by Freer, Echo;
Harley Spinks addressed her boyfriend again. ‘In fact, why don’t you wait outside, Mickey?’
Mickey appeared relieved. ‘Aw, cheers, Harl. I’ll be in the car, orright?’
Harley’s eyes narrowed. ‘Neh - not outside, outside. I meant, why don’t you wait in the ‘all, outside?’ And she gave a knowing nod in the direction of the door. ‘I’m sure there’s lots you can do out there, ain’t there?’
Mortimer de Mise nodded. ‘Of course, you’re very welcome to wait in the hall. There are magazines on the table.’
Mickey shrugged. ‘Cheers, mate, but I don’t do readin’.’
‘Or...’
Modesty cringed, knowing what would be her father’s next suggestion.
‘You’re very welcome to look through our photograph album.’ It was Mortimer’s pride and joy - a pictorial journey through the last thirty years of funeral direction, from the motorbike and sidecar cortège of Barry ‘Bulldog’ Bracknell (the biker leader who had roared off to Southend prepared to die in battle against the Vespa-riding Mods but who had slipped on an ice-cream cornet at the end of the pier and met a watery end tangled up in fishing line), to the magnificent horse-drawn hearse of Alan ‘Big Al’ Bent, the gangster. And no doubt it would be enhanced the following day by Princess Leia Ogden and her entourage of Jedi knights.
‘I’m sure Mickey’ll find somefink to keep ‘isself amused, won’t you, Mickey?’ There was a conspiratorial tone to Harley’s voice.
Mickey looked at her vacantly, then, after what seemed to be a three second time delay, appeared to grasp her meaning. ‘Oh, yeah, right. I’ll... er... just ‘ave a look round then.’ He left the room.
‘Now,’ Mortimer picked up his clipboard, ‘if I could just take a few details.’
The woman in the orange fake-fur jacket uncurled her legs and leaned forward. ‘I want my Gordon cremated and I want you to send the bill to ‘im.’ She pointed to Archie Bigg.
Archie sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Opal, darlin’ - we bin through this. I don’t mind pickin’ up the tab but remember what we agreed? About Flash being buried?’
Opal leant across in front of Harley and brandished a nail at Archie’s nose. ‘Listen, Arch. It’s your fault my Gordon’s in ‘ere in the first instance, so the least you can do is respect ‘is beliefs. Now, you and your pet Rottweiler ‘ere...’ her eyes swept sideways towards Harley Spinks, ‘...might ‘ave agreed to a burial but my Gordon was a Buddhist and there ain’t no way ‘e’s goin’ underground.’
‘ ‘Ere, watch who you’re callin’ a Rott-’ Harley began.
Opal gave Harley a look that could have scorched water. ‘I was payin’ you a compliment!’
Harley reared up furiously. ‘Do you know who my dad is?’
‘Honey, I’m just surprised you’ve got one,’ Opal retorted. ‘Now, if we can get back to business, ‘cos I’m going out at six.’
‘So,’ Mortimer cleared his throat nervously, ‘do you want Mr Finlayter’s remains to be dispersed, interred or returned?’
‘Dispersed,’ replied Opal Finlayter.
‘Returned,’ chorused Harley and Archie.
Mortimer de Mise ran his tongue across his lips and sighed. ‘Perhaps a pot of tea would help matters. Modesty, would you see to it, please?’
Annoyed, Modesty left the room and headed for the small kitchenette in her parents’ office. Honestly! How was she ever going to learn how to deal with difficult clients if she was dismissed the minute things seemed to be getting interesting? It wasn’t until she had filled the kettle and set a tray with cups and saucers that she realised that Mickey Bigg had been nowhere to be seen as she’d crossed the hall.
She poked her head out of the office door and looked around - no sign of him. She opened the door into the small memorial chapel that was used for services but Mickey wasn’t there. Surely he wouldn’t have had the nerve to venture upstairs into the family accommodation? But even if he had done, Deirdre and Grace would be up there. Modesty knew her mother was a pushover, but she felt sure Grace could hold her own against anyone. No, she was pretty sure he must have stayed on the ground floor, so she crossed the hall and looked in the viewing chapel. No trace of him in there. Further along the corridor, going out towards the rear entrance, was the embalming room. The door was kept locked when Emlyn wasn’t working but, as Modesty rattled it, a wail of anguish went up from the mortuary next door.
Tentatively opening the door, she felt a blast of cold air hit her in the face. Opposite were racks of steel shelving. Some of the compartments contained large white bundles, and out of the top of one of the bundles protruded a mass of grey curly hair. The whimpering decreased to a pathetic moaning sound which Modesty followed to a heap crouching in the corner by the door. Sure enough, it was Mickey Bigg.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Modesty challenged angrily.
‘It... I... he... Flash...’ Mickey stuttered.
‘How dare you come in here?’ Modesty went across and covered up the head of the late Norma Gorman, whose love of nut clusters and the absence of anyone able to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre had prematurely curtailed her sixtieth birthday celebrations. ‘Haven’t you any respect at all?’
Mickey Bigg was babbling incoherently.
‘Get out! Just get out this minute.’
He scrabbled to his feet, grabbed the door handles one in each hand and emerged into the corridor like a paratrooper leaping from a plane. Once outside, he leaned against the wall gasping for breath.
‘So?’ Modesty stood before him, arms akimbo.
Mickey waggled his head and squared his shoulders in a half-hearted defensive gesture. ‘I just wanted to see my mate again,’ he offered, pathetically.
‘Your mate,’ Modesty railed, ‘will be prepared for viewing at the appropriate time and, if you cared about him at all, you’d respect that. No one,’ she carried on, incensed, ‘absolutely no one goes in that room. Now get out of here. Get right out of the building.’
Mickey Bigg began to do as Modesty had ordered but then stopped. He turned slowly to face her. ‘ ‘Ere.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I know you.’
It was Modesty’s turn to feel defensive. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re the gel with the ‘aunted crisps, ain’t you? You’re mates with that poncey little runt Oscar.’
Modesty could feel her hackles rising. ‘Just get out!’ she repeated. ‘Or I’ll call my father.’
‘Yeah, well...’ Mickey Bigg gave a cocky shrug and tried to look threatening. ‘You just tell that little Tossca that we know ‘e’s back an’ I’m on to ‘im - orright!’
Modesty was shaking with a mixture of rage and uncertainty as she watched him walk back along the corridor and then heard the front door close. What did he mean, he was on to Oz? And that time in the park, he’d said that he knew who Oz was. Everyone knew who Oz was, didn’t they? It was no secret - he was Oscar Appleby, son of Laura Appleby; end of story. Perhaps, Modesty reasoned, Oz had done something to upset Mickey Bigg at some stage - but what on earth could be so bad that he still wanted revenge four years down the line?
She was still pondering the episode when she took the tray of tea back into the arrangement room. As she set down the tray on the coffee table, Mortimer de Mise was mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. He sighed deeply and spoke with an air of resignation.
‘So may I ask what you would like to happen to Mr Finlayter’s personal effects? Would you like them removed or would you like them to remain on him?’
Opal Finlayter flapped a hand towards Mortimer. ‘Aw - they might as well stay on ‘im.’
Archie Bigg flopped back on the settee in exasperation but Harley Spinks leaned forward and addressed the widow directly. She wore an expression like an injured pit bull terrier.
�
��But, Opal, don’t you think it would be nice if you ‘ad somefink to remember ‘im by. You know, personal stuff - like the stuff what was on ‘im when ‘e snuffed it. For sentimental value an’ that.’
Opal raised her heavy false eyelashes and gave Harley another look that would have stopped stampeding cattle in their tracks. ‘Darlin’, you wouldn’t know sentimental value if they bagged it up and put it on special offer at Kwik Save.’
Modesty poured out the tea and took her seat at the back of the room. It was going to be a long session.
At dinner that evening, Modesty watched her mother cut the lasagne she’d baked into four equal portions and carefully lift one quarter on to the plates of her husband, younger daughter and herself. She placed the last piece into a foil container and put it to one side.
‘You sure I can’t tempt you, Modesty, love?’
‘Quite sure.’ Modesty scraped the contents of her microwaved vegetable pasta bake on to her own plate.
Deirdre sighed. ‘It’s so untidy when only three people eat a meal.’
‘Untidy?’ Modesty queried, moving the pieces of courgette and aubergine around her plate, then added, ‘This is organic, isn’t it?’
‘What your mother means is that if you’d eat normal food, we could finish off every dish at one meal - instead of which, the freezer is full of single portions,’ Mortimer interjected.
Modesty looked from one parent to the other and wondered why her mother allowed her father to speak for her. ‘No big deal - you just have a pot luck meal. You know, where everyone chooses their own food out of the freezer. Then the food gets eaten and, Mum, you get some time off,’ Modesty suggested. ‘Anyway, you still haven’t told me if this is organic.’
‘It was on special offer,’ Deirdre explained.
‘But is it organic?’
Mortimer sighed, obviously irritated. ‘Have you any idea how much organic food costs?’
Modesty put down her fork. ‘And have you any idea how many chemicals are used on non-organic food?’
‘Enough!’ Mortimer banged his hand down on the table.
Grace leapt to her feet. ‘Oh great! It’s like happy hour at the funny farm. I’m going to take mine through and watch telly.’
‘Sit down!’ Mortimer ordered. ‘We eat as a family in this household and the word is television, not telly.’ Grace sat back down sulkily. ‘Jeez! It would be more fun living with the Addams Family. I can’t wait till you two go away.’
Mortimer raised his eyebrows and adopted a condescending tone. ‘Well, don’t think you’re going to be running loose all weekend, young lady. Emlyn will be accompanying your mother and myself to the conference, so I’ve arranged for Glenys and Cerys to come and stay here for the weekend.’
Modesty was annoyed. She’d known for some time that her parents were due to attend the morticians’ annual conference that coming weekend but, at fifteen and almost fourteen, she’d assumed that she and Grace would be trusted to look after themselves.
Nice as it was that Cerys would be sleeping over, her mother, Glenys, was about as much fun as a trip through Death Valley sitting on a bed of nails pulled by a three-legged tortoise. In a contest between an evening with Glenys and having a tooth extracted without anaesthetic, Modesty would have opted for the dental experience every time. And she thought it no coincidence that ever since Glenys had become a volunteer with a local crisis helpline, the suicide rate had risen by almost ten per cent. It was a great source of amazement to Modesty that Emlyn and Cerys managed to remain so positive with Glenys in the house, and the thought of spending the weekend with her was enough to make her momentarily contemplate asking if she could accompany her parents to the conference - but only momentarily!
‘Why? Don’t you trust us?’ she challenged.
‘It’s not a question of trust...’ her father began.
‘Oh, really? Well, how would you describe it?’
Mortimer pursed his lips. ‘Glenys is coming over on Saturday morning and that’s final. I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject. Now, let’s have our dinner with some semblance of family unity, shall we?’ Without further ado, he turned to his wife. ‘So, how was the young King girl?’
‘What do you think we’re going to get up to - wild parties or something?’
Deirdre cut her lasagne into tiny pieces then, ignoring Modesty, responded to her husband. ‘Bearing up very well, under the circumstances - poor mite. Her mother died two years ago, you know.’
Modesty picked up her dessert spoon and looked into it as though she were checking her appearance. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I do have a reflection, unless my powers of invisibility only work on other people.’
Still ignoring her, Mortimer’s brows knitted as he thought about his wife’s comment. ‘Did we conduct her mother’s funeral?’
Deirdre shook her head. ‘No, dear - Peggitt’s in the High Street.’
Mortimer gave a triumphant smile. ‘Bartholomew Peggitt! No wonder she’s come to us this time - the scoundrel.’
‘Er - hello!’ Modesty could not believe that she had been dismissed. ‘And that’s it, is it?’ She was not going to be fobbed off. ‘Things start to get uncomfortable, so let’s just change the subject?’
‘I don’t boil my cabbages twice,’ Mortimer said sharply, then returned to the conversation with his wife. ‘So, does she have a preferred date for the funeral?’
Modesty looked bemused. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Grace snorted, without raising her eyes from her plate. ‘He couldn’t even boil an egg once, let alone a cabbage twice.’
Exasperated, Mortimer addressed his daughters. ‘It means I do not repeat myself. Now let that be an end to it - your mother and I were discussing business.’
‘Next Monday,’ Deirdre replied, as though the interruption had not taken place.
Mortimer looked at her, perturbed. ‘The Finlayter cremation is on Monday. What time did you arrange?’
Deirdre bit her bottom lip nervously. ‘It wasn’t down in the book, Mortimer. Everything was clear after Mrs Appleby’s on Friday. I’m sorry - it’s a burial at four o’clock but I’m sure Miss King would be willing to change if it’s not convenient.’
Mortimer was obviously annoyed, and Modesty suspected that it was more to do with the fact that he had no one to blame for the mix-up except himself. ‘No matter; Mr Finlayter is in the morning, so we can manage both.’
The rest of the meal was conducted in silence.
When they had all finished, Deirdre began clearing the table and Mortimer opened the evening paper. Modesty pulled on her mother’s rubber gloves. She was still annoyed at the arrangements that had been made for the weekend without any consultation with herself or Grace. As she began washing up, she wondered if Cerys had had any input into the decision.
‘I’m going to pop across to see Cerys later, OK?’ It was a statement rather than a request for permission.
The entrance to the cemetery was in the style of a wide bay with an ornate gateway in the centre and a house at either side. Originally they had been gatekeepers’ houses but, as the cemetery had expanded, they had been sold off. Modesty’s great- grandfather, Jean-Baptiste de Mise, a Frenchman with an eye for a good investment, had bought them both. He had used the larger of the two to adapt his family’s profession to the English ways and rented out the other to his employees. Nowadays Emlyn, Glenys and Cerys were the occupants.
Her father stared at her suspiciously. ‘You’re going to see that boy, aren’t you?’
Modesty pulled off the gloves and threw them down on the draining board. ‘No, but so what if I was?’
‘I knew it!’ Mortimer folded up the paper and rose to his feet. ‘I will not tolerate this, Modesty. I demand that you end this relationship immediately!’
Modesty h
eld out her hands in amazement. ‘Relationship? There is no relationship!’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, I see - that’s what this weekend is about, isn’t it? It’s not enough that Glenys lives less than thirty metres away and sits in her bay window like a human CCTV camera, you want her actually installed in here like a gaoler because you don’t trust me. I’ve thought you were losing it before, Dad, but you are seriously unhinged on this one! I am going to see Cerys and you are just going to have to trust me,’ she said, in a tone that defied contradiction. ‘Because,’ she warned, ‘if you so much as set one foot on that forecourt to come checking up on me, I will be so angry!’
Once she was downstairs she felt relief flood over her but then, no sooner had she closed the front door behind her, than she felt the mobile in her pocket begin to vibrate. Expecting it to be Cerys, she pressed OK without looking at the number, little knowing that the call was going to test her integrity to the utmost.
‘Hi, Moddy - it’s Oz. Something weird’s going on. Can we meet?’
Six
Modesty continued walking without speaking.
‘Moddy - you there?’
‘Yes,’ she said, turning to look back at the house.
‘Look, if it’s awkward...’
‘It’s fine - I’m just thinking.’ She glanced up to the first floor and caught a glimpse of the sitting-room curtains twitch shut. Bummer! She’d just assured her parents that she wasn’t going to see Oz and now here he was asking her to break her word. Although, she reasoned, at the time she’d told her parents that she wasn’t seeing Oz, she’d genuinely had no intention of meeting him, so if she agreed to see him now, it wouldn’t really be breaking her word, it would simply be changed circumstances - wouldn’t it?
‘OK,’ she agreed.
The relief in Oz’s voice was almost tangible. ‘Shall I come round?’
‘No!’ Modesty said quickly. ‘Do you know where the circus is on Wanstead Flats? I’ll meet you by the ticket office in half an hour.’
