An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  With small, pointed features, slight form, and rounded shoulders, he crept around like a small predatory animal. He was crow-like, and nothing remotely like a budgie. Nobody seemed to know the reason he was called Budgie, as he didn’t dress in brightly coloured clothes or keep repeating his words, and there were no other obvious reasons. He was the type of man you would always try to avoid if you saw him before he saw you, as he always wanted something.

  As he stood in the doorway, I went up to him. ‘Hello, Budgie, how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Not too bad, son. I’ve bin watchin’ the shop. You ain’t got any coppers in today, ’av ya?’ was the muffled response.

  ‘No, not today. Why you asking?’ I said.

  ‘No reason, son, no reason. Is Tom in?’ he said, looking towards the back.

  ‘Maybe I can help you, Budgie, as he’s a bit busy at the moment,’ I lied.

  ‘No, son, you can’t ’elp me. I’ve got a bit of a delicate situation only your Uncle can ’elp.’ His eyes looked serious, but I couldn’t see the rest of his face due to the handkerchief covering most of it.

  ‘He’s out the back. I’ll go and see if he’s free.’ And with that I turned and walked back to the office.

  Grinning, I said, ‘I think this might change your mood. Budgie’s outside.’

  ‘Oh, what the hell does he want?’

  ‘Don’t know, but he says only you can help him. Apparently it’s a very delicate situation.’

  ‘Delicate, my arse! He don’t know the meaning of the word; he’s up to no good, that’s what he’s up to!’

  ‘Good afternoon, Budgie, how are you?’ said Uncle, as he walked back into the shop. ‘Stan says you have a delicate situation you need to discuss with me. Now what can I do for you?’

  Budgie was still half in and half out of the door but, when he heard Uncle’s offer to help, he looked up and down the street then stepped in. As he shut the door behind him he held up a paper bag clutched in his handkerchief-free hand. ‘Just got two kippers for me tea and I need somefing to cook ’em wiv,’ he said.

  An outlandish thought crossed my mind: I wondered how on earth he managed to eat with that handkerchief constantly clamped to his mouth, especially kippers. I mean, how did he get the bones out? They were difficult enough to eat with two hands. Just as I was pondering this thought, Uncle turned to me. ‘Go upstairs and get a frying pan, Stan, big enough to cook his fish in.’

  With that, he mumbled something we couldn’t decipher into his handkerchief. ‘What’d you say?’ Uncle asked.

  ‘I said, I don’t need a sodding frying pan. I need an ’ammer and screwdriver!’ Then he bent over in a fit of coughing.

  We both looked at one another. I shrugged, looking puzzled, whilst Uncle looked back, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Did you say a hammer and screwdriver?’ Uncle repeated, surprised.

  ‘Yeah,’ he spluttered.

  ‘I don’t get it. How you supposed to cook a pair of kippers with a hammer and screwdriver?’

  ‘Bleeding ’ell, Tom, do I ’av to spell it out! I need the ’ammer and screwdriver to break into the sodding gas cupboard, so I can get the gas on to cook the bloody things!’ Having exerted himself, he exploded into another bout of coughing.

  ‘Now, fancy me not thinking of that! Well, you’ve caught me in a good mood. Go and fetch a hammer and screwdriver, Stan, we can’t have those kippers going to waste now, can we!’ He looked back at me as he mouthed the words ‘cheap ones’. I nodded and went to fetch the tools.

  Over the years, Budgie had ‘borrowed’ quite a number of different tools from us, so we’d learnt our lesson not to give him any of our good ones.

  ‘Fanks,’ he muttered, as I handed them over. ‘I’ll bring ’em back tomorra.’ And off he shuffled.

  ‘We’ll never see them again,’ Uncle said, as he headed back towards the office.

  But I must admit he still had that smile on his face for the rest of the day.

  About a week later a call came in from Mrs O’Leary. She was distraught, and, for a woman of her demeanour, it was a surprise.

  Uncle answered the phone, and sat with it pulled away from his ear, as the voice coming through was hysterical.

  ‘Now, calm down, calm down, Mrs O’Leary, don’t get yourself all worked up. I’m sure your husband hasn’t come back to haunt you, it’s . . . ’ He then stops screwing his face up, pulling the phone even further away from his ear. ‘Please calm down, you’ll do yourself no good getting this worked up. I guarantee it’s the gases that have built up in his body; we’ll come around right now and sort it out for you.’ He pauses, listening. ‘We’ll see you very shortly.’

  He finished the call and turned to me.

  ‘Apparently she heard a noise from the body; it’s obviously the gases but she thinks he’s come back to haunt her. We’d better get over there and sort it out now before she calls in an exorcist – the woman’s in a sodding frenzy!’

  The front door was opened as soon as our car drew up and there she was, looking ashen, clutching her crucifix to her chest.

  ‘Leave it to us, Mrs O’Leary, we’ll sort it out for you, and I’ll call you when we’ve finished,’ Uncle said, as we walked into the front room, closing the door behind us.

  The last time I’d been there was eight days previously. After that amount of time, with the weather being hot – and don’t forget the candles were constantly burning morning, noon and night creating even more heat in the room – you can imagine how Mr O’Leary looked. We always recommended to clients that after a few days of having the body exposed they should think about putting the coffin lid on properly, but many wouldn’t listen and insisted they wanted the casket open for the duration.

  I noticed that on the floor, under the coffin, was a huge bowl of chopped onions. I’d seen this many times before: it’s an old wives’ tale that onions are supposed to stifle the smell of the corpse, but to me it just made it a whole lot worse.

  Mr O’Leary’s body had blown up to such a size, it was imperative that the gases were released.

  ‘Go on then, Stan, get on with it,’ Uncle whispered, so nobody listening outside the door would hear.

  I didn’t like this part of the job at all, and if I could’ve got anyone else to do it I would’ve done but, as always, it was left to me.

  I bent over the body and gently undid the shroud, which was tied behind, pulling it down to waist level. I then pulled out of my bag a ten-inch long metal tube; it was similar to a ‘trocar’, which is now used in embalming. It’s hollow, with a point at the end that tapers down at the other. I pushed the sharp end into the top of the stomach, and immediately the gases started to escape. The smell! It was indescribable. It took about three minutes for them to fully release, and it was impossible to stand there for that long, as it was so overpowering. When the body had been punctured you immediately held your lighter up to the end, so the gases would then ignite, creating a flame of around two inches high. This would then burn them off, stopping the smell contaminating the room any further. Once the flame had died down, the tube would be removed, a plug placed in the hole, and the shroud put back on.

  Mrs O’Leary was standing outside wringing her hands when we opened the door. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve released the gases and everything’s fine now, but I suggest you put the lid fully onto the casket,’ Uncle said.

  ‘No, absolutely not!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He was a mean ol’ bastard but I’ll not have him screwed in until the day, Mr Cribb, no way!’ She then added: ‘And I’m still convinced he’s come back to haunt me; it’s just the sort of t’ing he’d do to me! I’ve been looking into it, so I have, and what I’d like you to do is get me a mute for the day of the funeral, and then afterwards I’m going to have the place exorcised by me priest.’

  ‘A mute?’ Uncle Tom looked at her in amazement. ‘You want a mute?’

  ‘I certainly do!’ she said, placing her hands on h
er enormous hips.

  I could see that Uncle Tom was not just amazed, he was shell-shocked.

  ‘Where on earth am I supposed to get a mute from, Mrs O’Leary? Nobody’s used them for the last forty-five years!’

  ‘Well, don’t you be asking me, Mr Cribb, you’re the frigging undertaker. I’ll be leaving it to you. I’ve got enough of me own problems, so I have. Now, I’ve to be getting on. I’ll be seeing you Wednesday. I believe we’re to leave at ten o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Yes, we are. Goodbye, Mrs O’Leary, we’ll see you then.’

  He was furious. In the car, he turned to me. ‘Having the place exorcised! I only said it as a bloody joke but she’s actually going through with it, and can you believe she wants a mute? Where the hell am I going to get one of those in two days?’

  Let me explain what a ‘mute’ is, in case you don’t know. Mutes were commonplace from 1600–1914. They were usually used in pairs but sometimes singularly. They were always men, dressed completely in black, with gloves, long shrouds, and top hats with black veils attached to the back that hung down their necks onto the shoulders. They would carry a wand or staff (they were sinister-looking buggers who looked like the Grim Reaper). They would have sad, pathetic faces and would stand at the front door of the deceased’s house on the morning of funerals. They were believed to ward off evil spirits and were a symbolic protector of the deceased. They wouldn’t utter a word the whole time, hence the name ‘mute’. When the funeral left the house they would walk in front of the cortège with the undertaker behind them, sometimes walking all the way to the cemetery, depending on the distance, or stand on the back of the horse-drawn funeral hearse.

  The tradition began, apparently, when members of the aristocracy died in their large manor houses surrounded by acres of land. The houses couldn’t be seen from the roadway, due to the long driveways, so a member of staff would be dressed in black and instructed to stand at the gates of the house in order to alert any passers-by that there had been a death in the house.

  In Dickens’s Oliver Twist, the undertaker Mr Sowerberry said to his wife about Oliver: ‘There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear, which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.’

  Let me tell you how grateful I was that I’d met Mrs O’Leary, as I knew for a fact that if I hadn’t I would have definitely been dressed up by Uncle Tom to be her mute.

  ‘You know what, Stan, I just can’t believe this. The woman’s definitely gone round the twist. We’ve already explained it’s the gases, but she’s convinced herself she’s being haunted. Bloody hell, I bet the poor sod’s glad to have got away. Why should he want to come back and haunt her? God knows what we’re going to do . . . put your thinking cap on, boy!’

  I could see why he was worried. Two days to go and we were stuck with a considerable challenge.

  We then drove back to the yard, as he wanted to check on one of the mourner’s cars that had been playing up. Jack had been working on it most of the day, trying to repair it for Wednesday. As we walked over to the car we could see Jack’s legs sticking out from underneath it.

  ‘How’s it looking . . . had any luck?’ Uncle asked, kneeling down.

  Jack slid himself out, stood up, wiped his hands on an old piece of cloth and started to explain the problem. As he’s doing this I could see Uncle’s facial expression change: his eyes went small, his mouth started to purse, and suddenly he was deep in thought. I could see he wasn’t listening to a blind word Jack was saying. I’m not looking or listening to Jack either, I’m looking at Uncle. I know the old bugger so well; something’s brewing!

  His eyes widen and a smile creeps on his lips. He then turns excitedly towards me, shouting, ‘We’ve found our bloody mute, boy!’

  I couldn’t contain myself, and burst out laughing. I certainly wasn’t expecting that! I knew by his face he was scheming but using poor Jack as the mute never entered my head. He started to chuckle and poor old Jack’s left standing there looking completely bewildered, with his wonderful hangdog expression. ‘What d’you mean, you’ve found your mute? I know I don’t talk much but it’s a . . .’

  ‘No, no, no. It’s nothing to do with you not talking, Jack. It’s your face!’ Uncle says, now laughing.

  ‘Oh, fanks,’ Jack answers. ‘No need to be rude!’

  ‘Jack, you don’t get it. Come with me and I’ll explain everything to you.’ And with that he put his arm around Jack’s shoulders, leading him towards the office, winking at me as he goes.

  As I stood waiting for them to come out, there was clearly a heated argument going on:

  ‘I’m not bloody doing it!’

  ‘Yes, you are!’

  ‘I won’t!’

  ‘Well, don’t come back then!’

  You’ve got the gist, anyway. It went on like that for ages, and in the end Jack stormed out, grabbing his coat.

  Uncle strolled over with his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘No problem. He’s just got to get his outfit now.’

  The very next day, Mum got her sewing machine out and knocked up a black shroud and attachment to the top hat and the staff/wand was made in the workshop.

  As it turned out, Jack was the perfect ‘mute’ – his look and lack of speech was just what Mrs O’ Leary had ordered. She was thrilled to have him standing by her front door, so all the neighbours and mourners could see. But she didn’t let up for a second with her superstitions. As we started to carry the coffin out of the house she was right behind us.

  ‘Don’tcha forget to carry him out feet first,’ she hissed.

  This was something we always did anyway, but she was obviously going back to the old superstition that when the deceased is carried out, it’s always to be feet first, to prevent the spirit looking back into the house and beckoning another family member to follow them.

  As the apprentice I always got the feet end, because if there were to be any accidents when the coffin was removed from the house, this end would take the brunt. The problem being that most of the houses we dealt with had very narrow hallways and door openings so, when we carried the coffin out from the front room into the hall, more often than not it had to be raised at the head end to get the correct angle for us to manoeuvre it. You now know the condition of these bodies . . . obviously fluids had collected in the bottom of the casket, so as it was tilted these would run down and inevitably end up on my feet. I can’t tell you the amount of shoes I got through during those early years. It was such a relief when I got ‘promoted’ to the head end.

  Mr O’Leary’s was a huge funeral, and it seemed like virtually all of the Irish Catholic community in the area was attending, and the amount of flower tributes was incredible.

  Do you remember I told you about brides needing to carry a bunch of strongly perfumed flowers to disguise their body odour? Well, that’s why flowers started being brought to funerals – in order to help camouflage the smell of the body. But by modern times, like the bride, even though flowers are no longer needed for the purpose they were designed, the tradition is still followed.

  After the funeral, and true to her word, Mrs O’ Leary had the house exorcised the very next day.

  A week or so later I was polishing a coffin in the shop when the doorbell rang. In came a poor soul, looking as poor as you could get; pathetic really. He was carrying an old sack, which looked quite heavy, and he had a resemblance to someone but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  ‘Good morning, sir, can I help you?’ I asked, wiping my hands on my apron. I then held it out to shake his hand.

  ‘Morning, son. I’m Budgie’s bruvver, Sparra,’ he said, taking my hand in his. It was like shaking the hand of a skeleton.

  Of course! That’s who he looked like!

  I grinned. ‘Budgie and Sparrow . . . interesting names,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, don’t you start!’ he said. ‘It’s caused embarrassment all our lives, I tell ya. Me father ’ad an obsession wiv birds, so decided to name each one of
us after ’em. Bloody ridiculous. Budgie, Sparra, Robin, Dove, Linnet and Wren, that was us,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Well, it’s different,’ I replied. ‘I suppose he could’ve had an obsession with fish, then you would’ve had problems!’

  He flung his head back and snorted with laughter, and I spotted one lone tooth which was rotten. ‘Bloody right, son, never thought of that one. Me ol’ mum always said be grateful for small mercies.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Sparrow?’

  ‘Came to tell ya, Budgie died last night. The consumption got ’im in the end. Lasted longer than we thought, though. Blessed release. Poor bugger was suffering in the end. Just came t’ ask if you’d do ’is funeral for us, son. We’ve got insurance, everyfinks covered.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m so sorry to hear about your brother; he certainly was a character.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, you can say that again,’ Sparrow retorts, giving another loud snort.

  We sorted out all the arrangements then, as he was leaving, he picked the sack up. ‘Oh, by the way, before he died he told me this was under his bed and that ’e wanted you to ’ave it.’

  ‘Oh, OK . . . what is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Bag o’ tools, son, don’t know why ’e wanted you to ’ave ’em though.’

  I looked in the sack and all of our tools that he’d taken over the years were in there. I smiled. ‘I think I do, Sparrow, thank you.’

  ‘As long as you know what it’s about, son, that’ll do for me.’ And with that he left.

  10

  Gracie

  1950 (age 22)

  I’d been out all morning, organising a funeral, and was looking forward to a nice sandwich and a cup of tea when, no sooner had I opened the door, Uncle shouts, ‘Don’t take your coat off, boy, you’ve another job.’