A Trick I Learned From Dead Men (16 page)

Lorelle raises her latte and sips. She rests it in the saucer and looks at me, froth on her lip.

Of course. No problem at all.

Yeah? Really? Sorry, Lee. I hope this is OK. I thought it probably would be. Are you OK?

Absolutely no problem whatsoever.

It’s just I thought it best. Better than, you know? I
thought
we’re such good friends and it would be such a shame.

I am in full and total agreement. No problem at all.

Thanks, Lee. I knew you’d be fine. Our friendship means a lot to me.

And me. And me. I totally get where you’re coming from.

I think friendship is the most important thing, actually, she says.

So do I.

I’m so relieved, she says. You get mangled and next day you think, Oh my God. She laughs.

Just one of those things that occurs from time to time, I say. A natural occurrence, things occur. They occur.

Thanks, Lee. You’re a star.

Zero problema. I’ll get these.

I pay for our coffees. On the street she’s pressed for time, as per.

Got to run. Nice to see you. Take care, Lee, yeah?

Yeah. You too. Mind how you go.

I walk for ages with an empty head. Nothing. Zero. Just one foot in front of. Then I think: Maybe she never fancied me, ever. Or maybe she did and went off me. Or possibly it was that night that did it. Or Ned. Ned throwing up at the garage. Maybe Ned put her off. Or I did, or we both did. Or maybe this whole thing has just been in my head
all
along. So near and yet so far. Lee Hart, you total knob. As if. What? Joking me. A girl like that. Time to get real, hombre. Snap out of it. Wake up and smell the.

I don’t return to work. I walk home. My phone tings with messages from Derek. I don’t answer. My legs take me. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. End of.

*

C
ONFIDENTIAL
IS ONE
of those words. It makes things formal. My letter to Colin Davenport at Greenacre Funeralcare Group PLC is
Confidential
. It says so on the envelope. I check the spelling so I don’t come across as an arse. I only write one side so as not to detain him. I point out that, being on the young side, I am likely to be of good use to Greenacre, able to adapt and learn but also knowing, as I do, Shakespeare’s establishment inside out. Knowing the ropes. I rattle on in the vernacular. Ready for duty. Ready to learn. Employee such as myself. A forward-thinking company like Greenacre. On I rabbit. Hope you will consider me. Not just because. But also. Dedicated. What I have to offer. As well as. Looking forward to working for Greenacre. Joining the team. Yours sincerely. I read it through. I think, You’re on, Lee Hart. I nearly hire myself.

*

D
EREK AND ME
eat our sandwiches outside on the forecourt, between the hearses, in the sun, as if we’re on holiday. Ham and pickle I’ve got. We are philosophical.

Derek says he wouldn’t lower himself to Colin Davenport’s level. Says he won’t crawl for a job, not to anyone. I should not have begged, he says. I should have waited till they came to me, he says.

Derek does not live in the real world. Talk about cloud nine. It’s dog eat dog these days.

Remember who taught you your trade, he says. Any cake?

I open the Mr Kipling Lemon Slices. Six in a pack for
£
1.40. Reasonable.

Derek gets wistful. In the heatwave of 2003 it was frontline action, he says. The elderly dropping like flies. No time to sleep or eat, he says. Full up at the inn. You have to say no, Health & Safety. When the chillers are full they’re full, takes a few days to clear them. People are caught unawares.

Derek stares off up Seddlescombe Road, reliving it. The vulnerable can’t survive extreme heat, he says. Ditto the cold snap of January 2004. Irene, he says, put fan heaters in the office to make a cosy corner for the living. Prepping clients, he says, his fingers were as stiff as the deceased’s.

I’ll miss the business, he says. Nothing else like it.

Hold your horses, I say. Not over yet.

It is for me, he says.

* * *

I have carried Colin Davenport’s reply in my rucksack for a day and a half. Get it together, knobhead, I tell myself. Now or never. I pop to the only private place on the premises, hoping Derek doesn’t notice my absence.

I lock the door, sit on the loo, tear open the envelope.

The word confidential does not feature in Colin Davenport’s letter. As far as he’s concerned I am free to wave it, along with my arse too, at the whole town and far beyond. Because he is very sorry but. He has nothing to offer at the present time, and while he realises this may come as something of a disappointment, he is confident I will find something in a related field soon. What with the current recession and cutbacks, these are belt-tightening times. Everyone is feeling the pinch, he says. Redundancies are always regrettable, but they have become necessary in today’s climate. Difficult for everyone. A disappointment of course. Thank you for thinking of Greenacre. Wishing you all the best! And a rosy future in the trade. From all of us here.

Yours sincerely. Sincerely up yours.

Colin Davenport.

I open the pedal bin with my toe. Drop the letter in.

C’est la vie. Disappointing, but. No point dwelling. I feel tired. My head is heavy as. I lay it on the cistern. We will have to sell the cottage, pronto. No probs. Best thing. ’Tis the season. Old Frilly Ears said so.

27

Perhaps a bright start but becoming cloudy, with showery rain a likelihood

THERE IS NO
denying that spring has driven her sideshow into town. Buenos dias. These hedgerows are thick with insy flowers, birds zag, giant foxgloves stand at the side of the road. Game on. Even the sun has made an entrance and is lighting up the weather vanes and the church spire.

Things are supposed to change in the spring, nature knows it. I am the same old knob, but. A single event could change that any day soon. There is a certain je ne sais quoi in the air.

On the corner, just after the postbox, I stop. Have I come the wrong way? Mental or what? I look behind me. It is our lane. I look ahead. It is our cottage, but.

Words, spray-painted words, cover the brickwork, every inch. Blue and black words, taller than the windows, wide
as
the house, stretching and separating around corners, reaching up to the chimney. I stand a minute to read them. GOG IS AN ARSE. GOG IS NOT GOD. HELLO. GOG IS A KNOB. I AM A PRISONER. GOG IS A KNOB. GOG IS A KNOB.

This is him, always was. He will push push until. Everything I have done. All these years.

And this is how.

I run to the house.

Ned!

I jump the stairs two at a time, across the landing, into his room. He is sitting on the windowsill, his back to me, his legs hanging out of the open window, gazing at the field. He doesn’t hear me. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t turn.

I stare. He is blond. My dark-haired brother is. For a moment I don’t know my own house, my own brother. Then the sound of a large penny dropping. Catch up, Lee. Wake up. Nordic stalker on the premises.

I bolt downstairs. After the chemo, before the naturopaths, she wore a short bleached wig when she lost her hair. Why not? she laughed, maybe I’ll have more fun.

He must’ve found it, he must’ve discovered it in my room when I was at work.

I dive into the kitchen. Change of rules. Fine by me. I pick up the .22. I’ve done my best.

Come on then. I run back up. I am in charge of plans.

His room is empty this time, curtain blowing. Through the open window I see him running barefoot flat out along the set-aside towards the mast.

Ned!

I run. Two can play. I’ll count you down. No probs.

I am at the mast before you can say Lee Hart is a knobhead, but.

Heavy sky, no wind. All I can hear is my breath and Crow rasping in the oaks. I go beyond the boundary into the woods. I wait, steady, listen. I could walk this path blind. No word of a lie. Not that I’m bragging, just saying. I am the trees and the wind and this ground. I am the bones of the woods. Every twitch I feel. No point him hiding, I’ll sniff him out. I am Lee. The woods’ll give him up. Everything knows I’m here, everything that grows and crawls. I breathe in and the woods breathe out. Everything changes in the spring. I don’t stop to think, there is nothing to think. I find him quick – I would. He stands looking at the canopies. Fascinated by the patterns, always was. He doesn’t hear me – he wouldn’t.

He will paralyse in a chair, like Lester. He will paralyse me first. He will end up, we will both end up, same old. Our family tradition, dead or dead as. Done with it, I am. Arrivederci. Very sorry, but.

I position myself, aim. His heart, his head. I could blind him at this distance. Oblivious, he is. Candy from a baby.

I hesitate. I breathe out. Come on.

He just stands there. For
fucks
.

I lower the weapon. I close my eyes. I can’t. Call yourself a hunter?

I yell. Loud as. It sends the birds straight up from the trees. My ears buzz.

Ned gazes up at the birds. He raises his arms to them.

28

Becoming warm in sheltered areas, unsettled later in the evening, a dry night

I MAKE MINCE
and onion. Put a peeled onion in each room of your house you will never catch a cold, keep meaning to test that. Kitchen clock starts ticking again. I put the kettle on. I sit and rest my head on the table and fall asleep for maybe a minute.

I wake. The clock goes, Tick tock tick and then it forgets. I try to think. My mind is swinging about. Lee Hart, you have fucked up this time, it says. Talk about slow on the uptake. Might have known. No greater knobhead hath e’er. Whatever.

I shall have to report him to the police. They will want to question him. Best of luck with that. I don’t know what he’ll get. A warning? Community service? Detained at Her Majesty’s? A police record. Nice one, Neds, that’ll look good on your CV. Something to look forward to.
Good
afternoon, Mr Hart. Please take a seat. Can you tell us when you first noticed your brother rambling the public bridleways in a ladies wig?

I stand to do the dishes. I turn on the taps at the sink, drop the mugs into the foam. I stop to catch my breath. I look out at the field, the sky. I would like to tear it all down. Burn the field, burn the house. Let it all just. I feel my breath suck. Why does it? Why can’t it fucking? I swing my fist through the window and listen to the glass shatter into tinkling pieces onto the path on the other side.

I lie on my bed. I have no idea what time it is but there is a rod of sunlight on the floor. My hand throbs. It is wrapped in something and taped over. I see him hovering, checking, closing the door, opening it again; this is all new to Ned. He looks like he’s been asked a question to which he does not know the answer.

He brings me a tray. Soup and a sandwich and Panadol. Clear as day I see I should’ve done this years ago, step aside; let him be. I don’t like cucumber. I take it out of the sandwich. He watches me eat. I don’t ask if he has eaten. I don’t ask anything. He watches carefully, his chin low, his hair in his eyes. He tries to breathe through his nose rather than his mouth. He chews his nails. Tearful, he looks. He touches my face.

No cry, Gog, he signs.

I shall have to correct him there. He needs telling. I open my mouth. Nothing. A squeak at the back of my throat. I gasp, I try to swallow. Ned stares.

In my head the voice of reason has arrived. Buenos dias. I pay attention.
Good afternoon, Mr Hart. Can you tell us why you have chosen to lie malingering here, boo-hooing and scoffing sandwiches, while your colleagues are all hard at work?
Ned reaches out, takes my hand. I do nothing. I lie there like a dead man, like one of our own dearly departed, while he fusses, wipes, breathes.
Is it or is it not the case you allow your brother to slice cucumbers with unwashed hands and patrol the highways in a state of semi-undress?
Ned examines my fingers, holds them. He presses them against his face.
While all the time paid-up clients lie waiting, uncremated, on Seddlescombe Road? Do you have anything to say, Mr Hart. Mr Hart?

I have nothing to say. I close my eyes.

Ned is gone. The room is dim, dusk outside. The field has turned mauve in the half-light. I get up. I find my jacket, my keys. Downstairs the clock ticks loudly. I let myself out.

I sit with her at the edge of the field till the light in the sky is a pale thin line. The birds are roosted, silent. I will head back soon. Getting cold. I will make a plan.
I
will call the police. Then I think, what for? What for? Then I do nothing at all. Then it is dark.

When I think back down the years, it’s like we were all holding on. To what? Some thread. Some chance of. Like one day we’d dance with roses between our teeth, as if we were the lucky few in a jackpot life. Life is a lottery, they say. No good wishing you had someone else’s ticket. We are holding on still. Because it could all change tomorrow, things do, I know that much. That time in the kitchen, she and me, just the light from the oven timer, a slow dance to no music, just the sound of our shoes shuffling, turning, turning, like time on a clock, counting ourselves down.

Farming is no life, she told us. She wanted our lives to light up under our feet, like the yellow brick road. The world is your oyster, she said. You had to believe, belief was everything. She believed, we believed. The circus had packed up and gone but we stood there still, clapping, believing. A roll of the dice. You hope for sixes, everyone does. Sixes are rare, that’s all.

I hear him. Midnight by now, or thereabouts. He calls my name, over and over. Looking for me. An animal noise. I listen. I let it go on.

*

I
T WILL NOT
be the same from now. Time to go our separate ways. I tell him this next morning in the kitchen before I leave for work. He sits perfectly still in his pants and watches me sign. He pours out his own Cheerios. A first.