by Robin Young
It is often said in death there is a new beginning and so it was with Steve at that most unusual funeral. There was a timelessness in his gaze amongst the gently ageing headstones, he was as sombre as the ambience.
A keener recruit for a position with a funeral undertaker could not have given a more favourable impression.
But afterwards at the post graveside function, he became the Steve we knew so well.
There were raucous shouts and laughter, empty bottles and glasses everywhere and soon the only liquid in sight was tea.
Low tide had arrived.
The tide may have gone out but the voices hadn’t. They grew louder and louder and then Steve’s came above the rest.
“There’s no such things as ghosts.”
This was interesting. I’d never heard Steve mention the life hereafter before. The visit to the cemetery had left some impression.
“There’s no such things.” He went on.
“You want to bet.” Came an answer.
“I want to bet.” Said Steve.
This was more familiar – betting and money.
“Bet you won’t spend a night in the cemetery.” Came another.
“You’re on.” Shouted Steve.
But money couldn’t be risked haphazardly.
Horses are judged at the racetrack and assessment was needed for ghosts at the cemetery. It was only reasonable.
And in that instance the heads swung towards me like the card in the compass and I knew there’d be nothing reasonable in that which was to follow.
For years I’d umpired the cricket in the summer and had refereed the football in the winter and now I was to preside over the supernatural at the cemetery.
“No need to come dressed like the funeral undertaker and football boots aren’t essential, but we need someone impartial.” Was how Steve put it.
We were rapidly becoming a focal point at what should have been a solemn occasion I quickly acceded to his request.
Mild calm weather soon prevailed and our night out was upon us.
Antonio and I stationed ourselves at the cemetery wall and Steve disappeared into the tombstones.
One by one the lights in the surrounding houses went out. The sexton’s was one of the first. A curvaceous outline appeared in the window, the curtains were drawn and the light went out immediately.
The houses continued to darken and then, after a considerable interval, a great mass of lights went out simultaneously.
I looked at my watch, that was it, the shoot out had just ended on the telly.
It was most uncomfortable standing at the cemetery wall. I lapsed into reveries of warmth and comfort and the purring of a most discerning cat.
An enormous hiccough wrenched us from our thoughts.
A disheveled man in very outdated clothing reeled and swayed past us.
He was followed by two more.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Muttered Antonio.
“Think of what?” I asked.
“Did you notice anything about them?” Asked Antonio.
“Notice anything!” I exclaimed.
“Their clothes for instance.” Said Antonio.
“Oh yes.” I answered and continued.
“They’re like the funny old clothes in Grandad’s wedding photos.”
“Precisely.” Said Antonio who continued.
“The attire of a bygone era and that’s how ghosts are supposed to appear, in the garb of their epoch.”
“But ghosts don’t belch and hiccough.” I interrupted.
“I know.” Said Antonio impatiently and continued.
“But had we thought, we could have arranged some suitable clothing and some haunting.”
An opportunity had been missed. We should have done some thinking. It would have been marvelous to see Steve fleeing from a ghost.
We made several patrols of the cemetery, but could see no sign of Steve or the later arrivals. But there was a strong smell of tobacco near one of the loftier monuments.
“Where do you think they are?” I asked.
“They have a home out there somewhere.” Replied Antonio and he motioned towards the shadows.
We waited at the cemetery wall. A streetlight fell on some nearby headstones. I found myself repeating their inscriptions over and over again.
“Did you hear that?” Asked Antonio?
Had I been repeating myself aloud?
“What?” I asked.
“That.” Replied Antonio and he pointed out into the cemetery.
I strained my ears and could hear distant laughter.
“What do you think it is?” I asked.
“Be Steve and his new found friends living it up amongst the departed.” Said Antonio.
“I don’t believe it.” I said.
Antonio continued.
“Don’t, but consider their situation. They have shelter.”
I nodded.
“And when their revels are finished, they have the coffin lids for their repose.”
I said no more after that. No more startling revelations for me that night and doubtless the dawn would bring some very commonplace explanation.
But I wasn’t sure. There was a plausibility to Antonio’s theory. It fit the facts made to measure like the little wooden boxes all around us.
The remainder of our vigil was long, monotonous and uninterrupted. The chimes of a distant clock measured out the hours, but eventually the dawn came.
Steve and his companions emerged from the shadows, Steve looked very faded. There was a brief exchange. The soup kitchen was mentioned and we departed.
Steve’s account was somewhat disjointed, but that was understandable in view of his night.
The later arrivals had staggered upon him.
“Are you hiding from the missus?” Asked one?
“If you’re spending the night in the cemetery, why not try one of the furnished rooms.” Suggested another.
Steve wasn’t sure about the furnished rooms, but he was feeling very alone amongst the tombstones and was glad of the company.
He followed, they stopped at a largish monument, one fumbled with the door, it swung open, in they went and it closed again.
Steve could just make out the arrangements by the glow of their cigarettes.
It was large family vault. The contents encasing the lawful occupants had been rearranged to form a bunk.
Cigarette butts and matches were strewn everywhere and at the end opposite the door a stack of empty bottles reached towards the ceiling.
An oppressive odour filled the chamber and Steve felt quickly overcome by it.
“What’s wrong with a park bench on a mild night?”
Steve interrupted a general moan about the meanness of the city missioner.
“A park bench!” Exclaimed one of them who continued.
“There’s no knowing who might set upon us.”
“But what about the police.” Said Steve and continued.
“Surely they’d offer protection.”
“Police protect us!” And Steve was almost deafened by their laughter.
“But there must be other places.” Said Steve, taken aback by their reaction.
There were, but they had their hazards.
Derelict and deserted buildings often vanished in a cloud of smoke and in the condemned boarding house the rush of rats for safety was generally the only warning of a smoldering mattress.
“But there must be somewhere you can stay.” Said Steve almost in despair and continued.
“Surely some charitable institute would take you in.”
They’d be taken in alright, but without their beloved potions.
“So now you see why we stay here.” They chimed together.
Steve couldn’t see a thing in that enclosed blackness, but he could comprehend.
By now the contents of their bottles was finished and it was lights out time.
They stretch
ed out on the lids above the permanent occupants and were soon snoring their heads off.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked.
“Sleep!” Retorted Steve.
“Not a wink.”
“I suppose the close proximity of the departed was disturbing.” I suggested.
“It wasn’t the departed that disturbed, but the fleas that swarmed all over me from the living they’ve hopped and tickled all night.” Said Steve.
“How did the others sleep?” I asked.
“The oblivion of the bottle.” Replied Steve.
Steve’s account was held up by a hoarse persistent cough.
It gradually subsided, but the memory of that night hasn’t.
Marriage followed. Nice girl Nora, we all like her.
But she has some terrible mornings.
We don’t ask now. We know its Steve of course.
Some of his nights resemble the passage of a storm tossed ship, but instead of the cry of the gulls a jumble of epitaphs issue from the slumbering Steve.
Lottery Town