A Trick I Learned From Dead Men (17 page)
A new beginning, I sign him. I thumbs-up. He thumbs-up back.
Gog, he signs.
What? I’m late.
He smiles. Nothing, he signs.
Cheers, Neds. Laters.
*
I
GO THE
short route home. It rained earlier but now the air is clear. The trees drip. We’re having chicken kebabs tonight. We bought our own skewers many moons back, with barbecue parties in mind. Nice evening, summer on its way. Maybe we will sit in the garden. I’ll wipe down the bench.
I have bought chocolate mini rolls. Talk about pushing the boat out. Only joking. What’s done is done, I reckon. Turn our attention to the future. I will make enquiries about the removal of aerosol-spray graffiti. Perhaps we will paint the house. At any rate we’ll sell the house, as per original plan. A flat near town. A job. I can re-train.
I’m
only twenty-five, not old. Never say never. Ned will find a job, there are jobs in town. Fresh start, leave the rest behind.
The lane glows in the evening sun. The hedge has started its sproutings. I spot a tall flower in the ditch.
I’m home! Stupid really. Just a habit. Most habits are harmless.
The chocolate mini rolls are in my hand when I go into his room – a bit of brandishment I have in mind.
Look what I got. Not telling. Don’t be a knob. Three guesses
.
Ned has a bigger surprise. In this regard he has blown me through plate glass. Checkmated for all eternity. Like a horse, a calf – some slaughterhouse thing – he is strung from the ceiling fan, feet dangling. Mid-air. Long and loose, limp as a snap-necked bullock. The force of my entry floats him slightly left.
I do not move. I stare.
Lee the visited. Him the messenger, hovering, silently talking of everything.
I can see he is gone, anyone would. Hours, looks like.
Rewind. Re-enter. Do not move, maybe it will stop.
Ned? It comes out as a question. For a moment I forget he is deaf.
When I go downstairs it is almost dark. I put the chocolate mini rolls in the bin.
We lie on the floor. I am out of breath. I stop blowing into his mouth. Ligature’s done its job, closed his throat.
He is a skinny fuck, but. Twenty minutes, more, to get him down. This stuff was not designed to be cut. They should incorporate plastic washing line on space shuttles. Here is an item that will not deteriorate or detach under any conditions. Plastic washing lines will inherit the earth along with the cockroaches.
He is heavy on my legs, pinning me down. Here lies my brother, Ned Joseph Hart. Poor Ned. God Almighty, Ned. What did you think. Here is my baby brother. What now? What in the name of. What were you. For fucks. What.
What!
I yell in his ear.
WHAT!
My voice enters the walls, the bricks, the spaces between. This house with its unspoilt views.
WHAT! WHAT!
That’s it, Lee. Cry like a baby. Look at this. What have you done? What you have done.
*
My name is Lee Hart.
Address is number four Cinders Lane, Lye Cross.
My brother has hanged himself.
Ned Joseph Hart.
Twenty-three.
He is.
I have given CPR at the scene. No, no respiratory function.
Not medical, no. I am the trainee at Shakespeare’s Funeral Services Ltd on Seddlescombe Road.
OK. Thank you.
Typical that he should choose death. Claim the thing that is mine. Now it is his.
29
To the south and east spells of fine, dry weather. Possibility of showers in the west
I TRY TO
organise my thoughts. They resist. Think think. I lie on my back on the kitchen floor. The voice returns.
We have a few questions for you, Mr Hart, regarding your deceased brother, recently of this parish, and his various propensities. May we come in?
I stare at the mop bang marks. Someone will paint over them, Sanderson Ivory in eggshell. That doll’s house: where did it go? None of us could remember. The little people inside. You loved it. Hours and hours you spent. Every time you closed the door they all fell down.
Are you aware, Mr Hart, that there is abusive language currently defacing the exterior of this property? When you say, per se, Mr Hart, do you mean never? Or sometimes?
We saw CPR done at Fensham Leisure Centre once,
remember
? They did a display in the foyer. Talk about unrealistic. Cracked us up, total laugh. Come to think, it is perhaps only useful if you are standing beside the victim at the moment of respiratory failure, otherwise.
Spectacular view Mr Hart. Call that a risotto? Why did you throw a perfectly good packet of Six Cadbury’s Mini Rolls in the bin? Is that kettle on?
Poor old Lee, they’ll say. Remember Lee Hart? All on his lonesome. Never the same. Stark staring. Mental old spook alone with his dead men. Better off. He’d have been better off. Call me a knob but I’m no fool.
Do you or do you not speak Spanish, Mr Hart? Mr Hart?
We had a game when we were kids, you had to copy exactly, mirrors. Agreed, I could be more imaginative at the present time, but. The washing line feels cool on my neck. I stand in the centre of the room. Crow is here. He turns his mirror eye.
Evening, Lee. In a hurry? Late for your own funeral?
I look at Ned. He lies on his back, arms out. Ready to run, same as.
Watch me, Gog!
Over the dual carriageway, arms like a bird. Over the fields quick as, faster than. Woods, field, sky. Wait for me then. Wait for me. Like a photograph we wait.
*
D
OWN THE ROAD
the dead are still sleeping. Who knows what they dream, who they remember, where they go. You could envy them their untroubled time, but. I am not ready. Blackbird calls here each morning early before you open your eyes. Trick is to hear Blackbird. Trick is to carry on in spite of. Harder than it looks. Trick is to live. Not as easy as it sounds. Dead men teach it best. Live. Hold on. A trick worth learning.
The birds are throwing loops over the field. The hawthorn is finishing, hedgerows are turning green and the trees on the ridge are coming into leaf. She loved this time of year. Me and Ned used to pick the flowers we found on the verges, in the woods, and she’d put them in jars. Lee is my soldier, she used to say.
I fold up the washing line. I go downstairs to wait for the ambulance to arrive.
Epilogue
I TAKE THE
bus to the interview, as it is some ten or twelve miles away from my flat. I carry my shoes in a plastic bag, so that they are clean when I arrive. From the bus stop I walk up an unfamiliar hill, bordered by Scots pine trees. Busy road, plenty of heavy haulage vehicles, but I enjoy the exercise.
I have lost the weight, almost all of it. I think to myself if I do this walk every day I will be fit as a butcher’s dog. Result.
I arrive. I see there is a decent-sized car park. White posts and black chains, smart. I find a spot to change my footwear. I lean against the wall. I catch the sound of a crow, somewhere in the trees. I do not give it a second thought. I don’t want to be late. Needs must.
I ring the bell.
T. J. Cotts Funeral Services. A handsome sign, hand-painted looks like.
A woman answers the door.
Hello. Mr Hart? Come in. Did you find us all right?
I did. No problem whatsoever.
Do have a seat. Can I get you any tea, coffee? Do you take milk? Sugar? Mr Cotts won’t keep you a moment.
Thank you, I say.
Is it cold out?
No, I say. It’s dry and bright. Bit of a wind from the west, but. Sunny spells are forecast for this afternoon.
Oh, that’s nice, she says.
Yes, I say. Spring is here.
About time, she says.
Better late than never, I agree.
I loosen my jacket, adjust my tie, sit back. Land this one and I will be sorted. Fingers crossed.
Funny, if I had not worked at J. Winton’s these last months I might not have qualified for this interview, due to the embalming experience required for this post. I had never met an embalmer before starting at Winton’s, never mind assisted one. Embalming is not for everybody, but. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, as we in the trade like to say. Good to keep the spirits up – what with the stiff competition – embalmers enjoy a joke, same as. Saying that, I would not have met Ruth either. A twist of fate, as they say.
I have sweaty palms. Take it easy. Deep breaths. I have
never
interviewed for funeral director. First time for everything. In with a chance. The job calls for experience. I have experience. I have good references. I have a steady hand, level head, a sense of humour. As far as boxes go it’s tick tick tick.
Reminds me, I check my watch. I’m early. I could have caught the later bus, but time doesn’t belong to you in this game, it belongs to those whose time is up. There lies a conundrum. Life is topsy-turvy in the land of the dead.
If I get this one, touch wood, I will give Derek a bell down there by the seaside. Get him out of his retirement deckchair.
Del, Guess what? Go on. No. Try again.
Reckon he’d be well chuffed.
Remember who taught you everything you know, he’ll say.
And I’ll go, Er, wait. Tip of my tongue. Hang about. No, it’s gone.
I walked past Shakespeare’s the other day. They’ve painted it. A new sign up:
Greenacre Funeral Services. Part of Greenacre Group Plc
. Below that it says:
Professional. Discreet. The people you can turn to
. I didn’t stop or glance in. I just kept going.
The sun flashes patterns through the window, strobing
the
walls. Similar pale wallpaper to Shakespeare’s, as I recall.
I think of Ned. I close my eyes. Knobster. There he is, mid-sky, mid-twang. Arms wide, frog legs, head back. A photograph.
Gog! Why can’t it always be like this?
I see us, me and him. Towards the mast we stroll, same as. To the woods where the air is green, along the paths where the tree roots grow. A laugh, seriously mental underfoot. These beech are two hundred years old. Buenos dias. They weave like webs. I watch him gawping up at the canopies – higher than high – mouth open, hands talking, beads raining, as per. Gog! Watch me.
I do watch him, I always did: daring cars to hit, the sky to fall, the world to open, like the oyster he was promised.
We are running, me and Ned. Same old, same as. A long way, a million miles. Lanes, fields, woods. Giddy up. Our carriage is invisible. It flies quicker than the wind, than the speeding sky. No one sees us. Adios. We are galloping galloping
gone
.
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks to the staff at the funeral home in the south-east of England, who generously allowed me to regularly intrude upon and observe their work at close quarters, and who patiently endured all my questions.
My thanks also to my agent, Clare Alexander, to Dan Franklin, Steven Messer, Suzanne Dean and all at Cape. And to Philip Davis, Esther Freud, Victoria Jenkins, Marylou Soto, and Robyn Becker. My love and thanks to Mark.
Thank you to Pam and Yi at the deaf and sign language social enterprise, Femaura, in London.
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