‘Coronary?’
‘So it seems. We’d best dig out an undertaker.’
‘They’re sure, about it being a coronary?’
‘Sure they’re sure.’ He laughed. ‘This wasn’t Edith Woods, Louise. He’d been seen by the whole team before he crashed. The technician probably did it,’ he added. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. That was him on the phone.’
‘Where’s Stasia?’
‘Upstairs, liaising. She wanted to make her own announcement – she wanted to do it, Louise. I bet the bastard left no insurance,’ he went on. ‘They have a stack of cardboard coffins in the outhouse. At least a natural burial comes cheap.’
‘Don’t make a joke of this, please, Chas. I feel so sorry for your sister.’
‘Don’t,’ he warned. ‘It’ll only get you into trouble.’
***
Chapter 16
The undertaker he contacted came around at half past four. I saw him arrive from an upstairs room where I found myself aching with fatigue. We had been up since three am, Stasia before that. In fact, I thought, she can’t have gone to bed at all. I had bustled around the house all day, doing what I could to tidy up the guest rooms (there were five guests booked) while keeping out of her way. I’d collected a basket of eggs (though Gustav had been strictly vegan, he’d been happy to harvest eggs wholesale for the local organic food store), and polished the knives and forks for the supper Stasia insisted she was going to cook, in spite of what had happened. ‘People will understand, you know,’ Chas told her. ‘They’d be happy to eat out.’ Two of the guests had decently left after breakfast, though Stasia had practically pleaded with the others to remain, this being what Gus would have wanted. I had the impression she was avoiding me, or at least avoiding talking about what had happened, so I was surprised when my presence was requested at the meeting with the undertaker.
Chas passed me a sales brochure illustrated with a range of coffins. ‘What do you think?’ he winked, ‘all hardwood, too.’
The undertaker was a round-cheeked man with a bald head and glasses of opaque thickness. He had none of the easy unction of my friend and old employer, Mr Byrne. ‘Of course, those are expensive,’ he said, pointlessly.
‘Never mind that,’ said Stasia loudly. She came to sit on the arm of my chair. ‘This one, I thought,’ she said, leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the most expensive coffin on the page as though she was choosing a sofa or something. ‘It’s lined with zinc.’
Chas nodded. ‘That’s not going to be a lot of use now, is it Stasia, if he’s going to be cremated?’
‘He’s not going to be cremated now.’ Stasia took the brochure from me and handed it back to the undertaker. ‘People will want to come and visit him. I know that now, from talking with the guests. I want a raised catafalque,’ she told the man. ‘In the old chapel. We can do that, can’t we?’
‘I thought the church had been deconsecrated when it was turned into a meadery?’ Chas said.
‘I don’t believe it was, no.’
‘Stasia, think of the cost of all this,’ he said bluntly. ‘I know you’ve got the space, and the permissions, but stone is going to cost a fortune, not to mention this zinc-lined coffin. Besides, it flies right in the face of Gus’s principles, at least as I understood them.’
‘I think I’m in a better position than you are to know what his principles were,’ Stasia said. ‘I want a big rose spray,’ she told the undertaker, who was making notes now, the projected cost of Gus’s send off lighting up his dull demeanour.
‘Are you sure this is what Gus would have wanted?’ I cut in, in spite of my self-imposed injunction to say as little as possible. ‘I see a lot of funerals, Stas. Sometimes you need time to think it over …’
‘A week is the usual limit,’ the undertaker said. His name was Broom, or so I inferred from the smudged stamp on the cover of the coffin brochure. How, I wondered, had Chas lit upon him? Couldn’t be bothered to look any further, I guessed, compressing my lips. ‘We can offer embalming,’ he explained, a little nervously, as though that sort of thing was not really his forte. Mr Byrne would have had Gustav embalmed in no time. I thought of the tooled leather case my former employer touted around with him. Never use a scalpel to open a vein, Louise, always scissors.
I resolved to give my expertise full head here. ‘Embalming isn’t necessary in our climate …’
‘It’s a hot month,’ the undertaker said, mopping his brow for illustration.
‘So you want to make some kind of shrine for him?’ Chas said, ignoring the undertaker. ‘It goes strictly against everything the guy believed it, Stasia, just like Lenin. Every time I went to see him in Red Square, he looked like he wanted to die all over again. What kind of trick is that to play on a body?’
Stasia was stony faced. ‘I know what Gus would have wanted.’
‘You said he wanted to be immolated, just like Ghandi-ji. How are you going to pay for this – charge admission?’
‘Gus had life insurance.’
The undertaker looked up, smiling.
‘Well that’s a start,’ Chas said. ‘You’d best give me the number.’
But she turned to Mr Broom. ‘Can you arrange to bring him here?’
‘If you like.’ The undertaker leaned forward. ‘He’s at the Cottage Hospital, is he?’
‘No, no, the General. He was taken to Plymouth.’
‘I’ll go for him straight away then. I take it the paperwork is in order?’
Chas got up and walked to the long double windows that gave out onto the parterre, beyond which lay a slope of lawn before the woods began, almost too suddenly, I always thought, as though the Enlightenment designer had wanted to remind the owners of the property that nature, although tamed in here, still crouched out there in all its wild unreason. I got up and joined him. ‘I don’t know about this,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t know about this undertaker.’ Chas turned sharply away from me to address him directly: ‘How much is this costing so far, Mr Broom?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ he replied. ‘We haven’t decided on the florals yet …’
‘Just give a ball park figure.’
The undertaker scratched his head. ‘Collection, embalming, zinc-lined coffin, arrangement fees, conducting, the stone, etcetera – you’d want the limousine, of course … So far, I’d say three thousand plus, at least.’
‘Good job she doesn’t need to buy the grave as well,’ Chas said. ‘But why a limousine? She wants him buried here.’
‘I think I’d like to do the flowers myself,’ Stasia said. ‘But we can finalise all that when you bring him home.’
‘She’s lost the plot,’ Chas exploded after Stasia had gone to show the undertaker out. ‘This time tomorrow, she’ll be wanting him cremated again. Three thousand pounds! D’you know how much she’s in hock for already with this place, thanks to Saint Gustav?’
‘I know they make a loss.’
‘They might have scraped a profit, were it not for his hare-brained schemes.’
‘The puppet workshop?’
‘Right, and The Temple of Squeaky, or whatever it is. It sounds like squeaky.’ Chas kicked a fallen cushion across the room. ‘If he was insured, she should be using that money to get herself back in the black. The natural death part of the business was one of the best ideas they had, and now she’s bypassing the DIY option for all this pomp and circumstance. I’ll have to talk to her.’
‘Yes, you will,’ I said. ‘And you had better do it soon, because I don’t think that man Broom can put on the kind of funeral she wants. It’s such a vulnerable time for people …’
‘Stasia’s got us. What d’you mean?’
‘Well, embalming and all that. He looks as though he doesn’t have a clue. I’d like to see him handle a zinc-lined coffin. Did you see his van? He’s a general builder.’
‘So? Most of them are round here,’ Chas said. ‘Makes sense to have a coffin making sideline.’
‘I’m not
having a go at the man for being a builder …’
‘You might be right about the embalming though,’ he considered. ‘That looks as though it might be some kind of a novelty in this neck of the woods.’
‘Exactly. He’s probably just used to supplying a modest coffin, laying the body out and putting on a couple of cars to ferry the relatives back and forth,’ I said.
‘Well, she shouldn’t be letting him loose with three grand of her debt. That goes without saying. But what can we do?’
‘Frankly, she’d be better off with Byrne & Co.’
‘But they’re in London.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said. ‘Mr Byrne will fly to the ends of the earth to fix a funeral. He’s even got a concession to fire bodies into outer space.’
Chas laughed. ‘I knew old Byrne when he just had that backyard off Camden High Street. I know he’s gone up in the world, but really …’
‘He’s done all kind of courses in embalming. He can even arrange cryogenics.’
‘That’s not a lot of use to Stasia, is it, or anyone else for that matter? Don’t encourage her, Louise.’
‘I just thought if embalming and a zinc-lined coffin is the way she wants to go, I’m in a position to help with that. I can call him now.’
Stasia came back into the room, rubbing her hands on her skirt. She looked tired and grey. Chas shot me a warning look.
‘I was just thinking about the funeral,’ I began. ‘I was wondering if Mr Broom is quite the right person …’
‘He’s one of the oldest family firms in the South Hams.’
‘I can see that,’ I said. ‘But his main job, from what I saw, is general builder, which is great if you want a small family funeral …’ I searched for the right way of putting it, not wanting to sound either snobbish, patronising, or like a sales pitch for Mr Byrne. ‘I used to work for an undertaker,’ I went on. ‘He wouldn’t have sat here and showed you a tacky mail-order brochure, Stasia. He’d have talked to you first and foremost about your loss – about the sort of person Gustav was. He’d have taken time to listen to your ideas, and when you mentioned catafalque, instead of looking like he hadn’t a clue what that was, he’d have described some of the ones he’s seen in churches all over the world, and some of the inscriptions. He’s an expert,’ I finished.
‘An expert on death,’ Chas put in.
‘An expert on the funeral business, yes.’
‘Don’t get her started on cryogenics, please.’ Chas held up his hand. ‘This is a non-starter, Louise.’
‘Who is he and where’s he based?’ Stasia said, ignoring Chas.
‘In London, but he’d come down straight away if you called him now. I’ve known him fly to Australia to embalm and collect a body.’
‘And how much does that cost?’ Chas said.
‘Not as much as you’d think. Mr Byrne has sliding scales. He does the City’s funerals,’ I said. ‘Very reasonably, too, but he always takes care …’
‘Gustav might have approved of a pauper’s funeral, just like Ghandi-Ji,’ Chas told his sister.
Stasia screwed up her face. ‘Yes, I know I said that, Charles, but Ghandi was a Hindu and the funeral pyre was part of that culture. This is Gustav’s home. It’s right he should stay here. I like the idea of Mr Byrne,’ she said to me. ‘After all, I haven’t signed anything yet with Mr Broom.’
‘I really wouldn’t I were you,’ I said. ‘Are you sure this Broom has the right facility for a full embalming? I mean, there are chemicals involved, surgical procedures …’
Chas snorted.
‘They have a builder’s yard,’ said Stasia, doubtfully.
‘Mr Byrne would do it here.’
‘No!’
‘Are you sure, Louise?’ Chas frowned.
‘Quite sure. He has a travelling kit. I’ve seen it. Why d’you think Last Rites gave him the franchise? He’s been on courses in Atlanta. He’d make a start at the hospital, then finish here.’
‘They’ve already made a start at the hospital.’ Chas looked hard at me. ‘Old Broom has gone to pick him up.’
‘I want the other one,’ Stasia said. ‘Chas, you’ll have to chase after Mr Broom.’
‘What?’
‘He’s only been gone fifteen minutes. Chase after him before he drives to Plymouth.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Stasia …’
‘Go on, Chas,’ I said. ‘I have complete faith in Mr Byrne. He won’t rip Stasia off, you can be sure of it. Gustav will be in good hands there.’
‘Call him,’ Stasia told me.
I picked up the phone.
***
Chapter 17
Mr Byrne was down within three hours. We directed him straight to the hospital, Chas having managed to overtake Mr Broom’s old Transit and offer him seventy pounds for his trouble, the figure pathologists would tip a technician to carry out eviscerations. Mr Byrne had swiftly agreed an all-in figure of two thousand five hundred pounds, to include collecting, embalming, and hand-picked pall bearers. The zinc-lined coffin would present his men with little difficulty, he said, but it was really best to leave the lifting to the experts. This was a herculean discount, a tremendous favour to me, but as with all favours, there was a catch. To clinch the deal for Stasia, I agreed to go and work for Byrne & Co full time as part of their bereavement team when I had fully recovered from my head problem, the job to include ongoing funding for my counselling course. I felt light headed after agreeing to this, but not regretful. At least it guaranteed an income and, I thought, I could always get out of it in six months’ time, with no loss of face or accusations of welching.
It was nearly ten o’clock when the sleek Mercedes van in midnight blue drew up before the kitchen entrance, as directed. Most of the few remaining guests had gone to their rooms, although a couple in their fifties wearing identical sweaters were still lingering in the library, reading the various New Age periodicals that Gus had ordered in. There was a large portrait of Gus on the library wall, done by Stasia herself in bold acryllics. She had caught his pallor though, and the texture of his fine hair, like a dandelion clock. I suggested she hang the picture in the meadery, which was to become a chapel again once the catafalque was installed and Gus laid in it in his zinc-lined box. She seemed to think this was a good idea.
She took to Mr Byrne immediately. The gentleman inspired confidence, which was deserved, I thought, because for all his success, he retained a genuinely personal sympathy for his clients, both living and dead. The catafalque was a marvellous idea, he told Stasia, wholly in keeping with the premises, and with Himself, as he called Gus (with an aspirate H). Gus reposed in semi state already, zipped into his bag within the shining steel collection box that Mr Byrne had brought. He had also brought along his youngest son, who had done a degree in embalming at an American college and had acquired the accent to go with it. I preferred the father, with his silver hair and Irish brogue and that lemony smell that came from his top-of-the-industry mortuary back in London, which I always found strangely comforting.
Stasia wanted to watch the embalming of Gustav, but Chas inveighed strongly against it. In the end, he agreed to go over and observe himself, to make sure all was done right, he told his sister, though I suspected he wanted to check out Byrne Junior’s embalming technique. Stasia went to bed at last while I went up to the flat above the stable, remembering the first night I had spent at Chas’s country retreat, how I’d been wakeful then too. I never slept well in the country, though I was dog tired now, the sequence of the past twenty-four hours filming me over. It had been a night of reconnection – a night of passion, followed by a day of death. That was always the case with Chas and me, I thought. A wretched pattern, and in agreeing to work for Byrne & Co, I would only be perpetuating it. Still, it was a move away from Bubba. What should I do if they brought her in to the undertaker’s yard one day? How hard would I try to look sorry?
At last Chas returned, a sour look on his face, which made me wonder if he
was still annoyed at me for interfering. He told me it was down to the formalin that Byrne was using (green to fill the body cavities, red for veins), the smell having got to his stomach, but that did not seem quite satisfactory as an excuse, after all Chas had spent twenty odd years labouring in a miasma of formaldehyde and putrefaction. He went into the bathroom and washed up, not saying much as he got into bed beside me. Maybe he was wondering how we’d come to this again, as I was, united in a case of someone’s passing. This time last night, Gustav had been alive and complaining of heartburn, now he was lying on Mr Byrne’s portable section table, the large part of him that had been water draining away, the hardening blood in his veins winkled out with a trochar. This was an attractive-looking instrument, rather like a silver arrow. I shut my eyes at the thought of it, but still I did not sleep. I was thinking about the next incarnation, for Gus had believed in all that. We were condemned to return, he’d said once, looking at Chas as though he would come back as something frightful, like a cockroach. No one had ever thought of sectioning Gustav Schneller under Mental Health Act legislation, for all Chas’s jokes that the man was a deluded nutcase. Did Roy Woods believe in the law of return, Roy Woods who believed he had killed his mother? I fancied him lying awake at The Nunnery, brooding about the blood on the walls (the sequential mistake that made me doubt his story) – unless they had sedated him, of course. I saw him poised, like some dark angel, on my bedroom window ledge, a bearer of bad tidings. My God, I thought, remembering all the rape scenarios my landlord thought he had forstalled with his security locks. But it wasn’t that which made me fearful of Roy. I was fearful for Roy, not of him. Roy was worse off than Gustav, for Roy had been stigmatised for his beliefs. Roy Woods had to live in a world that punished him for being himself.
He was still on my mind when I served Mr Byrne his wholemeal porridge and honey the following morning. The undertakers were set for early start back to London, the embalming now complete and the funeral tabled for some four days hence, to give Stasia time to rally the mourners. A zinc-lined coffin was being shipped down from London, together with Mrs Jury, a specialist embalmer, who was coming to make the final adjustments to Gus’s face. Mr Byrne seemed highly satisfied with a job well in hand, although he looked put out when I asked if he’d had any more ideas on the subject of Edith’s memorial.
Grave Truths Page 14