Down Among the Dead Men: A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician

by Michelle Williams

  ‘Can’t you see to it?’ he replied.

  ‘No,’ was my simple answer.

  Graham smiled as he walked past me, gently shaking his head. ‘Nothing is that difficult, Michelle,’ he said while heading to the front doors. I wondered how he was going to react to what awaited him, so followed. On opening the doors, Graham greeted the porters in his usual fashion. ‘All right, lads.’ This was not a question, but a statement. He turned to the people surrounding the trolley and asked politely if he could help them. They told him, in none too nice a manner, that they wanted to come in with their next of kin. Graham replied, in a calm but firm way, that there was basically not a chance of them entering the mortuary and that they would have to make an appointment over the phone for a viewing in the chapel of rest. It was clear that he was not going to take anything else for an answer on this matter, and I was jealous of his confidence. The family then asked if they could uncover Mr Diggins to say goodbye. At this point, Graham’s face turned a slight shade of red and I could see he was beginning to lose his temper. ‘I am afraid you have to consider the other patients in the hospital,’ he told them. ‘I cannot allow you, under any circumstances, to uncover a deceased patient while out in the open.’ Thank God the family accepted this, but I could see they were not happy. Graham picked up on this too, as he suggested that they all went to the canteen for a cup of tea and returned to the chapel of rest within half an hour, by which time Mr Diggins would be lying in rest ready to receive them in the proper manner.

  The porters brought Mr Diggins in and Graham made doubly sure that the doors were definitely locked behind them. ‘People don’t listen, Michelle,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if they try and get back in ten minutes or so.’ He asked me to prepare Mr Diggins for the viewing room while he booked him into the mortuary register and completed the relevant paperwork.

  Clive had finished his conversation to whomever, and had wandered through to see how we were doing and to inform us that it was nearly three o’clock; this meant that, whatever was happening, it was tools down and stop for tea. ‘I haven’t got time for that,’ Graham said in an abrupt manner following up straight away with, ‘Sorry, boss.’ He then went on to tell Clive what had just happened. I kept my head down while this conversation was happening, as I could feel anger rising in the body store where we all were. Clive and Graham never liked to be told by families what to do. The mortuary was their domain, and no one bossed them around about how it was controlled, especially not families. Visits were held at a convenient time for the technicians, and that was that.

  Clive was a little annoyed at Graham for arranging for the family to come back. He was fully aware that families like these wanted to spend almost every last minute with their deceased relative, right up to the moment they went into the ground or the fire. ‘Who’s on call?’ asked Clive. ‘Because this could be a long evening.’

  ‘I am,’ I answered, and I felt my heart hit the bottom of my stomach. What did he mean by a long evening?

  ‘Right, Michelle, I am deadly serious now. This family, from my experience, will dominate the chapel and you have to take control. They can stay till six-thirty this evening if they wish. But make sure you tell them so when they arrive, then there’ll be no surprises and they know you mean business.’

  I couldn’t see myself speaking to them in this manner. There would be so many of them for a start, and I was rubbish at talking to large groups of people; added to that, from what I had heard of the conversation at the door with Graham earlier, they knew exactly what they wanted. I had to fight to stop panic taking hold.

  I had made sure Mr Diggins looked as good as I could possibly make him and placed him in the chapel, and was waiting in anticipation for his family to arrive. The doorbell rang at the relatives’ entrance and I took a deep breath as I opened it. I couldn’t count how many people stood in front of me, but it was a large crowd. There was no way I was going to fit everyone in. The whole family had turned up, including babies, toddlers, teenagers and what appeared to be grandparents. Mr Diggins was sixty-seven, so I wondered if the elderly among them were brothers and sisters. I remember thinking that, surely, no one has blood family this big.

  I had to take control, because there was no other way I was going to be able to deal with this. I asked for the head of the family to make himself known, slightly shaking as I requested it, and a six foot five male stepped forward . As he did so, the rest of the family cleared the path for him to walk through. Now my heart was in my shoes. I showed him into the waiting area and shut the door behind me, leaving the rest of the family outside. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Herbie Diggins, Mr Diggins’ eldest son. His hands were like shovels and very rough. His hair was jet black and his physique huge; he undoubtedly gave off an aura of dominance and control, a lot more so than I was doing. As he shook my hand, I thought I was going to be lifted off the floor by my wrist. I told him my name and, as I looked at his face, I could see the pain in his eyes that he was desperately trying to hold on to. This had nearly floored him and I could see it. He was trying so hard, I suppose, to be strong for the rest of the family, as he was expected to be. I offered him a seat and gestured for him to sit down, my main thought being that, if his legs buckled, I wasn’t going to be able to support him. As he sat down, it looked like he was perched on a child’s seat. He rested his elbows on his knees, and placed his head in his hands. His shoulders started to gently move up and down. This was his time and I needed to allow him to have it.

  I remained quiet and waited.

  After a short while, he jolted upright and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. I wasn’t going to ask him if he was OK because it didn’t seem appropriate. I let him speak and he asked me sharply where his daddy was. I told him he was in the viewing chapel, and Herbie requested that he see him before the rest of the family came in.

  We walked towards the door and Herbie took a deep breath. He grasped the handle firmly and opened the door forcefully. He walked straight over to the viewing trolley that his father was laid on. He stood there for about thirty seconds and then, without warning, raised his hand and slapped his father across the face.

  ‘Why didn’t you say you were ill?’ he shouted. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You used to tell me everything, then this. You’ve let me down, Dad. You’ve let me down. What am I supposed to do now?’ Herbie then paced the room a couple times mumbling under his breath.

  I tried to explain to him that not everyone suffers long illness before they die and some people only complain of feeling a little under the weather, if anything at all. He approached his father once more, and I hoped to God that he wasn’t going to hit him again. ‘I suppose it’s up to me now to control the family,’ he said to him. ‘I’ll just have to hope I do it as well as you did.’

  Herbie once again composed himself and turned to me. I asked him if he was ready for the rest of the family. He said that he was, and asked me how long they would be able to stay. I could have jumped for joy at that point; this was going to make my speech that Clive had prepared me for easier. I informed Herbie of the official time for the department to close, but also told him that we could extend it by two hours if they felt they needed it as a family. Herbie nodded and thanked me, and I held open the chapel door as he encouraged the rest of the family to enter.

  The next problem I faced was fitting everyone in. The waiting area will hold ten people – and that uncomfortably – and waiting for Mr Diggins were at least thirty of his family members. We were going to have to do this in a shift system. I instructed Herbie on this, and then left them to it after showing them the bell to contact me on. There was no point me being in with this family, I was taking up room and they had enough support from each other.

  When I went back to the office, which is only down a short corridor, Clive and Graham were getting ready to leave. ‘How did it go?’ Graham asked.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I don’t think they’ll be a problem.’


  Clive winked at me as he walked out the office. ‘Ring me if you have any problems and, remember, six-thirty finish.’

  ‘OK,’ I replied.

  They both left, and although there were a lot of people in the room along the way, there is something unnerving about being alone in the mortuary of an evening. Once it goes quiet and all you can hear are the fans from the fridges, no matter what you may have seen in the PM room and then tried to erase from your thoughts, your mind still begins to wander.

  I could hear the chapel door opening and closing, and knew that the Diggins family were going to be a while and would probably use the extended two hours offered. I made myself a coffee and thought about what to do. It would be disrespectful to start banging about in the body store while a family were in the chapel, and the PM room was spotless; the office was also too close to the chapel to start hoovering. Not that it needed it. Clive ensured that we never left an untidy mortuary at the end of the day, especially at the weekend.

  All I could do was sit and wait, which was what I did. And I waited and I waited. I could hear signs of different emotions coming from the viewing room: crying, laughter, raised voices, and questioning from the children.

  Six o’clock arrived and I presented myself back in the chapel. Herbie was standing at the door to the viewing room with it wide open, almost as if he was on guard. I asked him if everyone had had a chance to see Mr Diggins, and he replied that still a few people had not. He said he was pleased that I had come in as he needed to ask me some questions.

  The waiting area was in chaos. Children were running around and jumping on and off the elderly members of the family who had been given the chairs. A few had charge of the couple of newborn babies. On the coffee table in the middle of the room, the Bible and various information leaflets for bereaved families had been pushed to one side or onto the floor, and replaced with home-made sandwiches, packets of crisps, empty baby bottles and various chocolate bars. This family had come prepared and, from the feeling I got, were planning on staying.

  Herbie approached me and asked me to confirm that his father would not get ‘cut open’. I was taken aback by this and asked him if he meant by that a post-mortem. ‘Yes, that’s it; I can never remember what they call it.’

  I had to be honest, but didn’t know how it was going to go down. ‘Has your father been to see his GP recently?’ I asked Herbie.

  ‘He hasn’t got one,’ was the reply.

  So, then it came, the news he did not want to hear. ‘I’m afraid that Mr Diggins’ death will be reported to the Coroner, and he will have to investigate. He’ll then request a post-mortem if needed, which in this case will be likely, seeing as he won’t be able to find any medical history on your father.’ I stood back.

  ‘He wouldn’t want that,’ was Herbie’s stern, firm reply.

  Calmly I said, ‘I’m afraid there won’t be anything anyone can do if the Coroner requests it, Herbie.’

  The elderly members of the family began to shake their heads in a negative manner and tut. ‘We don’t want it to happen, and neither would my father, Michelle.’

  I was surprised he had remembered my name, but knew he was making a huge statement by using it. All I could say was that I was sorry they felt that way, and that the law is the law in this country. I explained that it would give them answers and closure on why he died, but that I certainly had no control over whether it happened or not. I informed him that one of the Coroner’s officers would be in touch with him, but also gave him their office number anyway.

  Clive always encouraged us to pass this responsibility back to the Coroner’s officers. ‘They have a lot more clout than us, Michelle,’ he would say. ‘We’re just looking after their work for them, that’s all. No need for us to get more involved than that.’

  But Herbie and his family were not pleased and the atmosphere changed instantly. Herbie said in a loud voice, ‘I’ll be speaking to them first thing. This will not happen, you mark my words.’ He waved his finger at everyone in the room, me included. I encouraged him to sit, but he refused and walked out on to the street. The rest of the family carried on as if nothing had happened and continued to go in and out to see Mr Diggins.

  I thought about following him but, worried about his state of mind and the actions he might take, I decided it was best that I stayed on hospital property. I returned to the office. I knew there and then that I wouldn’t be leaving before seven that evening. Luckily Luke was at home with Oscar and Harvey, so that was one thing I could relax about, but I really wanted to go. I had had enough for that day, and was getting increasingly concerned about what time this family were going to leave. I had a feeling that tempers would be raised if I was bold enough to ask them to depart. I had to think of something, but had no idea what.

  As I sat in the office staring at the clock, which was by now approaching seven-forty-five, the red double doors were unlocked and the porters came in with another body. ‘All the lights have been left on,’ I heard one of them say. It sounded like Steve, whom I had got to know well.

  As I came out of the office Steve jumped. ‘Bloody hell, Michelle, you gave me a start. What you still doing here?’ I explained about the family I had in. ‘Oh, I did think about you guys when I came on shift earlier and heard what had happened.’ Steve sighed. ‘And they’re still here?’

  ‘Coming up for four hours now,’ I told him. Steve was a genuine man, and was one of the charge porters when he was on shift. I’ve often seen him around the hospital pushing patients about and assisting staff, and he wasn’t afraid to come to the mortuary, often stopping for a coffee.

  ‘Get the kettle on then, and if they’re still here by the time I’ve finished my drink, I’ll sort them.’

  As I made the drink, I wondered what Steve had in mind about asking this family to leave. I needn’t have worried. At eight fifteen, Steve followed me into the chapel, in his porter’s uniform, and announced to the family that he was in charge of the night security of the mortuary and that at eight thirty he would be locking the building up.

  Slowly but surely, the chapel began to lose its visitors. Steve locked the doors then very kindly placed Mr Diggins in the body store while I cleaned up the mess left by his family. We secured the whole building and I was on the bus home by nine o’clock, after being reminded by Steve that I owed him at least four cans of beer for his trouble.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I hadn’t laughed so hard for ages. It was one of those moments that would make me laugh at random times for the rest of my life. Working in the PM room that day were Ed, Graham and I. The radio was on with our local station playing the same old songs which, I am sure, they put on a loop for a month, only changing them on the first of the month. Ed and I had been gradually becoming friendlier – nothing unsavoury because Ed was committed to his wife, Anne, and Luke and I were definitely an item – but we seemed to see the world in a similar way. It made working life easy because it meant that, when Ed was around, I knew that here at least was someone I could rely on.

  Not much was being said and I was concentrating hard on the job in hand, but it was a very relaxed atmosphere and Graham was busily eviscerating his body while I was halfway through doing the same to mine; Graham was waiting for Ed to finish his examination and give the organs back to him. Ed, being an experienced pathologist, never takes very long on ‘open-and-shut’ cases, which this was, but even I sensed he was taking longer than usual. As I looked up to see how he was doing, it took me a few minutes to comprehend what was actually going on; standing side on to the dissection bench, dressed fully in scrubs, hat, apron, mask, over-sleeves and double-gloved, he was having what appeared to be a very animated conversation with himself. Brain knife in hand, he was chatting away quite happily to no one; to illustrate whatever it was, he would occasionally wave the knife around, as if pointing at a diagram. I looked at Graham to see if he had noticed: his eyes were watering and his shoulders shaking, and he was obviously trying to control himself so that he
wouldn’t make a noise. I couldn’t help myself any longer and burst into loud laughter.

  This stopped Ed in his tracks and he threw me a look of pure daggers (although I know he didn’t really mean it). Of course, he denied the fact when questioned over coffee after, but I think I know different and will find out in time what he was discussing with himself. For the rest of the day, Graham and I only needed to catch each other’s eye and we would start laughing.

  That’s the thing about pathologists; they are fundamentally mad. Not in a bad way, though, not in the I-am-psychotic-and-I-want-to-kill-you way. They are merely bonkers. Some of them are likeable, some of them are a little harder to work with, but they are all firing on less than all cylinders.

  While I was walking Oscar and Harvey that night, I kept spontaneously laughing out loud whenever I thought about it.

  So, so funny.

  TWENTY-SIX

  One early afternoon after lunch, which was a soggy sandwich from the canteen, the doorbell had rung and, after the usual banter between Clive and the undertaker, what lay in front of us was a very smartly dressed elderly lady. Unfortunately she was soaked in blood, from what I assumed was a massive head wound that had caused her face, neck, including a velvet and pearl choker, and the shoulder part of her blouse and cardigan to be soaked in the red stuff. It had started to dry out and stick to her skin, suggesting that she had been waiting a while to be brought to us.

  Pete, the funeral director who had been to remove her from her home, informed us that it was a crime scene in a small village in the Cotswolds, and there was a lot of police activity going on including yards of yellow tape and armies of white forensic suits; it was being treated as a murder investigation. Clive let out a big sigh on receiving this information.