A Trick I Learned From Dead Men

by Kitty Aldridge

  You’re not supposed to understand them, Lee, they’re made different. Ready? Lift.

  Mr Parker is a big man. Takes two of us to move him. Four of us would be easier. We have to bend our knees.

  One two three.

  We catch our breath. Derek’s not one for body language.

  Ne’er the twain, says Derek. Many before have tried to read a woman and failed, he adds.

  One two three.

  We are halfway between the drawer and the table. A rock and a hard place, Derek says. We stop to catch our breath again.

  You’ll never get the gist of a woman, Lee. They are leagues ahead. See us coming, son. Just when you think you’ve got the measure, they pull a swift one. They can’t help it, nature of the beast. Stand up for yourself, never fails.

  Derek is panting with all the talking and lifting. He pauses. It occurs to me what a right knob anyone would feel dropping dead trying to shift a cadaver. I keep that thought to myself. I count us in instead.

  Uno dos tres.

  Mr Parker is on the trolley. We high-five. We bend over our knees. On the trolley Mr Parker will have to stay, it is the manual hydraulic hoist type for ease of height adjustment.

  Derek gasps. The armpits of his shirt are wet.

  Get that kettle on, he says, before one of us drops.

  With that, one of Mr Parker’s arms swings off the trolley. Timing. The dead have it in spades, same as the living.

  Today when I woke my first thought was Lorelle. Don’t get me wrong, Caitlin is a lovely girl, but. Lorelle Connelly you’ve got me on my knees. I thought about popping into Fleurtations. I could say I found myself in the vicinity, something like that. I decide to do so from the comfort of my own bed. A private encounter, the kind that rarely goes wrong when it’s just you and your imaginings. Live it in your own head. Result. And wouldn’t you just know it, she’s on her own minding the shop, while the others do deliveries.

  Buongiorno.

  We start off polite.

  How’s it going? Not too bad, yourself? What you been up to? This and that and you? The same. Usual, as per.

  After which it’s time to kiss her.

  Oh my God, Lee.

  Come here, I say.

  She wraps her arms around my neck. Passionately.

  Oh Lee, she says.

  I bend her backwards over the ferns. We peel off our shirts without breaking the kiss. You thought only movie stars could do that. Wrong. She angles sharply for a second kiss, tipping dangerously. A tub of roses goes over. I catch her before she topples. The phone rings. Knobs to that. I stub my toe on a tin bath but not before I clear the desk in one swipe: stapler, cards, wrapping, the lot: on the deck. You thought only movie stars could do that. Wrong again. She laughs. I lift her on to the desk. She pulls me towards her. I balance on my knees, support her waist. The desk bumps the shelves which wobble the display which hits the selection of terracotta pots which knock the filigree ironwork, making everything go ding ding ding. I lift her off the desk. We land against the storeroom door, which we slam: tres, cuatro, cinco. Until it shuts.

  Lorelle is wearing me out and we haven’t even gone on a date yet. I haven’t asked her. I will. I don’t want to frighten her off. Timing. Stealth. Artichoke hearts. One hundred squids. A bit like waiting for rabbit with the .22, no good rushing in waving it about. Patience. Dead men teach it best.

  20

  A fine and dry day with a good deal of sunshine and some light winds

  I WAS CLOSE, easy angle. Still. I got lucky. One shot. It is lying in the leaves with its fingers curled under its chin. I pick it up and it flops, warm, in my hand. Just behind the ear; the brightest blood I have seen, sticky to the touch. I am a hunter. I walk. I carry my squirrel. Everything seems pin-clear. Even the grass shines.

  I walk up to the ruined barn. That’s what Mum called it, as if someone had gone and spoiled it. It’s not so much ruined as dilapidated, but we’re not the sort of family to say dilapidated. It’s got three sides and half a roof, rusted bits of machinery, torn plastic sheeting inside. You could do something with it if you had a mind to. Lester said that before his mind went askew. Personally I like it as it is. Where the wood has dropped away you can see rectangles of sky or trees. You get the impression creatures come at night to roost or think, whatever. It’s not indoors or outdoors, but a bit of both, best of both worlds. It’s got a sense of oldness, like it knows something you don’t and it’s watching to see if you catch on.

  I stand on the bridge over the flyover with my squirrel. Not a bad sunset. Streaks of red-pink in layers on the horizon. Below is the commuter traffic. Flash vehicles, company cars. Knobheads. I wave the squirrel at them. One of them looks up.

  It was not my idea to place a dual carriageway here. If I’m sitting on the fence and some driver stares at me, I think, It’s not me who shouldn’t be here, it’s you.

  I watch the crows settling to roost. Craak, craak. Restless they are this time of day; one lifts and off they all go in a raggy circle before settling again. Everything looks good under a pink sky, even the flyover. I wait for Crow, he knows me.

  Evening, Lee. On your own again?

  There is an oak fence before you get to the woods, then it runs to barbed wire. I always sit on the same fence. If Crow doesn’t appear I mosey up to the woods. He likes to play hard to get. I don’t blame him. If I had wings you wouldn’t see which way I went.

  I will check the lane and surrounding area but I have given up hope of intercepting any unsavoury A-level-student-chasing character hereabouts. A pity. Reckon I could’ve done the world a favour there. He won’t chance his arm again. Not with me on the prowl.

  Green burials are becoming increasingly popular, I hear. We don’t offer woodland burial; we should. Unconsecrated ground doesn’t bother people the way it did. We never went to church, she preferred the idea of Buddhism, she liked the colours.

  With woodland burial you’re allowed to mark the spot with a tree, no stones or memorials. Job done. Anyway, you can get tired of HERE LIES and RIP, talk about unimaginative.

  The official line at Shakespeare’s is one of scepticism, but. You can’t afford to be too sceptical in the funeral trade. For this reason we do offer a wicker coffin and, as of recently we have added the cardboard coffin to the menu. Biodegradable is very in. We offer it with an oak-effect shell casement, so your loved-one doesn’t resemble a delivery from Ikea. Alternatively you can plump for one of the decorated ones, Union Jack being quite popular, along with Division One teams. Man U is the bestseller, according to the distributor, Cloud Visions UK. Doesn’t have to be Premier League.

  Around here it’s hard to get the ball rolling. This is not London or Brighton. The oldies are not keen. The words bio and degrade mean something else to the over-sixties, Derek pointed out. Never occurred to me. He’s a lot more switched-on than you think.

  I prepare my frying pan. I have never cooked squirrel. I decide to approach it as I would chicken. I check it out on eHow. For this I enter Ned’s room alone, while he watches Property Ladder downstairs. I brave the dirty underwear, the stink, the half-eaten food, the welcoming wall of naked bodies, Buongiorno, ladies, and the unexpected; like Mum’s old flip flops and the fish slice Ned uses to scratch his back. I collect the dirty plates on my way out.

  I know what to do. I wash the blood off its head and dry the squirrel with the tea towel. It looks nice. I could have it stuffed. For a minute I can’t decide. Eeny-meeny. I lay it in the sink. It’s all about mindset. Come on, Lee. I am not squeamish, but. It is necessary to chop off its hands and feet. Then peel off its fur. This is rabbit revisited. Been here, done it – this time is different. Needs must.

  I lay the squirrel on the breadboard. I position the knife. Uno dos tres. Fuck. Call yourself a hunter? I can’t do it. Something about the hands and feet. I open the freezer. I lay the squirrel in beside the rabbit. This is bollocks. Beatrix knobbing Potter on ice.

  Ned is sunbathing on a small towel outside. H
e wears boxers, mine, and sunglasses, hers. He doesn’t seem to notice the gusts of wind. I was going along the lines of a fricassee but now I reckon I’ll do vegetarian instead. I get out the .22 to reload. I step outside to feel the sun on my neck. The sky is empty except for some straggly birds. The sun dings off the trampoline frame. I check the scope, aim.

  Ned.

  I fire into the grass beside him. A flick of earth. After a moment he raises his head, stares at the sky, then rests it down again. I go indoors. I put the water on to boil for dinner. I would never hurt him, as if.

  21

  Dry overnight with long clear spells. Mist and fog patches will form in places

  NED IS ON the trampoline. He is attempting to take a photo of himself on his phone in mid-air. I could probably get him sectioned for that. Not that I would, obviously.

  I put the kettle on. Ned has forty-seven friends on Facebook. Out of those he has met eight in person: Raven, Nell, Jock and Dianne from the kennels, Eileen from the medical centre, Mr Gupta’s son from the Tesco Express Garage, our fifteen-year-old cousin Corrine from Margate, and me. I don’t bother with it these days. You grow out of it, I reckon. Ned posts images of himself on his personal page, mainly wearing disguise. Ned in hats, Ned in sunglasses, Ned pouting like a fish. There’s one of him laughing. At what?

  When my mourning rig went missing I had my suspicions. Denies it, well he would. Following day there it is on Facebook for all to gander, top hat too big of course. One of his eyes blown up giant through our mum’s old magnifying glass. I did not give permission for that. It’s easy to mock, but. Death is a skilled business. Important to get it right. People depend on it to mend their grief. A dead man’s dignity comes from the slow hearse, the polished handles, the top hat and tails. No one is ready. Not me, not even Derek. Especially not Derek. Everyone is immortal till they’re not.

  Who will prepare the deceased when Derek is gone? You might think Dereks are ten a penny, ditto Howards. I for one would rather be dead with Derek than alive with some people. Only joking, but I know what I mean.

  Spaghetti we’ll have with grated cheese. I turn on the tap, fill the pot.

  Derek says you grow accustomed to the job one body at a time. I wouldn’t disagree. People are people, alive or dead, some speak to you more than others, simple as. I wait for the water to boil. I take a load off in the chair.

  You won’t last a week. So sayeth Lester when I got the job at Shakespeare’s. I don’t blame him, most people wouldn’t last. I didn’t think I’d last. Same with trawler fishing apparently, a lot of people just can’t take it. You could call it a vocation more than a job, I like that. I was only after a job and I ended up with a career. Nice one. It only has one drawback after all, not that it bothered me for long. Within the week I was talking to dead men and thinking, I know living people less interesting than these. And that’s when I knew. Now I look forward to coming to work. Once all the jokes about a dead-end job were out of the way I realised, in fact, I had it made in the shade.

  I lay the table. Set our giraffe salt and pepper grinders at the centre. We bought them for Mum’s fortieth birthday. All these years and we still can’t tell which is the salt giraffe and which is pepper.

  Lester used to have his dinner on a tray in those days so he could watch Come Dine With Me or Wife Swap. His excuse was he’d run out of dinner conversation. As if Ned and me were brimful, like mini Oscar Wildes. Our mother loved Oscar Wilde – right up her street, the artier-fartier the better. Far as she was concerned arty-farty was the be-all and end-all, thank you and goodnight. Meanwhile I am left at the table with Ned for a dining companion. He’s got zero etiquette, he eats noisy. This is how she must have felt, trying to keep everything decent and à la mode. Trying to stick it all together with organic chutney and napkins, whereas I decided long ago just to use paper serviettes.

  *

  SHE GOT WORSE. Les brought her downstairs to lie on the settee, where she could look at the view of the field and woods.

  She sent off for personalised affirmations prepared by a guru who lived just off the A40. He sent her a pamphlet: Destabilisation occurs when the energy fields of your body are incorrect. The pamphlet went on to explain this had been proved beyond all doubt in the 1950s by a Russian. After the correct treatment patients awoke to find their tumours had disappeared overnight. She affirmed. She smiled. She connected to her Higher Power. Someone in America was found online who could cure her from across the Atlantic. They needed her blood type and her astrological sign. They could cure her long distance for only two hundred dollars. She knew she was blood type A. The American emailed to tell her blood type A meant she was a co-operative, sensitive, passionate, self-controlled person. That’s accurate, she said. We admitted it was uncanny. We crossed fingers. We touched wood. We threw salt. Anything was possible. You just had to believe.

  22

  Patchy light rain possible initially, otherwise dry with some sunshine at times

  NEWSFLASH. SHAKESPEARE’S IS to be taken over by Greenacre Funeralcare Group PLC. Like a sardine swallowed by a whale there is nothing we can do. Greenacre have their own way of doing things, a system. It is not the same as our system. There are no nylon picnic chairs, no running gags or jokes biro’d on the wall; no end-of-line Hot Sensation lipsticks, no Tupperware or radios. Moreover, they are very efficient, apparently.

  A single manager runs several outlets at once, travelling between them in his company Mazda, co-ordinating, overseeing. They have a floating embalmer, I am told. Ditto hearse and coffin personnel. They can remove, interview, prep, coffin and bury all at the same time, we hear. This is due to their system. They have back-up and spreadsheets. They can despatch their experts hither and yon. So sayeth our man on the ground, aka Howard. You only have to look at Howard to see he is not expecting to be hired by Greenacre. The expression on his face reminds me of Roy Hodgson when Blackpool beat Liverpool at Anfield. Wan is the word.

  Derek took the news on the chin at first, but lately he’s gone downhill. He is heading for the abyss, Irene said. She has known Derek a long time. I am shocked at her use of the word abyss.

  A cloud has settled over Shakespeare & Son. Gone are random chats, wit and banter, things are no longer off the cuff. Death is a serious business when it’s a way of life. Fair to say some of us have lost the spring in our step. If clients were able to complain they might well object to a general lack of staff congeniality on the job. Guilty as charged. Not a leg to stand on.

  We have been reassured that each of us will be considered for employment by Greenacre, to which Derek answered, Do they think we were born yesterday? To which the Greenacre rep did not reply. The silence made everyone blink.

  We are not fools, Howard says, after the rep has gone. We know where we stand, he says. We have begun to walk and talk like actors in a spaghetti western. We know exactly where we stand – in the past. Life has changed. So has death. We are the future unemployed and we know it. C’est la vie.

  When tea is ready I bang the handle of the long mop on the ceiling. Ned feels the vibration and comes down. I stand for a moment to take in all the mop bang marks on the ceiling from other teas Ned has come down for. I wonder how many teas we have had, in total. Maybe one day tour parties will stand on this very spot. Like the Pyramids, this house will stand as a monument. Yes, and the tour guide will say, If you look directly up you can in fact see the marks on the ceiling made by the young Lee Hart as he beckoned his deaf brother down for tea. He won’t come down of course. Not till it’s cold.

  She picked him to love most because he was the weak one. I don’t blame her, women have a soft spot for the runt. Our mum was a bedazzled woman but Ned threw it all away. Who knows why? No point asking. Being deaf was not the problem. Being deaf was his brilliance, his proudest moment. He lost his flair after she died. I knew he’d flake, she didn’t.

  These days I am happier at work. The living and the dead get along famously. Job done. Clear cut as. Currently we are ri
ding a wave of optimism due to a rumour that suggests we will all be retained by Greenacre at this outlet for the time being. Nothing to fret about. No ghosts, none, they all live at home.

  *

  MRS DELANEY’S DAUGHTER has arranged for her mother to be buried with her mobile phone switched on. Everyone gathers in the office to discuss it. This is something new for Shakespeare’s. I abandon the boiling kettle to join the debate. We speak over each other.

  It’s good to talk, says Derek. Everyone laughs. He got that off the BT ad. Nice.

  Connecting people, I say. Like off the Nokia ad. No one seems to know that one. I say it again. I have boiled the kettle three times now due to the excitement.

  Howard, on the other hand, takes his time, speaks slowly, smiles serenely, as if he buries ringing phones with clients every single week. I thought everyone knew the Nokia ad.

  Me personally, the last thing I’d want in my coffin is the phone going off. Rest In Peace it says on her plate, talk about mixed messages. I’ve never myself heard of a phone actually going off, though now and then you’ll hear it on the grapevine.

  Nice family. They all walk the same, head pitched forward, like a family of egrets. Mrs Angelou, the daughter, talks softly, dips her head to listen. It’s infectious. Now we’re all doing it, creeping about whispering, dipping, bobbing. Even Derek. Spread like wildfire. Mental. Howard and Derek in particular are under Mrs Angelou’s spell. I am hanging back in the shadows, the corridors are congested as it is.

  The only time Derek took longer over a prep was with the fiancé policeman, who drowned himself last year after getting dumped on his wedding eve.

  True, Mrs Angelou is a looker. Irene put her finger on it. There at her desk, she bursts out: You men are so predictable!