think.
Granted it looks bad, a deceased stepfather decomposing in his own front room under the nose of his trainee undertaker stepson, and yes I have my reputation to consider, but. Even if the freezer was empty it would be necessary to fold Les in half, perhaps quarters, or even eighths.
Ned and me eat our dinner in the kitchen. Mince and onion. Silence, except for the squirt of the ketchup bottle. I don’t catch his eye and he doesn’t catch mine. His hands won’t talk, two empty gloves. I intended putting the radio on but I don’t bother now. I let him dry for me at the sink after. We watch it get dark. A dog from the farm kicks off barking.
I go upstairs and stand under the shower. I let it be hot. The GP visited Les recently. Recent enough to keep the coroner out of proceedings. When? Week before last? The coroner will know Les was sat dead in his chair for at least twenty-four hours. Less than ideal. When I pull back the plastic curtain the room has vanished in the steam. I am invisible and nowhere. I am someone else in another house living a different life in some other time. The steam evaporates. I am me in the here and now. You can run but you can’t hide, Lee. I check myself in the mirror. I look demented. I was good looking once. What giveth? I go downstairs, light-headed. The smell of a clean T-shirt makes me feel sane. Ned is in Lester’s chair, watching Dancing on Ice, his hand down his tracksuit. He waves me out of the way.
Anything on?
No, says his other hand.
I boil the kettle. I open the back door. The air is cold but pleasant. Fresh, Lester used to call it. I step out on to the path and in the stillness my step is loud. No moon. I never carry a torch, you don’t see anything outside the beam. You can see a light from the road, the rest is black.
My name is Lee Hart. In my line of work you get used to it. After a while you stop noticing. The border is no more a border than these fences around here, it’s just the other side. Sometimes you forget, the hours can be long, you forget who is alive and who is dead. You have to remind yourself. You wonder if it matters. Sometimes the fence just disappears and you are in no-man’s-land.
Next morning I make porridge with salt, like she used to. We will need our strength. Ned watches with big eyes, arms folded, foot jigging. I spread my arms to get his attention. I sign him that we must complete a simple manoeuvre after which everything will be right as rain. A girl could do it, I sign. No problem. Easy peasy.
He throws his hair back, chucks his spoon in the sink, burps.
I raise Lester under his a
rms. He is stiffened. Ned lifts his feet. Without hands I’m unable to precisely communicate to Ned what I need him to do. You do not want a deceased individual vertical at this stage of the game, whether you knew them when they were alive or not. I exaggerate facial expressions but Ned isn’t looking. He’s looking at Les, at his margarine mask face and dark hands. For fucks. I put my end down. On the plus side he doesn’t hear the gurgles and leaks, but I can do nothing about the smell. Finally, Ned looks at me. At last. Buenos dias. Pay attention, Scrotey. Then. One of Lester’s shoes slips and the leg thumps to the floor. Ned, holding the shoe, lets out a cat’s wail. I count to ten. One knobhead two knobhead three.
Ned chucks the shoe and runs, hand over his mouth. Total spit of one of Lester’s TV reality people seeing their new kitchen for the first time. Anyone would think this was all my fault.
You are excused! I shout. Cheers. But he’s already with the long-legged ice dancers in their shiny skirts. Same old. Buonasera. Not a problem. Lee is here, as per.
I pick up Les in my arms, like you would your bride on your wedding day. Les carried her this way when she got weak. These very stairs. I would watch as he climbed, puff puff, he went. I hated it when her foot hit the banister. I manage just two stairs now. Les is heavy; he is leaking, he is staring at me. I put him down. I am in charge of plans. I drag him up by the arms on his back. There is no other way. He spills down his front like a baby. Unpleasant, Howard would call it. His head drags and bumps. Needs must. I remember her saying, You’re a natural mover, Lee. Would you like to be a dancer?
If she’d had her way we’d all be leaping and twirling with roses in our teeth. Talk about rose-tinteds.
A Trick I Learned From Dead Men Page 7