A Trick I Learned From Dead Men (2 page)

My friend, Rob Avon, works at Gatwick Airport. The Red Lion is our local. It is your average pub, a few hundred years old with a resident ghost and subsidence. Rob Avon, aka Raven. The name harks back to his Goth phase – he still dyes his hair black, but he’s left the eyeliner behind.

Local ale we do partake of. We sit in the corner beside the grizzly bear; a feat of taxidermy, the landlord calls it, which is fine if you speak good English. The bear was a performer, once upon a time, he still wears the collar and chain. You could feel sorry for him, except that he’s roaring his head off, even now he’s dead. Not to worry, he won’t hurt you.

You don’t have to be mad to work here. Someone’s crossed out mad and written dead. A stab at humour. It was Derek who brought the word foible to my attention; I try to use it in conversation, without wanting to come over as a ponce. I also find
per se
creeping into my everyday speech. I was wary but so far no one’s said, Don’t be a knob, Lee, that’s French.

Amazing what people take with them. Ancient Egyptians, all of us. You couldn’t make it up. They say
you
can’t take it with you; you can. So long as it’s not cash. If the family requests it, we do it, within reason, nothing flammable obviously. Personal Effects are the items accompanying the deceased inside the coffin. First time I tucked a cheque for a million between the fingers of one of our gents I thought, nice one. Brilliant, basically. I’d like that for myself. Who doesn’t want to die a millionaire? Tax free.

It’s the little things, the in-jokes, the ironic touches that lift people’s spirits. Death can leave a person’s sense of humour intact, it’s not all doom and gloom.

Any coffin details for these?

On the side, right in front of you. Mr Keegan’s done. Other two need doing. Is that kettle on?

Mr Keegan is going to wear his own clothes. Winchester coffin. White lining. No crucifix. Personal Effects: Panama Slim Panatellas 6 Pack. Omega watch, initials engraved. Letters. Photograph of a smiling woman. Everything must be recorded in the big book. Everything is written down.

Mr Tomlinson is wearing his own clothes, to include a PJ Brown construction helmet. Embalm yes. Viewing to be arranged (TBA) but yes. Cremation. He will lose his
hat
in that case. Health & Safety v. Health & Safety, ironic. But not as ironic as the cremation of the fireman last year. Death is full of irony.

Mrs Ferguson: Oyster gown. Oyster frill. The Ripon. Embalm no. Ashes Casket: Standard. Personal Effects: Musical box. Photograph of canal boat. Packet of Bird’s Custard Powder. Viewings: TBA. Jewellery: TBA. I wonder if the boat was owned or rented. I’ve never tried Bird’s custard.

Mr Muldarney is causing a stir. The Basic Coffin. Blue frill. Gown. Embalm no. Viewing: TBA. Awaiting crem details. Personal Effects: A photograph of a little boy, smiling. Set of teeth. An onion.

Yours truly despatched to Somerfield for said onion. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. I said that to Derek. I produced the onion from behind my back. He said, Don’t piss about, Lee, there’s three still to do.

Nil effects it says on Mrs Parkinson’s column. Derek puts her in the basic pink and matching coffin frill. No viewings. Derek brushes her hair out of respect, but he doesn’t fetch his make-up box. I check her sheet and tuck it under her plate. All done and dusted.

* * *

Two funerals out. Four in their boxes. Three out tomorrow, two Thursday, two Friday; busy but not murder. Five out is madness, happens now and then, total insanity. Getting from one to the next, it’ll turn your hair grey, it did Mikey driving the hearse, fact. You can’t put your foot down.

*

W
E LIVE IN
the end cottage on Cinders Lane, where it meets Lye’s Cross. Our mum remarried: Lester has been ill of late. He is on medication. He has to write down his dosages, or else he gets muddled. He had to take early redundancy from his work at Dinnages. Downhill ever since, worse after she died. Our real dad is a plant operator; currently we are not sure exactly of his whereabouts.

As I raise my door key, I catch sight of my brother, Ned, stepping out of his bedroom window on the first floor. Ned is not everyone’s cup of tea. I hear the twang of springs. Ned appears over the hedge in mid-air, frog legs, then drops out of sight again. Twang. I let myself in. I am the eldest.

She used to say, Lee, if you can’t love your own blood, then who?

We got the trampoline second hand: an Emperor twelve-footer (no safety net), thirty-nine pounds off eBay.

I put the tea on, sausages. I boil water for spuds. I open a tin of peas.

Cup of tea would be nice if you’re making, Lester shouts at the TV. I’ve only got one pair of hands, I say. I put the kettle on.
Extreme Makeover
, he watches it around the clock. She would’ve switched it off. Different since she died.

Ned seems to step out of the wall, gives me a jolt.

Fuck! Fright you me, I sign him. He laughs.

My brother was not born deaf. His deafness arrived in disguise when he was four months old. His deafness is my fault, this has been proved. I don’t dwell because you can’t turn back time.

Ned looks at the steam coming off the spuds, hair in his eyes, sweat on his nose.

Gravy? Gravy? he signs.

Patience, I sign back. Bollocks, I think to myself.

He is breathing through his open mouth, air whistling through the gap in his teeth, his long bare toes are splayed, his back slightly curved. In the old days I used to imagine him with a tail. He spins out, slamming the door. Ned’s got a temper, always did. She used to say he got it off the elves. Whatever.

You wouldn’t think we were brothers. Ned has a mole below his lip, like a girl, his hair belongs to our mother, thick, shiny; if it wasn’t for his stubbly Adam’s apple you
might
be fooled. I have someone else’s hair entirely, frizzy, our dad’s probably. If I knew his whereabouts I would complain. I have no moles or free gifts from nature. I have thin legs and high eyebrows, like I don’t know what the hell’s going on. I have a long back which Lester says will turn against me in later life; he takes co-codamol for his.

We learned to sign together, she taught us. Ned’s hands are two birds: tap, bounce, glide. My hands are slow, even now. His hands can tell you any story, plus exaggerations, in seconds. The beads on his wrist make a noise like rain: it is the sound of Ned, like a human black cloud pouring down. He will never know.

I have a photo of her: me and Ned under each arm, two chicks, she called us. Back then I used to put our old washing line in his mouth and whip him with a birch. We were ten and eight. This was our carriage, Ned was the horse. I steered by pulling left or right. If he disobeyed he got a tap, if he was slow he got a tap. We went all over, lanes, fields, woods. He never whinnied and no one saw our carriage because it was invisible. I don’t ask him if he remembers it.

He was a gifted child. She told me that. I believed her. She was terrified he might wander on to the dual carriageway: Ned was drawn to electric fences, lightning,
canals
, traffic. I thought about that. I told him deaf people couldn’t die. I thought it would cheer him up. I led him to the dual carriageway. Not to hurt him, on the contrary, I wanted to watch him survive, use his gift, see how he did it. A gap in the traffic, off he ran, arms out like a bird. No fear. Halfway across he stood at the crash barrier, waving, watching the cars rocketing. The horror on the drivers’ faces made us laugh, the brake lights flashing as the cars slowed. Result! I was proud, the effect he had, definitely a gift. What a laugh. I waved. He waved. And when he sprints back, the blare of horns. Magic. We scarper before someone calls the police, change our clothes so we won’t match any description.

We screamed, it was blinding. We were Samurai.

Where our garden ends by the barbed wire the field starts. Crop in there, oilseed rape. Clackety-clack it goes in the wind, like applause in a giant stadium. Good evening, Wembley. I take a bow. Split the pods with your thumbnail and black seeds fall out. A knob comes on a tractor and does it. I watch him smoking his fags, taking his breaks, staring at his mobile phone. He’s got a big red ear that doesn’t match the other. Who’d text him? His sister probably. Dead romantic. The phone mast is on the west side. One of them with sponge fingers. They give you cancer apparently. Not sponge fingers, phone
masts
. Maybe sponge fingers do too, I wouldn’t like to say.

On the east side ridge is oak and elm in a line like they’re waiting. Everything waits. Crows sleep there at night, fifty million judging by the sound.

From her bed she watched this field: the weather, the mechanical sprayer, the red-eared knob. She liked it. We put her ashes there. We waited till the wind dropped, around March time.

This morning from the landing window I catch sight of Ned running in the field along the set-aside. He is wearing flip-flops. I watch. He stumbles, runs on. Must have seen a hare or something, he likes hares. He won’t get close flapping about like that: unaware of the noise he makes. I try to imagine what someone not related to him would think. I know what I’d think. I don’t know how he got this way. I try to rewind in my mind but I just go around in circles.

I used to carry him on my back. He liked it, bit of a laugh. Started when he was a nestling and I was six or seven. We still do it on a special occasion. Dog, he called me when he was learning to sign the alphabet, but he got it wrong. Gog, I was instead. Gog I remain to this day. He signs it as a shape now, a finger drawn across one eye, like I’m half-blind, when in fact I see everything, clear as. One of his foibles.

The JobCentre have Ned’s details. He’s hoping for BSL interpreter work. He could teach but he won’t do the exam. Problem is he won’t travel any distance on his own. He lip-reads fine, but. People shout, make like he’s stupid. More than likely he’s lost his self esteem. Les will look for work once his health is on track. Plan is to sell the cottage. Get solvent. Get a flat nearer town.
It is for the best
. This is our motto. We should have it over the door, we should have it strung in fairy lights at Christmas. I aim at Ned, a single head shot with my bare hands. Down he do go.

2

Windy, but with hazy sunshine developing for most, with occasional hill-fog

FOR MY NEXT
trick I shall make a dead man walk. No drum roll, please. Is that kettle on? Derek has a box of make-up, a box of tricks, he calls it. He opens a palette of eyeshadows and brushes.

There are two chilled rooms, chapels, we call them. Relatives can view their loved ones in an open coffin. We don’t embalm, we don’t have the facilities or the space or an embalmer. If it’s required they go to Redhill to be embalmed, a day trip. We are a small outfit.

Derek begins. He talks as he works.

It’s a question of light and shade, Lee. Rembrandt was the master. It’s the subtle touches, shade here, dab there, a client should look their best. This is a big day for them, big as their birthday.

Derek brushes Peach Flush over Mrs McKinnon’s
cheeks
and brow. He cocks an eye in my direction. It’s a talent, he says, but don’t be intimidated by that. Technique is the byword. We tender a service, that’s all.

Derek blows the excess powder off Mrs McKinnon, steps back, narrows his eyes at me. It’s not for us to have an opinion, Lee. The fewer opinions you have, the better you’ll get along, son; the dead don’t care what you think.

Using a wider brush, he adds a dusting of Sunset Tropic. He opts for cocoa eyeshadow, blending it with a paler shade. He picks Hot Sensation for the lips.

In my opinion Derek overdoes the make-up. I’m not talking about the men but these ladies are ringing alarm bells for me. Unsubtle is the word. Only one relative has remarked thus far, but. Then again he works miracles with disguise, when it’s required. You can’t have your cake and eat it. In his defence Derek says, No woman wants to meet her Maker without her lipstick on, fact. Personally, I reckon that’s out of date. Then again most of our clients are Derek’s era and beyond. It’s not my place to say anything, I’m only the trainee.

Howard Day has a hurried step. He takes pride in his appearance, smart in his suit. He has his hair cut twice a month, buffs his nails. He is a fan of the Tour de France.

He has a special, hushed voice for relatives.

Do please take a seat. Sit yourself down. Can I get anyone anything? Tea? Coffee? Milk? Sugar? Sure?

A soothing voice. You could nod off. Not to be funny but Howard has the touch with the relatives, the full package: patience, interest, concern.

Take your time, he says. Would you like me to run through things again with you?

He keeps his knees together, his head on one side, his voice soft. I’m making it sound easy, it’s not. He knows what to say and when to say it. He could’ve been a vicar, no problem, could’ve done it with his eyes closed.

Shall we take a little breather for five minutes? he says. Is there anything else I can help you with? He leaves a gap after he speaks. Putty in his hands, the families are. His Achilles heel is personal property. No one is allowed to touch the silver-topped cane he uses when he steps out in his topper to lead the coffins. His broomstick, Derek calls it.

Outside I can hear Mikey whistling. He calls his hearses by name, created from their registration plates. Now, now, children, he says to them. They just stand there in the garage.

That’s you lying there stark bollock, Derek says. It’s always you, Lee, because one day it will be. Pure Derek, that one. A Derekism in fact.

They look asleep after Del and me have done our secret tinkering. I say secret because it is. There is no Magic Circle per se, no pledge, but still. You don’t talk about it, truth be told. It’s a secret you have with the deceased, a pact.

Saying that, there is a peacefulness to this job. You come at the end, after the fact. I’m not cut out for illness, suffering. I prefer to step in when that’s done. People say to me, What’s it like then, a dead body? I always hesitate, but if I were forced to describe it, at gunpoint so to speak, a dead person is like a newborn, weird, other-worldly, but. Familiar as your own face in the mirror.