by Freer, Echo;
‘I swear to you, gel, I ain’t got it.’ Archie picked up the paper again and shook his head in disbelief.
‘Blimey, I can’t believe poor old Flash is a gonner. ‘Is missus’ll be devastated.’
‘Yeah, tragic.’ Harley was growing impatient. Mickey pulled the newspaper from his father’s grasp and frowned. ‘Did they really say you was callous? Blimey, Dad - that ain’t fair.’
‘Bleedin’ ‘ell, Mickey, that’s the best bit!’ Harley glared at her boyfriend incredulously. ‘I cannot Adam an’ Eve you two. ‘Ave you any idea of the consequences of this revelation?’
Father and son looked first at each other and then at Harley. Neither made any response.
‘Let me put it another way, you pair of doughnuts. I’ve got a visiting order to see my dad in The Marsh next weekend, by which time every bloke on ‘is wing will ‘ave read this and be under the impression that you, Arch, ‘ave got the diamond - and that my old man’s stay courtesy of ‘Er Majesty will very soon be comin’ to an early close.’
‘But I ain’t got it,’ Archie reiterated.
Harley tapped her Doc Marten on the quarry-tiled floor of the Biggs’ kitchen. ‘Well, if you ain’t got it and the paper says the shop ain’t got it, who the bleedin’ ‘ell ‘as got it?’
The three of them scratched their heads in baffled silence. Then the realisation hit them, like dawn breaking over a refuse dump.
Archie and Harley looked at each other. ‘Flash!’ they said in unison.
Mickey nodded vaguely then frowned. ‘But I thought you said Flash was dead, Dad?’
‘ ‘E is, son, ‘e is.’
‘So,’ Harley gave a hideously triumphant grin, ‘your mission, Archie - an’ I strongly suggest you choose to accept it - is to steal the diamond back off of Flash’s dead body.’ She gave Mickey’s cheek a playful pat. ‘Piece of cake.’
Four
The following Monday morning, Modesty was given the opportunity she’d been waiting for to take a more active part in the family business. Unfortunately, though, an outbreak of clutter-clearing over the weekend had left her with a room that looked as though she was following her sister’s example in the interior design stakes. So, when her father’s voice sounded over her shoulder, it was an unwelcome interruption.
‘Look at this mess!’ Mortimer de Mise chided as he picked his way across the floor.
In fact, Modesty thought the sorting and tidying exercise had been a total success and had achieved both its objectives; not only had it been a productive outlet for all the grief and frustration she’d been feeling recently, but it had also given her a valid reason to distance herself from her father for the best part of two days.
‘Dad!’ she reprimanded. ‘First of all, it’s not a mess - it’s in the process of being tidied. Secondly, how many times have I asked you to knock before you come into my room?’
Mortimer scanned his daughter’s floor suspiciously. ‘Anyone would think you had something to hide.’
She gave an irritated sigh. ‘I haven’t got anything to hide, but this is my space and I want you and Mum to respect that and not just barge in whenever you feel like it.’
Mortimer seemed to weigh up whether or not it was in his interest to challenge his daughter, but decided against it and softened, as though he was making an enormous effort to be nice. He gave a condescending chuckle. ‘Your space!’
Modesty ran her hands through her hair in exasperation; it was pointless arguing. ‘Did you want something?’ she asked curtly.
Mortimer drifted across the room to where several dozen placards with such slogans as ‘Sacred Bones, not Yuppie Homes’ and ‘R£ST in P£AC£?’ were propped against the wall. He made no comment but she could see his jaw set and then relax again. ‘Yes. Your mother has taken Grace to buy some new shoes-’
‘Good luck to her on that score,’ Modesty remarked, then realised how churlish and offhand she sounded and instantly regretted it. Her father, however, did not rise to the bait and Modesty, at first confused, decided that his sudden character- change must mean that he wanted something.
‘And I have two collections this morning,’ he went on. ‘They’re the men who passed away in that diamond robbery last week. They’re being held at the City of London mortuary, which means that I’ll probably be away until early this afternoon, so I will be requiring someone to cover for me.’
Modesty stifled a smile of self-congratulation at having sussed his motive.
‘As you’re off school for half-term this week and you’ve been hankering after this for some time, I thought it would be an ideal opportunity for you to make the arrangements for the Timpson funeral. It’s very straightforward.’
Ordinarily, Modesty would have jumped at the chance but the way her father phrased it made it sound as though he was doing her a huge favour, and the word please hadn’t even featured. She got the distinct impression that she was being used for his convenience and she didn’t like being taken for granted.
‘Actually, I’ve got masses to do today and Cerys is supposed to be coming over. Can’t Emlyn do it?’
Her father bristled. ‘No. Emlyn’s working on that circus artist today.’
The big top had come to Wanstead Flats for the October half-term but, sadly, Hywel the Human Cannonball had underestimated his own ability and, instead of being propelled the length of the circus ring, had overshot the safety net by several feet, landing headfirst on the bonnet of the clowns’ exploding car. The premature firework display had received rapturous applause from the audience until The Flying Fiascos realised what had happened and began evacuating hundreds of disappointed families. Emlyn, on hearing that the unfortunate performer was a Welshman, was determined to do the best he could for his fellow countryman.
‘It’s a rush job before the circus moves on and Emlyn’s likely to be tied up all day. Anyway, I thought you wanted to be more involved with the business?’
‘I do but...’
‘But when it suits you, is that it?’
‘No! That’s not what I meant!’
Her father shrugged. ‘I thought this would be a nice little way in for you - but, if you’d rather go out with your friends...’
It was nothing short of emotional blackmail, Modesty knew that, but she was tired and the idea of finally being given some responsibility was very tempting. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she conceded. ‘What time are they coming?’
Half an hour later, as she sat in the arranging room, the words of her late friend Beattie came back to her: ‘Be careful what you wish for, dear, because you might get it!’ Modesty was beginning to realise just how true that was.
She had acquiesced to her father’s wishes and worn a plain skirt for her first arrangement, although in order to maintain a sense of her own style she’d chosen an Indian embroidered blouse to go with it. She sat with a clipboard on her lap - looking the part, even if she didn’t feel it.
Opposite her, on the soft leather sofa, sat eight- year-old Timothy Timpson, whose bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks gave some indication as to the extent of his grief. His mother, clutching her son to her side, was nibbling her bottom lip anxiously and hyperventilating almost to the point of a panic attack. Mr Timpson, on the other hand, sat some distance from them with his arms firmly folded and an expression that fluctuated between abject boredom and intense irritation. Modesty lowered her eyes to the form that was clipped to the board on her lap.
Mrs Timpson’s quavering voice brought her focus back into the room. ‘Father Ged - our parish priest - has said - he’s willing - to do the service - for us.’ Mr Timpson emitted a grunt of disapproval.
Modesty nodded and wondered if she ought to fetch a paper bag for Mrs Timpson to breathe into.
‘And had you had any thoughts as to where you’d like Hamish to be buried?’ she asked gently.
&nb
sp; Timmy let out a howl like a werewolf and thrust his head into his mother’s bosom.
A loud tut came from the opposite end of the settee. ‘Get a grip - for heaven’s sake!’
Mrs Timpson’s breath became even shorter and she shot her husband a venomous look of reproach.
‘Well,’ she panted, ‘I - quite liked - the idea - of the woodland area - because - it’s all - natural. But - Timmy wanted - to have a headstone - that he could - come and visit.’
‘You have got to be joking!’ Mr Timpson snapped. ‘And how much do you think that little lot is going to set me back?’
The child increased his volume by several decibels and Modesty felt panic starting to rise from the pit of her own stomach. She took a deep breath to try to calm herself before she and Mrs Timpson became paper bag-buddies.
‘Erm, I can look that up for you,’ she said. ‘But I must warn you that I’m not sure it’s suitable for Hamish to be buried here.’ Timmy jacked it up a level until he was fast approaching a pitch that would shatter plastic. ‘There are specialist cemeteries...’ Modesty fumbled with the papers on her clipboard. Hadn’t her father told her that this would be a fairly straightforward arrangement? She suddenly felt renewed admiration for her parents and their ability to handle such situations with apparent ease - not that she had any intention of telling them that just yet. An idea occurred to her and she placed her clipboard on the coffee table that acted as the demarcation line between the bereaved and the arranger. ‘May I make a suggestion?’ she offered.
‘As long as it involves getting out of here, I’m open to anything,’ Mr Timpson replied.
‘Perhaps if you and I could have a word?’ she suggested, indicating that he should follow her out of the room. Once they were out of earshot, Modesty spoke in a forthright manner. ‘Am I right in thinking that you don’t share your wife and son’s sense of loss, Mr Timpson?’
The father opened his hands in an appeal for common sense. ‘It was a hamster!’
Modesty nodded. ‘I know. I appreciate that.’ She adopted a tone of reverence. ‘But, you know, none of us can ever really know how another person feels and it’s clear that your wife and Timmy are extremely distressed. So I’m wondering if we can’t make a compromise here.’
Once back in the room, Modesty put her proposition to the rest of the Timpson family. ‘Why don’t we ask Mr Midgely, the man who makes our coffins, to build a special one that’s just the right size for Hamish?’
Timmy nodded, his bottom lip quivering only slightly now.
‘There’ll be no cost for that. And I’ll have a word with the monumental masons who make most of the headstones around here. They’ve just got a new apprentice started so I’ll see if she can come up with something suitable that could be very discreetly erected at the bottom of your own garden. How does that sound? And then Hamish will have a proper grave that you can visit at any time.’
By the time they left, Timmy was managing a small smile and both his parents looked extremely relieved.
Modesty took the shoe box containing the deceased hamster through to the workshop at the back of the house.
‘Midge, we’ve got a very small client here. Can you do something a bit special and bill me for it?’
Colin Midgely stopped stapling the plastic lining into the oak-veneered coffin that stood on wooden trestles in the middle of the workshop. His face lit up. ‘Anything for you, Moddy - you know that.’ He picked up one of the tiny MDF boxes that were stacked on a shelf next to the smallest coffins, tossed it in the air and caught it with his other hand behind his back. ‘Will the bird size be big enough, do you think, or should we go for small mammal?’
Modesty grinned. An encounter with Midge always cheered her up. ‘He was a very small mammal, so I think bird size should do fine. But,’ she grimaced, ‘I’ve promised them purple taffeta for the lining.’
Midge sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Purple? I can do you a nice pale lilac.’
Modesty shook her head. ‘No - they definitely want galactic purple.’
‘OK - leave it with me. I’ll see what my mum’s sewing box can offer.’
‘Thanks, Midge.’ As she turned to leave, Modesty ran her hand along the side of the oak coffin Midge was working on. ‘Is this for the circus guy?’
Midge nodded. ‘Tiny, wasn’t he? I’m not surprised he travelled so far - he must have been as light as a feather. Hey,’ he said, suddenly excited, ‘have you heard we’re getting the two blokes from the diamond robbery? Quite a celebrity week, isn’t it? I can see it now.’ He cocked his head on one side and raised his eyes skywards. ‘Mortimer de Mise - funeral care for the rich and famous!’
‘Yeah right - but if they’re our clients then it doesn’t really matter how rich or famous they were does it? They’re all the same once they’re in here.’ Modesty knocked on the side of the coffin.
‘Spoilsport.’
She smiled and picked up the shoe box containing Hamish the hamster. ‘I’ll leave this little fellow in the mortuary - keep him nice and cold.’
Back inside the main building, Modesty checked the answerphone in the office and was about to go upstairs to get changed when the doorbell rang. On peering through the spy-hole in the heavy studded door, she felt a rush of excitement and the colour rose in her cheeks. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she opened the door.
‘Hi!’
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ Oz Appleby blurted, without any preamble. His tone was serious.
Modesty felt a tiny flutter just beneath her navel. ‘I suppose so - it depends what it is.’
‘Will you take me to where Gran died? I’d really like to see the spot and the part of the cemetery that she cared about.’
Modesty felt a flush of warmth spreading through her. ‘Sure. I’ll just get changed.’ Then she hesitated - she’d promised to stay in and hold the fort until one or other of her parents returned home. She sighed with frustration; typical - what were the chances of this happening? The first time she’d been left in charge and Oz Appleby turns up on the doorstep. She couldn’t turn him away and ask him to come back later, yet neither could she just walk off and leave the place unattended. What a dilemma! There had to be a solution. ‘Wait here,’ she said, running back along the corridor.
‘Emlyn?’ she called through the door of the embalming room, so as not to contaminate the hygienic environment in which he worked. ‘I’m going to switch the phone through to you for about half an hour and if Mum or Dad comes back, will you tell them that I’m with a client and we’ve gone over to the cemetery?’
‘No problem, my lovely.’
She ran back, signalling the thumbs-up to Oz before mounting the stairs two at a time all the way to the second floor. She threw off the clothes she’d been wearing and donned her combats and a sweatshirt with the message: ‘Resting Places not Investing Places’. She was back with Oz in under two minutes.
‘Ready!’ A shiver of anticipation ran through her. She could hardly believe that this was the same boy she’d known four years ago. His hair had gone from being plain scruffy to gorgeously tousled. His eyes, always deep brown, were now like wells of dark chocolate and his scrawny little body had morphed into a strapping six feet of hunk. She lifted down her parka from the coat hooks by the door and beamed. ‘Come through this way, it’s quicker - but you’d better leave your skateboard in the hall, they’re not allowed in the cemetery.’
She led Oz through the ground floor of the building, taking a moment to patch through the phone to the embalming room as they passed the door of her parents’ office. Then past the double doors of the small memorial chapel and out into the yard. Oz looked round the large courtyard of buildings, immaculate in their appearance.
‘Wow! It’s much bigger than I realised.’
‘Yeah.’ Modesty pointed proudly at the numerous doors
that opened on to the yard. ‘Garage, coffin store, workshop and that door leads back inside to the embalming room and chapel of rest.’
They stood in silence for some time before Oz looked at her quizzically. ‘Doesn’t that freak you out?’
She shook her head and tried to hide the feeling of disappointment his comment had stirred. ‘No. Why should it?’
Oz shrugged. ‘I don’t know - just having a coffin store in your back yard, it’s a bit, well, you know - weird.’
‘They’re only boxes, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like we’ve got Dracula living in there.’
‘Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You didn’t,’ Modesty lied. ‘Most people think I’m weird, so why should you be any different? Now,’ she added, more tersely than she’d intended, ‘do you want to see where your gran died, or not?’
Oz stood his ground and took a deep breath. ‘Hey, look - I’m sorry. Can we start again?’
Modesty turned to face him but made no response. Her emotions were in turmoil. On one hand she was almost as upset as he was at the death of Beattie, and yet his very presence seemed to have transcended her grief: simply looking at him sent her head and her stomach into turbo-drive. And, to add to everything, she felt strangely guilty - as though she shouldn’t be feeling this way at this time.
Oz continued, speaking slowly and softly. ‘I’m finding things really difficult at the moment and I came here this morning because I wanted to talk to you.’
Someone seemed to have let off a firecracker in Modesty’s stomach. He’d come to talk to her!
‘I don’t know anyone else round here except Mum and she’s gone on a dust-busting blitz at Gran’s house. She’s like someone possessed and won’t talk about anything unless it contains the words “bleach” or “disinfectant”.’ Oz looked at Modesty and her knees seemed to dissolve. What on earth was happening? She’d never felt like this before.
He went on, ‘I just need a friend at the moment, and I know we haven’t seen each other for four years but you’re the nearest thing I’ve got. Please tell me I haven’t blown it.’
