A marathon around some of these churchyards, Derek says. You’ll hear about it if one of my lads goes down, he says. We are men, not machines.
Finally, Derek stands.
Right. That’s enough, son. Either got it or you haven’t. Grieve ye not. It’s not
Strictly Come Whatever
.
Sorry, Del, I say. Turn a new
page
, I say. He he, I think. But he doesn’t get it.
There’s a removal to do.
Where?
The nursing home. When shall I tell them?
Be at least an hour. An hour at least. Do you mean Elmwood?
That’s it. I’ll say three o’clock, half past three OK?
No problem. Shouldn’t be a problem.
I’ll tell Mike. The rear car park. That’s what she said.
Okey-dokey. Got it. Rear entrance. Half past. What you laughing at?
I text Lorelle another joke, something to brighten her day.
Hola! Como esta? What beats his chest and swings from cake 2 cake? Tarzipan. He he! Mind how u go. Lee.
Howard is back from the motorcycle funeral and is having a lie down in Relatives 2. Give me a biker’s funeral any day. Game on. We use 2wheels2heaven, a reliable outfit with a nifty website. You name it, they’ve got it: Triumph, Suzuki, Harleys. All bikes are modified with the hearse
attachment
which travels sidecar plus all are constructed to UK funeral profession specifications. Talk about top-drawer. The hearse has all mod cons: flower rail, wraparound windows, internal temperature control, de-mister, internal lights and special cubbyhole to display the deceased’s boots. Nice one. They’ve thought of everything, including a pillion seat for the funeral director. I fancy the Triumph hearse; tasteful, though Howard may beg to disagree. They did the ton, apparently, on the A22 road heading north. Final wishes of the deceased, you can’t not. You’d have thought being a Tour de France fan Howard would’ve been fine, but no. It was a blur, he says. Irene’s gone out for paracetamol.
Derek’s an expert on pacemakers. He’s done loads, a boxful he’s got. They have made him famous. Derek and the Pacemakers. Someone wrote it on the workshop wall with permanent marker. It stuck. Derek wrote, Ho Ho Ho, underneath with a biro. Reckon he approves.
Got to know what you’re doing with a pacemaker, removing one is like bomb disposal. It will throw a man across a room. Heavy they are, hold one in your hand you won’t believe it; steel padlocks running thick steel wires, two or four depending. Cut the wires one at a time, cut two and you’ll get a nasty kick. We get several a year, the doctor always mentions when there’s one
fitted.
He better had, else that’ll be the end of the crem. Kerboom. Derek cuts them out of the left shoulder, wrapped in plastic they are; no blood, just fat, very clean. He keeps them in a box on the workshop shelf. Batteries from all my broken hearts, he once said. That got me thinking. Where they will all go in the end who do know?
I deliver two teas and a coffee, white with two sugars. On the settee is a man so thin you reckon you’re nodding buenos dias to a grasshopper. Beside him his giant wife has to stretch her legs out either side of the coffee table. I have a technique where I hold the door with my foot while I swing the tray through. Howard insists on the wooden tray even though it’s cumbersome to manoeuvre. He says the flowery tray is too flippant for the Relatives’ Room.
Excuse the interruption. I always say that. Relatives have the opportunity to take a breather, sit back, think on.
The wife has our music menu on her knee. Celine Dion and Whitney Houston are still reigning supreme after years at the top of the crematorium charts. Also up there are Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, the Three Tenors and Freddie Mercury. ‘Candle in the Wind’, since Diana died. The Commodores and Barry White for the romantics.
Then
you’ve got your more traditional ‘Abide With Me’, ‘Amazing Grace’, etc. and your show songs from
Les Misérables, Lion King
and
Pirates of the Caribbean
. The vast majority of dead individuals are over sixty. Our menu goes by genre: Popular, Easy Listening, Classic Rock, Country, Jazz. Most people like a bit of music. You do get the occasional Meat Loaf or Aerosmith.
While I set out cups and enquire how many sugars, Howard uses the time to fan the catalogues, display examples. The Cloud Visions range, he says, can customise to a T. You name it they can produce it. They did a bespoke golf bag for a gentleman, he says, hand-crafted, with five-irons on the lid and his initials and a specially engraved plate, entirely unique. Cloud Visions are the last word in bespoke coffinry, they can do all sorts. A broad selection is available, all tastes catered for: football teams, horse racing, animal prints, the Lake District.
There is a photo of the golf bag coffin in the bureau top drawer in case a relative expresses interest. About three out of ten relatives do express interest and Howard jumps to it. No one has, as yet, placed an order but never say never.
The lack of a decent golf course in the area is the explanation according to Howard. Golfers tend to go to W. D. Brookes Funeral Services at the top of the High Street. This is a pity, Howard says. According to him W. D. Brookes is a rip-off, sheer snobbery, one-upmanship.
Adam’s
fireplaces and original cornicing turns people’s heads, he says; as in life in death. You get your money’s worth here, he says.
True, but some would rather have the icing on the cake. It’s a status thing. Most people don’t want to go to Heaven in a bag, even if it is bespoke.
Howard still dreams of the day we will get a full-blown affair, a proper ten- to fifteen-grander, customised everything, no holds barred. He is waiting for someone to push the boat out. You can’t blame him because this is his be-all and end-all – his first, his last, his everything, as Barry White likes to sing down at the crem.
Newsflash. A text from Lorelle has landed.
He he he! C u l8er. L.
A definite improvement on He he. More than twice as many words. A step in the right direction, I’d say. Meanwhile, on the subject of love, Derek has some advice. Standing there stirring his tea: Date a midwife, he says. Same type of graft, he says, same hours, same wavelength. Off he strolls, leaving me gobsmacked, holding the kettle. Cheers, then.
We are even stevens today. Four gents, four ladies. Mrs Lomax is being viewed later. Good afternoon, Mrs Lomax, I say.
Talking
to yourself again. Sign of madness. Where’s my screwdriver? Derek doesn’t stop for an answer. His waistcoat and collar are undone; his face is shiny after only minutes in the workshop. One day he’ll topple into one of the coffins and that will be that. Talk of the town then. He wouldn’t mind, chuffed probably. Picture in the
Advertiser
.
Death is expensive. Cheaper to stay alive. Unless you’re Derek, with his weakness for patisserie items and baked goods.
I’ve worked all my life, he says, and all I’ve got to show for it is this gut.
Derek is a contradiction in terms, he can be light on his feet when he wants to. The only time things get hairy is when we’ve got a rush on. No one’s fault, but it can get a bit brisk. I only saw Derek lose his grip once, not the whole gentleman, just the top half. I don’t like it when clients get a knock, especially the head. You feel bad, but it can happen when there’s a rush on. Can’t be helped. You apologise. Very sorry about that, Mr Anderson, you say. That was his name.
We are magicians, Derek says, but not miracle workers. Our task is impossible, he says. Our task is necessary. He waggles his fingers in the air, then he says, Fetch me a magic wand, Lee.
*
L
ORELLE’S VAN IS
parked up. Olé. No sign of her. I lean on the van, arms out, wait for her to mosey along. I think on. I remember my hair. I lean in quick, check in one of the wing mirrors.
All right, Lee?
Whoa. How-do. Hello-hello. What brings you here this fine day?
Same as usual. Flowers.
Flores, flora, florals. How’s it going?
Fine, thanks. You?
Pretty good, I say. All pretty damn good here at the ol’ ranch.
Great. Gotta go, Lee. See ya.
She opens the door, climbs in. I jump around to slam the door for her.
God, Lee. No need to wham it.
Sorry about that. Don’t know my own.
Bye then.
I watch the van until it veers around the corner, out of sight.
Arrivederci, mi amore.
My luck’s in. I can feel it.
11
A dry evening, with some clear spells and cloud increasing through the night
SHE FOUND WEBSITES
based in America, Mexico, Australia. She sat at her screen day and night. No fat, no animal protein, no milk. She ate only fruit, berries, vegetables, like someone visiting from the Stone Age. This was the true path, she said. It’s up to me. I can cure myself if I choose. It comes from within, she said.
We found ourselves wading in information. Pamphlets, cuttings, leaflets, keeping us in the picture.
Many foods feed cancer cells! Other foods virtually destroy the energy of almost all cells! Starve the cancer cells!
Giant containers of distilled water stood stacked in the kitchen for cooking, rinsing, washing. Ned carried them in one at a time. No plastic wrap or tinfoil allowed because they were the enemy. Old fillings and
cavitations
were also a cause of breast cancer. Who knew? Who
would’ve
guessed? You start to see cancer lurking in everything. Up and down the motorway she went with her fireman, Les, at the wheel. Dental appointments, oxygen treatment, ozone treatment, hydrogen peroxide. She knew to stay away from qualified doctors at all cost. The evil white coats of the NHS. Everyone knows their game. A plotting tribe of neo-fascist bullies, she called them; she got that off a herbalist. Not just that. The pharmaceutical companies want profits not cures, she said. And there was evidence. The aromatherapist at the clinic who had discovered how to successfully shrink tumours using her own patented breathing techniques, had been threatened, burgled, bombed. By who? Mercenaries hired by the major pharmaceuticals. It was a disgrace, a scandal, a conspiracy; a famous naturopath said so. The cat was out of the bag.
Remember: Your doctor has NOT been trained in using natural substances in the treatment of disease
.
I lay with her on the settee. Her eyes are closed. I hold her hand. It’s the expense of the treatments, she says, that’s the worry. This makes me laugh.
Arseholes, I say. Skanks. Knobs to that. This makes her laugh.
On this me and Les agree. Never mind the cost if it works, he says.
Course it works. This is the miracle path. Stay positive!
Be
cured!
She was a survivor, she would fight. She would cure herself by working with nature, not against it. There were a billion vitamins available on the internet, she just had to find the right ones.
If you live long enough to take full doses of our potent cancer treatment for TWO MONTHS there is a very good chance you WILL beat your cancer!
A good chance, good enough. Belief was everything. She believed. We believed. We became a family of believers overnight.
A few years before her cancer was diagnosed, Les performed the duties of our local Cancer Research charity shop’s Christmas Santa. As a member of the Laughing Mask Players he offered his services each year. He stood with his charity bucket on the High Street shouting, ’Tis the season to be jolly. Fa la la la la la la la la! The life and soul, our mother called him. This is not what me and Ned called him, but we didn’t want to spoil it with our niggling doubts.
He slipped an arm around her waist. Everything to play for, Les always used to say, like he had a dice in his hand. He assumed his position as head of the family. His optimism was embarrassing.
Whoever’s with me, say Aye! he used to call. Ned and me were left with no alternative.
Aye, I replied.
He was nervous of Ned. He spoke through me as if Ned was an alien: Tell him it’s on the table. Ask him is that a tattoo on his neck or dirt? If I speak like this, s-l-o-w-l-y, will he know what I’m saying?
No, Les. He’s deaf not stupid.
He began to get shirty with me.
Lee
. That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?
He had a decent singing voice, granted. He admired Bruce Springsteen, Tom Jones. He had a lust for life. He had bonhomie when the mood took him. He liked to throw his arms wide,
What’s New Pussycat!
and take you by surprise.
Don’t get me wrong, Lester was decent to her, she allowed him to sweep her off her feet, albeit to a Harvester Inn. It’s just that she could’ve done better. In my humble opinion.
You don’t sign as well as him, do you, Lee? Don’t worry. I wasn’t my mum’s favourite either, he said.
A sharp tongue he had. Bodysnatcher, he called me when I got the trainee position.
Look out. Bodysnatcher’s about.
This was before.
Then her diagnosis, then her prognosis. Lester announced we would fight it as a family, he stood up to say it. He sold his caravan, a Buccaneer Elan, and bought
a
Coachman Pastiche, a five-berth tourer with carpet, oak fitted cupboards, ample seating, double glazing and a sun awning. He stuck his head through the little window and shouted, The whole of the UK is ours for the taking! like he was Dick Turpin. We went to Cornwall in the June and then he sold it before Christmas to fund her treatments. There’s always another caravan, he said. Respect for that. Some of us only earn respect after death. Better late than never.
For example, I knew a kid at school, Daniel Atkinson. A nobody. A zero. Dies unexpectedly and hey presto! Instant fame. Fact was he was nothing special, no one rated him. Then, soon as he was gone he became an overnight sensation. Belter of a funeral. Everyone had a story, everyone knew his name. If only I could have remembered something, anything about Daniel. I remembered his shoes, the same black Barratts as mine except his rolled in. And his name came after Paul Aldiss on the class register. I wished we’d had a conversation or a fight. I can’t remember anything he said or did or even his voice. Or even his face. When his name comes up I always mention that I was at school with him. People are surprised, sympathetic. I knew him, I say, same class, same age, same time. Terrible, I say. The exact same shoes. Tragic. He came second on the class register. His grave is in the
churchyard
by the yew hedge. His name is carved. Daniel Atkinson became a local superstar. It’s living that makes you invisible.