The Thoughts and Happenings of Wilfred Price, Purveyor of Superior Funerals

by Wendy Jones

  From his work, Wilfred’s da carried the aura of death about him, more so even than Wilfred, and for that reason some of the town’s inhabitants slightly shunned him, were wary of him, as if by conversing with him they would need his services sooner rather than later, for surely he would be the one who would dig their graves. Sometimes the simpler folk in Narberth even confused him, in their mind’s eye, with the Grim Reaper, despite the Grim Reaper being of an altogether different nature. People were shocked, especially the young, that the gravedigger was not horrified and terrified, the way they were, by the empty, pitch-dark graveyard at night. ‘If the buggers didn’t hurt me when they were alive they won’t hurt me when they’re dead,’ he told anyone who had the courage to ask if he was frightened. That was true – to an extent, the person who had asked the question would think. But what about the other worlds – the Afterworld and the Underworld – didn’t they swim around in graveyards? And weren’t all graveyards populated by corpses? Sometimes dancing corpses?

  For over several decades, Wilfred’s father had dug many graves, from the very tiniest to the grandest, cutting into the earth with certainty and precision to shape with the blade of his spade the grave’s four edges. The spade’s ash handle was worn smooth by his hands and kept oiled by the grease and sweat from his palms. It was an old tool but they were the best ones, his da knew. It was made of cast steel from the steelworks in Flintshire and, of a morning after a night of digging, Wilfred’s da would, without fail, fill a pail with icy water from the water pump opposite the Conduit Stores and wash the blade and shaft with a chamois leather full of holes. The implement would then be dried and the metal polished on a piece of clean lint he kept especially for the purpose. His spade was precious to him: ‘You couldn’t have a gravedigger without a spade,’ he’d say. Indeed, as he dug, he felt that the tool was an extension of his very body. It was as if his back and shoulders, along his arms and into his fingers, flowed into his spade and they worked as one.

  And as Wilfred’s father laboured he thought about how he was cutting the good Welsh earth, the fields of which had fed his family for generations and which he would in turn nourish with his own body. He felt at peace with his work; it was part of a great cycle – and it gave him a sense of repose to work within it.

  Grace had barely slept, but in her snatched sleep she had dreamed of her father, and in her dream she found a way to survive. She felt giddy all morning and faint through lunch. Enormous waves of anxiety rippled through her and her throat kept contracting.

  She put down the book she had just started reading, or looking at – her mind wasn’t able to focus. It was Moll Flanders again. Moll Flanders was a fallen woman: what was going to happen to her? A lot, no doubt. More, Grace hoped, than would happen to her, her mind racing. It was as if the atoms of her body were dissipating and could no longer find a centre, could no longer hold her together. It would be the truth. She would tell her father. He was a doctor and he was capable of being kind. She would break her father, her good, upright father, with the truth. Right now – in the hope that he would help her. She would tell him immediately. I cannot die, she thought to herself, not now, especially not now. I want to live. I want to stay alive. Whatever I have to live through, I will live through, Grace thought to herself. She was decided.

  Grace straightened her dress, pulled it down at the hem so it was hanging straight and not bunched up at the waist, and retied the belt. She thought about Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc had been pure, true, wronged against. But Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake. Grace expected that in the past women were burned alive for this, but at least she wouldn’t be put to death, not in 1924, in Narberth. Things were different these days, at least a little bit.

  I will tell him now, without waiting, she told herself. Grace combed her blond bobbed hair, her hands shaking, and then drew a line with the tail of the comb to make a straighter parting. Combing her hair always made her feel slightly more in control. She smoothed her hair and put it behind her ears then turned back the cuffs of her cardigan. She looked neat, ordered. Out of her small bedroom window, the sky was a pure blue and cloudless: the sky was neat as well. In her mind’s eye she suddenly saw the brown wallpaper, but forced it from her thoughts. She swallowed. I shall put on my shoes to tell him, Grace thought to herself. While she didn’t need shoes to walk downstairs to her father’s surgery, as her slippers would suffice, she had an intimation she would need them afterwards. She buckled the pearl buttons on her shoes and looked for one more thing to do, to delay herself a few short seconds. She straightened the sleeve of her cardigan and pulled up her beige stockings, which had crinkled somewhat at her ankles. She looked presentable. She would go and tell her father and it would be the end of an innocent world. She walked downstairs.

  Grace knocked on the surgery door tentatively. ‘Father …’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Dr Reece said cheerfully.

  ‘Father …’

  Grace went to stand in front of his large, imposing desk and next to the simple chair for his patients. On his desk she saw the fat blue paperweight with the air bubbles inside, trapped. Air trapped in glass. The paperweight was heavy – she knew that from when she was a little girl and her father would let her hold it. She had had to sit up properly in the leather armchair first, hold her hands open and her father would bring it to her.

  ‘Here you are, Grace, bach. Mind you don’t drop it. Daddy doesn’t want glass all over his surgery, does he now?’

  ‘No.’

  Her father would carefully place the weight in her small, unformed hands so Grace could hold it and put her face close to the glass. There was the big bubble in the middle that looked like a jellyfish, and then teensy-weensy baby bubbles around it. The bubbles didn’t pop, Daddy said, because they were stuck in the glass for ever.

  ‘For ever?’ Grace would ask.

  ‘Aye, for ever. Or until the glass is smashed.’

  ‘We would never smash it, would we, Daddy?’

  ‘I would hope not, Grace. What would I do with all my prescription forms? The wind would be blowing them.’

  For as long as Grace could remember, the paperweight had sat on her father’s desk. She looked at her father.

  ‘What is it, Grace?’ her father enquired.

  ‘I’m having a baby.’ She said it. The room turned vivid and perfectly defined: the wine-red carpet, the black ink blotter, the white clock-face with each capital letter absolutely clear: S. BELL CLOCKMAKER SAFFRON WALDEN. The silver-framed family photograph of the four of them, Madoc in his uniform. There were great gasps of time between each sharp tick of the grandfather clock. Perhaps the house will fall down now, Grace thought.

  Her father placed a broad palm against his forehead, his other hand held his fountain pen loosely. Ash-grey, he stood up, went to the coat-stand in the corner, pulled on his herringbone coat and picked up his doctor’s bag. There he stood, lost, before walking back to the armchair and collapsing down heavily.

  ‘Wilfred,’ he said simply. ‘Wilfred Price.’ And with that he rose and walked out of the room.

  Wilfred popped a red and white aniseed ball in his mouth and put the hearse into third gear. This was good news – well, of course it wasn’t good news, it was terrible news, very, very sad for all involved. Mrs Cole had kicked the bucket. Wilfred had almost given up hope! It had been such beautiful weather, the leaves on the trees were out, full and bright and green, and there were bluebells everywhere: no one was going to pop their clogs on a day like this. Good old Mrs Cole! She’d had a decent innings as well, sixty-five. That was Calvinism for you. Husband already gone – he’d buried him a couple of years back. Wilfred negotiated the corner into Kilgetty, and the pine box in the back slid slightly, despite the cotton bands holding it in place.

  ‘Hold on tight there, Mrs Cole,’ he called over his shoulder.

  He moved the aniseed ball around his mouth with his tongue. Wilfred hadn’t thought Mrs Cole would ever kick the bucket: she’d had more f
unny turns than the Waltzer at Tenby fair. Mustn’t poke fun at the dead, Wilfred remembered. Oh no, mustn’t be making jokes. But it was felicitous that she’d conked because he needed the money. And now the old dear was in the back of the motorized hearse and dead as a dodo, he’d get her straight back to the workshop and start on making a coffin.

  ‘Soon be there, Mrs Cole,’ he said solicitously, glancing in his driving mirror. ‘Don’t you worry, now,’ and he pressed down on the accelerator. ‘Steady on, Wilfred, lad,’ he heard Mr Auden say. ‘This is not Pendine Sands and you’re not Malcolm Campbell trying to break the world land-speed record. Fifteen miles per hour is more than enough for a corpse.’ Wilfred put his foot on the brake as he negotiated the sharp bend at Cross Hands, remembering something else Mr Auden used to say: ‘Cars can easily provide work for undertakers.’

  ‘I’m driving carefully, Mrs Cole, don’t worry,’ Wilfred reassured the corpse, putting both hands on the steering wheel. ‘Did you read in the Narberth & Whitland Observer that there have been three motorcar collisions in Narberth in only six days, all at the Commercial Inn and Coach and Horses corner. It said in the paper that Aunrin Rogers’s car was knocked completely over, and Mr Edward Evans and Miss Henton were extricated from a perilous position.’ Wilfred checked the speedometer and pressed slightly harder on the brake.

  He’d have to measure the poor dear for her small coffin; she wasn’t that big and had shrivelled in old age. He liked preparing the coffins. In his workshop, which he’d built in the yard behind the house, Wilfred decorated the caskets, screwing in the brass handles, the nameplate and the occasional crucifix, then trimmed the box with deep purple drapery – white for the very young – by tacking the material to the four sides. He positioned the bodies: dabbed lines of blood from the corpses’ mouths, combed dead hair and placed stiff lace handkerchiefs over waxy faces. He arranged for the photographer to come – only when the family asked, of course, and some did, especially the more old-fashioned ones. Then the photographer, Arthur Squibs of Tenby, would make a glass plate of the corpse. On occasion Wilfred even upended the coffin, as the next-of-kin requested he do, so that the body was standing upright, the head leaning heavily against the side while the photographer did one long, four-minute exposure.

  ‘Arthur Squibs is coming to visit you this afternoon. We’ll have to get you looking your best.’

  He’d better get going, too, on preparing Mrs Cole’s body what with the weather being so warm. The rigor mortis would leave by the day after tomorrow. Good grief, these aniseed balls are strong! thought Wilfred, taking the sweet out of his mouth and throwing it in the glove compartment. And he’d tell Da to get digging.

  Wilfred glanced over his shoulder to check that the plain box he used for collecting the body of the deceased was in place; he didn’t want it slipping out of the back of the hearse. The engine purred reliably, almost musically. He rolled up his sleeves. On Thursday evening he’d put a polite note through the Reeces’ door declining Saturday’s dinner invitation, saying it was no longer appropriate to accept their hospitality in respect of the now changed relations between Grace and himself. He had worried about how to decline the invitation all week and had felt much better after doing it. He felt relieved and was feeling dapper; business was flowing again. But it wasn’t only that. It was because of Flora. He had held her dear, soft body in his arms and stroked and kissed her hair. That’s all. There were many more things they could have done, might one day do, but each moment had been precious to Wilfred.

  He tried to think about the proportions of the casket but his mind kept turning back to the cottage. He swerved round the corner past Templeton and saw the purple Preseli Hills in the distance. The hearse rolled down the hill smoothly. This hand here, he thought, looking at his hand on the steering wheel, touched Flora’s long hair. And my shoulders, that’s where she rested her head.

  Wilfred folded down the top of the window, rested his broad arm on the ledge and reclined back in the dun leather seat. The air was fresh on his face and he felt himself expand and soar. That exquisitely gentle afternoon with Flora had marked his life. There had been an intimacy between them and although that intimacy wasn’t fully realized, such closeness had nevertheless been unimaginable to Wilfred before he had experienced it. This woman, Flora, who was smaller than him, with her slender waist and dark, flyaway hair: her life, her body, was precious to him. He had felt her preciousness, and perhaps, it occurred to Wilfred, this was what love was, this preciousness. Even her shoes, her slightly scuffed, brown leather sandals were precious to him because they were her shoes. Wilfred looked up at the cloudless sky. He could see clearly now.

  ‘And how is Mrs Reece?’ Wilfred’s da asked. By damn, this was getting awkward – that was the third time he’d asked after Dr Reece’s wife. She was well half an hour ago; no doubt she was still well now. And he’d asked after Madoc twice and then Grace and then Madoc’s friend Sidney who was in the Army with him, yet Dr Reece had only nodded. But it was a bit trying, sitting here in the middle of the day – a nice day as well, and no rain for once – with Dr Reece at the kitchen table with not a word to say for himself. And the wireless off. It was usually the other way around: when the undertaker came to visit he was supposed to dampen the proceedings.

  Wilfred’s da brought the mug of tea up to his mouth. Dr Reece had been sitting at the kitchen table waiting, silent as a Sunday, for the past nearly three quarters of an hour and counting. Well, clearly something was up, that much Wilfred’s da was certain of. No one he knew of was dead, apart from Mrs Cole and that wasn’t too great a surprise. Wilfred had gone to collect the body and should be back soon. It could only be that someone in Narberth had taken their life in their own hands and Dr Reece didn’t want to say a word about it until Wilfred was here. Terrible thing that, terrible thing.

  ‘I’ll wait. I’ll wait for the boy,’ Dr Reece had stated ominously when he arrived, keeping his thick wool coat on, despite the sunshine, and his doctor’s bag tightly in his hand. He looked disturbed.

  ‘You’ll excuse the mess,’ the gravedigger apologized. Dr Reece snorted. Wilfred’s father moved several old copies of the Weekly News, the book on the constellations, the blue teacup and the dictionary from the kitchen table and on to the windowsill. The kitchen was none too tidy, Wilfred’s da knew, but Dr Reece would have seen worse: after all, he looked after Mrs Hugh Pugh and gave her daily injections, and she was known for her filth and her twenty cats.

  Dr Reece wouldn’t have a cup of tea so Wilfred’s da had offered him a custard cream biscuit then a Jacob’s Cream Cracker, but Dr Reece had frowned his refusal. It was a solemn occasion then; as well it might be with someone in Narberth taking their life, and no time for biscuits. But there was no knowing exactly when Wilfred would be back, and on a fine day like this, it was going to be a long wait and a stuffy afternoon.

  ‘It’s been pleasant weather now for a couple of days,’ commented Wilfred’s da, attempting one last time to lighten the atmosphere. Dr Reece harrumphed out of his nostrils. So Wilfred’s da joined his visitor in sitting wordlessly. Without conversation, Wilfred’s da was left to his own thoughts as to who it could be, which sad soul had done such a dreadful thing.

  ‘Da? Da!’ Wilfred called, bursting through the front door of 11 Market Street later that afternoon.

  ‘Here’s the boy,’ his father said with relief. Dr Reece stood up tall and waited while Wilfred walked along the passage into the scully.

  ‘Wilfred,’ stated Dr Reece portentously.

  Dr Reece must have read Wilfred’s note declining the lunch invitation and had come to acknowledge it – or perhaps more likely to admonish him, Wilfred thought. His stomach dropped to his feet, but whatever the man had to say, Wilfred knew he had done the right thing by breaking off the engagement.

  ‘Hello, Doctor Reece. How are you?’

  The doctor’s face was set sternly, and Wilfred noticed the puce colouring of his cheeks. Wilfred held out his hand. Dr Re
ece didn’t shake it. Instead he stated, ‘You’ll marry Grace on Saturday. At the register office.’

  Wilfred stared at him.

  ‘At two o’clock,’ he added. Wilfred was trying to understand. ‘There’ll be no honeymoon, of course.’ Dr Reece looked around the messy and humble kitchen with disgust. ‘You’ll be living with Mrs Reece and myself from Saturday.’

  ‘Married?’ asked Wilfred’s da.

  ‘But’, Wilfred said incredulously, his eyes wide open, ‘I sent you a note explaining …’

  ‘This is no time for protestations! I’ll not be having any protestations. It’s too late for those, boy.’

  ‘But …’ Wilfred repeated.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ Dr Reece stated.

  Wilfred was flabbergasted. Dr Reece was trying to make him marry Grace and they weren’t even engaged.

  ‘We’re not even engaged,’ Wilfred declared earnestly.

  ‘Well, you are now,’ Dr Reece replied.

  It was Wilfred’s father who spoke next. ‘Doctor Reece,’ he said, ‘surely, now, Wilfred needs an explanation?’

  ‘He’s made his bed. Now he must lie in it,’ was the man’s terse answer, the muscles in his jaw flinching.

  Wilfred looked at the slate floor. A register office? That could only mean one thing, especially with the Reeces being such respectable people. There was only one reason people in Narberth got married in the register office.