A Trick I Learned From Dead Men (3 page)

I bring in the post for Irene. She mans the office phones. Irene has a sympathetic voice which, even so, manages to make you feel you have let her down in one area. A lot of women have this talent, but Reen has honed it to perfection. She says she was born with a good phone voice, now she uses it to chase up unpaid bills; hers is the first and last voice relatives hear at Shakespeare’s. She extracts large sums off the grief-stricken. A dirty job but. Someone’s got to. A youngster couldn’t do it, you need someone with a bit of experience, like Irene. Behind her back it has been mentioned that Reen could get a PIN number off a dead man. I’ve witnessed her performing her phone voice while picking the radicchio out of her
chicken
ciabatta and still achieving a positive result. You can’t teach that. Respect, Reen.

*

D
EREK SAYS
I can leave early, so me and Ned go to Casteye Wood. I take my .22 air rifle. I added a scope and mounts last year. I get the odd pigeon now and then. Ned doesn’t like pigeon meat. When I hit one he cradles the thing home in his arms, its head lolling. When it comes to animals, he speaks their language. He lost his job at the kennels when they closed it down. I tell him I’ll help him get another job, but he won’t have it.

We both frequent these woods, though I consider myself more of a regular. The air is green in here. We stumble on the tree roots, quite a laugh, seriously mental underfoot. I push him and he pushes me back. Ned has a laugh that puts people in mind of giant elves: deep, but with a hint of Disney. We share a smoke, take our time, think on. These beech are two hundred years old, they grow like webs. Ned gawps up at the canopies, mouth open, arms spread. I could aim but of course I don’t.

*

L
ESTER IS IN
his chair. Same story since he was made redundant. Lost her, lost his job, lost the will. Once upon a time he sang ‘Born to Run’ in his swimming trunks while constructing an alpine rockery in the back garden as a birthday gift for her.

Same old on TV: first they destroy someone’s home, then they build them a new one for free. Someone shouts,
Would you like to see inside your house?

I take the weight of the .22 on my arm and stare ahead at the bald patch on the back of Lester’s head. A TV reality woman covers her mouth with both hands. No one would ever know. Not even Les. I picture his brains on the rug. Only joking, but still. A pigeon is one thing. No way could I harm a human. Wrong weapon anyhow.

Tesco Mince & Onion Pie it says on the box. I pop it in at one eighty.

You hungry? I call. Nothing.

In the old days we watched TV together, nowadays Lester has assumed sole control of the remote. Seen one
Extreme Makeover
, seen them all, I leave him to it. When Ned lost his job I let him have the MacBook upstairs in his room. Mistake. That leaves me with the microwave and the kettle. Whatever. I usually have a can in the kitchen, a Stella, relax in the chair. I listen to the radio. Not just music. Last month they had a funeral director. Game on! Runs his own business in America. He wrote
a
book on it. Everything he said, it could have been me. I put my fist in the air. Fame at last. Nice one. I rang Derek. We’re on the radio, I said. Guess what? Americans say casket instead of coffin. I rang Mikey. Guess what, Mike? I rang Howard. Please only use this number for work, Howard said. Then he said he would listen to the programme, definitely. Thanks for the tip, he says.

I have given up asking Les if I can watch something on telly. He won’t speak a whole sentence, just the odd word like, No.

Dial.a.TV offer a 28-inch Widescreen for £4.84 a month. As a rule I avoid Direct Debit but. This time next week I could be watching
I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here
.

*

C
ROWS DON’T LIKE
the woods, they leave it to the pigeons. One there now, blowing out the same old notes. My mate, Raven, says the wood pigeon’s song is the
Close Encounters
theme backwards. I keep meaning to test it, but my schedule’s pretty full. You can see the lane through the trees from here.

An incident took place last month, people are still talking about it. One of the farm workers frightened a girl, chased her down the lane. I’d put my money on the
red-eared
knob if I were a betting man. Reckon it was likely him. Policeman came a-tapping. Did we know? Did we see? Description is of a blonde man, possibly of Nordic origin. Sorry, I said, we knew nothing about it.

Ned stood behind me reading the policeman’s lip talk, shaking his head. No, no. Neither of us know anything at all. Sorry about that. Then I mentioned the red-eared knob. You might want to talk to him, I says. Something about him, I can’t put my finger on it.

Is he blond, they ask.

More or less, I say.

Thank you, they say. They would look into it.

Cheers, I say. No problem.

You can’t be too careful. The girl is eighteen, I heard. She’s got three A levels. Fortunately she ran to Rowntree Road and hailed a passing car. If she’d gone the other way, she would have run into fields. Different story then.

Funny thing is she ran right past our door. We might have seen her had we been in. I might have seen her running towards our house, frightened. She might have beat her fists on our door. I could have let her in, reassured her, phoned the police, settled her down. Never fear, Lee is here. But she ran past our house. She headed for a busier road, looking for motorists. Pity. I would have helped. I would have sorted it for her, no problem.

* * *

Mrs Carmichael is light as a feather in my arms. I have a problem with hospital sticky tape, as it leaves a grey mark. We have the greatest regard for our friends in the medical profession but they tend to act on the spur of the moment, needs must, but still. Sticky tape and bruising for ever.

What’s done is done, Mrs Carmichael. The worst over now.

Just because a person is dead I don’t see any point dwelling on the dark side. Here is a woman bid arrivederci to pain, sadness, discomfort, whathaveyou. Her suffering is done. Free as a bird, aren’t we Mrs Carmichael? I don’t blame the medical profession, they have a job to do, same as, but. As far as they are concerned life is everything, end of. The difference is they don’t rate you once you’re dead and we do. I’m just saying. It all boils down to this: they believe life is sacred, we believe death is too.

I go up the road lunchtime. Crow sits on the telegraph pole by the old post office. He waits there like a chess piece. Crow thinks he’s an eagle, you would at those heights. He steps off casual, skateboarding, wheels, lands on a No Parking sign. When the sun hits him, he goes like a mirror, even his eyes.

I like the Healthy Living Salads from Tesco, though the dressing stains my trousers. In the afternoon the lovely
Lorelle
drops off the sympathy blooms from Fleurtations. I toss away my yoghurt and hurry out when I see the van.

Hey, I say.

Hey, Lee, she says. All right?

Lorelle: One of life’s optimists, always smiling. Possibly from working with flowers or she could’ve just been born like it. Happy as Larry, Derek calls her. Lorelle experiences the peaks and troughs of life, whereas here we’re a lot more skewed being that we are merely death death death twenty-four seven.

It’s not just her happy-go-luckiness, I like the gap between her front teeth, the freckle under her right eye, the way her brown eyes slant down. She has a piece of hair that collapses now and then over her face. She tucks it behind her ear. I put my hands in my pockets to stop me tucking it for her and getting done for harassment.

The phrase, dazzling smile, was made for Lorelle. Talk about knock you down, her smile could send you through a hedge. From her perspective life looks like one mad raving bender of birth, baptism, marriage, death. All the big dates in a human life. P’raps her view is as skewed as mine after all. Nice to have things in common. Saying that, we don’t just natter about work.
If
I bring a brew from the office we discuss varied topics. Or sometimes we just stand with our tea, thinking on.

She has no flaws as far as I can tell other than when she parks the van she mounts the kerb but, I think to myself, So what? She could have her pick of men so I’m not taking anything for granted. I haven’t asked her out yet. I don’t want to frighten her off. Nice and easy. Tiptoe through the tulips.

What d’you call that? Derek is referring to Mrs Whitmarsh. I have finished Mrs Whitmarsh and reckoned her to look good for someone who is dead.

She looks grey, says Derek. She looks ill, son. Get some colour on her before the resus team arrive.

Despite Derek’s superiority I do not take this lying down.

I was going for a natural look, I say.

Well, you’ve overdone it. She looks terrible, he says. Dear God. No one wants to see their relative looking dead, Lee. They want to see the face they loved back when, OK? An approximation of the good old days, Christmas morning after a nip of sherry. That’s the look you’re after, he says. Are you with me?

Yes, I say.

Derek smooths back his hair, fastens his waistcoat,
turns
on the tap to wash his hands. No good them going out looking worse than when they came in, he says. Get some sherry down her, glad tidings to all men, get some peace on earth. And get a move on.

Of all Derek’s foibles, having the last word, to my mind, is the most grating.

*

I
LIKE TO
walk the long way. Blow the cobwebs. I forget about them afterwards, I don’t take my work home. I like the wind pushing down Bursthill Lane from Cinder Hill, blows their old selves off me. Wind takes them, the deceased clients, off they go. I get the taste of the woods in my mouth and my legs know where to roam.

Welcome to Our Historic Village, it says on the sign.

OK, cheers!

There is a bird by the public footpath who whistles like a human, every day the same, like he’s doing someone’s windows with a bucket of suds. No sight of him, but still. I know he’s there.

Buonasera, I say. He stops whistling for a moment.

I look for Crow. He waits on the telegraph wire by the postbox. He tilts his shiny eye.

Late again, Lee. You’ll be late for your own funeral.

Such wit from a carrion bird.

You got nothing to crow about, I say.

That round goes to me, I reckon. Laters, Mr Corvid.

*

I
ALWAYS SLAM
the door when I come in. I could just say, Hello, but only one of them would hear and neither would reply. I could say, I’m home! But what would it achieve?

First thing I see is the dirty dish stack, frying pan on top, upturned like a sombrero. Buenos dias.

The best view in the house is from the sink. I wash the dishes, watch the sun drop into the woods, pyrotechnics. The house makes a giant shadow of itself on the lane. I hang the tea towel on the cupboard door.

Lester has a beard. A result of his TV marathon. He has watched TV non-stop since she died. If you measured his beard you could p’raps even get the date she passed. Possible Les has broken a round-the-clock TV-watching record and none of us know it.

Reality TV is Lester’s reality. He won’t watch a quiz, game show or drama. The only good news is no news, he says.

What d’you want for dinner, baked potato or omelette?

No answer. Lately he doesn’t reply. Gets on my nerves. Deaf is a political party in this house. Lester is tired of news since receiving the worst news he could have
imagined
. His plan now is to receive no news whatsoever, not even TV or radio. Easy to knock it, but. Seems to work for him. Just the job, as he would have once said.

I do omelette. I add peas and mushroom. Les has his with the reality people. Ned and me have ours with each other. Ned stirs his tea on and on, ting-a-ling. Jesus. Does your head.

I sign him.

Stop tinging fuck!

He burps. I love my family but. Ned will push you to the edge and pick his nose while you fall off. He has always got away with murder, it’s his middle name, whereas mine seems to be
You couldn’t do those dishes could you, Lee?

Legend has it Ned learned to lip-read overnight. He started signing aged three and a half. Made his own signs, redesigned it like he owned it. He’s got shapes no one’s heard of. He always had a big head. Ned would be a genius in any language. She said that. Fair play to him, but. He still can’t iron his clothes. Or get a job. His dream is to be a landscape gardener. Fat chance, as Les pointed out before he gave up pointing things out, There aren’t any landscapes left.

OK, there is a certain Je ne sais quoi to Ned. I can see why she thought he was beamed here by some supernatural force: his laughing elves, his flying hands, his
noting
of things no one else can clock. And OK, he’s not a bad bloke, I can see his plus points. We have the odd laugh, granted, and no way does anyone lay a finger on him while I’m around, but. The world and him is a private party, only one VIP. Ned is king in the silent land. I don’t begrudge him, I’m just saying. If I had been the supernatural one would she have preferred me? I don’t dwell. No point. I am no fool. She’d have gone anyway.

Lee and I have an understanding, she used to say. Lee is my soldier.

I take care of things. I took it as a compliment.

3

Cloud at first but drier and brighter conditions developing throughout the day

YOU HAVE TO
tick everything off, make sure they have everything. You wait till their clothes arrive before you prepare them. Once their clothes arrive they’re on their way, as if it’s a journey, which it is. Gown is easier, done in no time. No need to manoeuvre the client, two flared sleeves and a long bib, clever, you’d never guess that’s all there is to it. Whereas your self-clothed client you often have to alter garments to get them on, snip snip. You don’t want to drag the skin, especially the oldies, you don’t want skin-slip.

Waiting for the clothes can hold you up. Derek says they never had these troubles at the Royal Opera House. That could either be a joke or p’raps he used to work there before he had The White Stag. Ever the dark horse, I’ll probably never know. That’s how we found
out
Howard wanted to be a pole vaulter, a chance remark. When I told Derek, he said, Gordon effing Bennett. We all looked at Howard different after that. I’m going to ask him why he dropped pole vaulting and entered undertaking. I’ll choose my moment. People are never what you think. Till they’re dead, that is.