A Trick I Learned From Dead Men (6 page)

6

Mainly dry across the south and east, mild and breezy nationwide

I REMEMBER THINGS
. Not to dwell, but. In the old days me and Ned would sometimes take off, leave Les struggling, rinsing bowls, washing sheets, swearing under his breath. We would take things from the kitchen: the big bottle of Tango, the Sunday biscuits from the cupboard. We would run to the woods to eat. Then maybe run to Ditton Road to the shops, sit outside the newsagent, burp and fart until the woman from the CoinWash told us we were pigs. What a laugh. Give her the finger. Ned loved it. I would do it again behind her back, copy her waddle walk. Right laugh.

Sometimes we bought sandwiches from the motorway services with the pound coins from the kitchen jar. We’d leg it to the tracks. No trains any more. We’d use a brick to smash things, boring after a while. We’d lie down. We’d pretend train after train was flattening us on the
tracks,
whistles blowing, brakes squealing; we wished ourselves dead over and over, but not for ever. We’d take a stroll in the open air, two ghosts out and about. I’d light up one of Lester’s Dunhills, like a proper country gent, while Ned tossed the tomato slices from his BLT into the trees. On the way home we’d chuck stones at the pigeons in the woods to cheer ourselves up.

Ned would be tired by the time we got back. I’d put him in the pram for a sleep, push his knees down under the blanket. I’d park it behind the shed so he wouldn’t disturb her. I’d leave him there till dark. He was a good kid in those days; when he was little he was cute as. This changed of course as he grew slowly but surely into a knobhead, but. I remember I stole him sweets and Fanta from the old newsagent at the bottom of the High Street. I’d clean his face after so he wouldn’t get in trouble. He’d do anything for me then and I’d do anything for him. I try not to get nostalgic. I used to conduct simple experiments for his own benefit. Simple things. Teach him to react without the aid of audio sound, stand him in good stead. I’d launch missiles for him to avoid. He didn’t always avoid them. Now and then he’d run to her, booing like a baby. I meant no harm, I would not harm my own brother. I was preparing him. Life is hard, no second chances. No one prepared me.

He got me back one time only. What the Sunday paper
would
call a frenzied attack. He planned it. We both had our shirts off for a tan. He did it by the ditch in Lower Field so he could use the giant nettles. Lashed me with such force he laced his own shoulder too, on the back-swing. It could have been either of us screaming or both, I couldn’t tell.

I got him back on the way home. Two can play. Surprise! No probs. Half a brick I used. Surprising amount of blood.

Mental she went.

What have you done? What have you done?

Keep your hair on. I remember saying that.

She hit me so hard I landed in the road. Ned loves a bit of slapstick. He laid himself down beside me. Two knobs in the gutter. Put his arm across me in case she tried it again. We still laugh about that. A classic. Years later on TV I saw a man in Pakistan whip himself with chains and it made me think of him.

*

Y
OU CAN FALL
into a rhythm in the workshop, I like that. I set the Gravograph and off it goes.
Evelyn Ann Barry
.

You type it in then the robotic arm does the job. You can turn your attention elsewhere, you can leave the building. The Gravograph cuts the name all by itself.
Modern
technology, it does your head in. I staple the frills in the box. The York, smart. Once the plate is finished you fix it to the correct coffin. Tap tap, on it goes. With the polonia woods, soft woods, the Salisbury for example, Derek pushes the screws in with his thumb. Mike said he should go on
Britain’s Got Talent
with that.

Important to get the plate straight, no excuses. The plate is you: name, dates. It is all you are, a name and two dates. Tell it straight. Derek does it in inches. You use the name on the plate as a guide, measurements down and across; double-check. Your life on a plate. I made that up.

Not to be funny but. You get perspective working here, it can’t be helped. We’re ready for Mrs Barry.

Derek is blowing on his mug of tea.

Mrs Barry ready? I say.

Ready as she’ll ever be.

Derek has done her hair with heated rollers. Combed and sprayed in place it doesn’t look too bad. She has a rosy glow. The lipstick makes her look like she’s ready for a party. I straighten one of the gold earrings. She looks festive; the red dress, the green silk scarf. Her shoes look brand new. Sure enough there’s a sticky label on the sole, £59.99.

Merry Christmas, Mrs Barry, I say. It’s not Christmas but Mrs Barry doesn’t know that.

Want a hand? Derek calls.

I fold the sheet across her on both sides.

I’ll manage, I call back.

I wheel the trolley carrying Mrs Barry’s coffin level with Mrs Barry. I swing her feet in first. I get hold of both sides of sheet and lift Mrs Barry across and lower her into her coffin. If you get it right the head should drop directly on to the block. You can make adjustments. Not a textbook landing but Mrs Barry is near as dammit. A tweak here, tug there. I check the paperwork. Wedding ring, earrings, pocket prayerbook, photograph of grandchildren. I tuck the prayerbook under her fingers. The grandchildren in the other hand. I check again. Items in the wrong coffin, items gone walkabout equals professional suicide. I add my signature to the paperwork. I pop the lid on. Bob’s your uncle, Mrs Barry. Chapel 2 it says here, viewing at four o’clock. Forty minutes start to finish. Most of that was Mrs Barry’s hair. Thirty minutes is my tops, you don’t want to rush if you can help it.

*

A
N
E
NGLISHMAN’S HOME
is his castle, so sayeth Derek. He lives on the Peabody Estate, an end of terrace. I go to help him manoeuvre his three-piece suite, so he can repaint his front room. I end up staying all day to help
tape
his windows, prime the walls, shift the rest of the furniture. We stack it in the garden.

You and me, he says. In my estimation we make a good team.

I don’t disagree. I am glad. He makes me a ham sandwich and we sit on the settee under the tree and let our conversation wander.

There is an empty mud hole in the front garden, like one of his graves. It used to be a pond, he says. Somebody poisoned his fish, he says. Envy, he reckons. We stand looking at it for a long time. Now he has geckos indoors. They use a lot of electricity, he says.

7

A grey start followed by clear spells, then comfortably warm with some sunshine

LORELLE IS IN
. I skid on the prep room tiles. Hurrying is frowned upon here. She has laid out her blooms and is double-checking the names. I only just make it.

Phew, I say. Caught you.

All right, Lee? she says.

Not too bad, I say. Nice blooms, I say.

Yeah. From abroad, she says.

Mikey breezes past.

Selhurst Gardens, Selhurst Gardens, he says out loud. He turns over his shoulder, shouts towards the office, Why didn’t you tell me before then?

No answer.

Might as well talk to the wall, he tells Lorelle.

I take her hand. Bold or what. Number two: Confident Guy. I lead on. We find ourselves in the storage room,
where
it’s quiet. No electrics allowed here due to the cremated remains. No good the ashes in ashes. We only burn them once. The poly containers are stacked high against the glass partition, making the room dim. Each tub is labelled in permanent marker.
Please label urn and file alphabetically
, it says on the wall.
Please make sure cremation certificate goes to office for filing. Thanks!

The names climb high above Lorelle’s head. Janine Boyce, it says beside her ear. The remains are transferred to caskets when required for burial, scattering, whatever. Some hang about here a long time. Surprisingly heavy, you don’t want to drop one on your foot. I have a line of conversation prepared, but she gets in first.

Been busy? Lorelle says.

Mental. You?

Same. Wedding, Saturday. Sit-down at the Manor and Spa.

Nice.

Very nice.

It’s now or never, I think to myself.

Ever heard of the Pamplona bull run? I say. They do it in Spain, July 6th. Dates back to the fourteenth century, I add. I find it interesting. I’m considering doing it myself next year, bit of a laugh, I say. I do speak a little Spanish. Hola.

No. Don’t know that one, she says. She checks her watch. I never knew you knew Spanish, she says.

I do indeed. Hola. Como esta? Yo soy un hombre.

Lorelle covers a yawn with her hand. Wow, she says. That’s good.

In the nick of time I realise this is all me me me. How about you? I say. Any plans for summer?

Not yet, no, she says. Wait and see, I suppose.

Might put some people off, hanging around with cremated people, but not Lorelle. A true professional she is. I tell her so.

She shrugs. I’ve seen it, done it, been there, she says.

To look at her you wouldn’t think it. Butter wouldn’t melt. Respect though, total.

Ever been to Il Terrazzo? she asks.

Rings a bell, I say. Think, think, I think.

Italian, she says. Three stars. I know someone who went there last month.

Got it, I say.

I’d love to go there.

Yeah?

What I wouldn’t give.

She laughs at herself. She’s got a good sense of humour.

Not been before then?

Not as yet, no.

She smiles. She has lovely teeth. It’s not all death and misery here.

Sorry, I should have offered to make you a tea, I say. I can brew up in the office.

No time. Got to go, she says. It’s all rush rush, she says.

Need a hand? I say. I follow her out to her van.

She checks her phone, slams the door. Flashes her smile.

See you later, Lee.

I lean my arm above the passenger window.

Arrivederci then. Mind how you go.

I watch the van pull away. I give myself a little pat on the back. Not at all bad, Lee Hart, if you do say so yourself.

*

I
AM OUT
the back, labelling, checking paperwork. Everything labelled big-time. You can’t have a gents Seiko getting muddled with a ladies Swatch, upsetting relatives, messy. The dead are labelled same as newborns, but personal effects can go walkabout unless carefully handled. There are things you wouldn’t think of, apart from the usual falsies: teeth, wigs, glass eyes; there’s implants, lithium-powered devices, including radioactives and prosthetic limbs. Some people are lethal when it comes to what’s concealed inside them. When business is slow we do catch-up jobs: coffins, plaque engraving, orders, re-stocking. Now and then there are quiet times, lulls. Feasts or famines. Last month it was quiet for a week. It’s dead around here, says Derek. We all laughed, even Reen.

Mikey cleans and polishes the vehicles. I give him a hand. Gets us out in the fresh air and at his age a helping
hand
is welcome. We take frequent breaks, due to Mikey’s blood pressure warnings. We stand out in the parking bay, survey the darkening sky, the oncoming weather, the houses stretching on and on – left towards the railway line, right towards the High Street. So many houses. Dwellings, Mike calls them. We take it all in. He lights his fag. Over the years each one of these houses will give up their dead.

I am diving down the corridor, lightning-quick, me. Never fear Lee is here.

Sorry I’m late.

A man comes towards me. He walks like someone in bomb disposal approaching a tunnel.

That’s alright, Sir. Not to worry.

Not a problem, I say. He doesn’t hear me. You use your judgement, when, how. The grieving are not the living or the dead. They are in a place of their own.

I put my hand on his arm. Touch is the language of grief. When a loved one dies you speak it fluent,
bosh
, overnight. This way, Sir. Here we go. Shall we have a sit down? Follow me.

Here we learn to communicate with the bereaved as we go along. Some of us are fluent already. Every one of us in this life speaks it in the end.

Like any language there are rules. My hand mustn’t remain on his arm too long else I will have intruded. Too short and
it’s
offhand. Pat the arm and you create the impression this is not a priority for you. Timing. Hands are everything, what you do with them. The worst is hands in pockets, forget it – bad as blowing your nose, clearing your throat and looking at your watch all put together. Death is a high-wire act.

By two o’clock the sky has burst. Pouring. Cats and dogs. Me and Derek are soaked. I’ve not done Horse-Drawn before. Two black gee-gees, all the trimmings. The driver, Terence, he’s rainproofed, all the gear, jammy git. Me and Derek are toppered and tailed, nothing more: drowned rats. Only the coffin is dry and toasty behind us under glass. You
twats
! someone shouts from a white van as it skims by. Me and Derek ignore it. The horses are called Tiff and Toff. One of them takes a crap and it steams in the rain. Howard dashed out this morning to cover the grave. Jacuzzis, Derek calls them when they fill up. Humour is an essential weapon in the undertaker’s arsenal. I bear this in mind.

I text Lorelle a joke.

2 cannibals r eating a clown. 1st cannibal turns to 2 other and says, does this taste funny 2 u?

Haven’t heard back, as of yet.

*

A
MAN CAN’T
survive on that, Irene.

Reen is in charge of the biscuits. She passes round the tin, a giant Christmas special, two each, no more. Derek reckons he is built larger than the rest of us and, due to the physical nature of his work, he should get extra. Reen’s not having it.

Fair’s fair for all, she says, and slams the lid.

Hands up who likes marzipan, Derek says. He puts up his own hand. Howard is peeling his banana but pauses to raise his hand. Me and Mike do not. Reen, busy hiding the Christmas tin, doesn’t bother.