Mrs Death Misses Death

by Salena Godden

  The Life and Times of Mrs Death

  The Times of Death

  The Lives of Death

  Mrs Death Misses Death

  Mrs Death Misses Death

  Mrs Death Misses Death

  I get up and pace the room, holding the first page, reading my title aloud over and over and over again, then read this, my first paragraph on my opening page:

  Mrs Death Misses Death: This is about you and me and us. This is her story, the story, the story of the life and the time of the death of us. This is the life of life and the time of time. For what a time it is and what a time it was and what a time it will be. The Dance of Time and Life and Death, the hours and the breath, the sky and space. The last big sleep. All your fears are here, all your fears are inside here.

  I tap at my head and temples and read and repeat this several times:

  All your fears are here, inside here.

  I beat at my heart and chest bone:

  All your fears are here, in here, in here, in here . . .

  I spin and dance and sing . . .

  All your fears are here

  Inside here.

  I drink down my wine, pour another glass, and pace and continue the list, The Desk has filled my fingers, poured ideas into my heart and head and hands:

  Mrs Death and . . .

  Mrs Death and the quiet death

  The tragic death

  The celebrity death

  The accidental death

  The gentle death

  The violent death

  The death of the secret

  The death of the idea

  The death of the demagogue

  Mrs Death and her lover

  Mrs Death in the school

  Mrs Death in the prison

  Mrs Death in the office

  Mrs Death in the theatre

  Mrs Death in the disco

  Mrs Death punches cancer in the face

  Mrs Death and the death of the then

  The death of never

  The first time I saw death

  The last time I saw death

  The next time I meet death

  The death of time

  The invention of death

  The first death

  The last death

  What a life Mrs Death must have lived, and what deaths she was dealt. And what a time Mrs Death lives, and what a story this will be.

  Wolf’s Nightmare: The Red Tower

  Spain, 1488

  I am in the Red Tower / I am searching / looking for someone / I ask where is my boy? / a voice replies / now you remember? / remember how you betrayed him / how you betrayed them all / you gave them up for gold / you watched as they bashed their heads with rocks / their bloody skulls caved in / they were gutted like fish / fed to gulls / thrown to smash / crash against the red rock / red stones stained red / beneath the red tower / all the boys / all dead / all the dead boys / now dead / red / bloody dead / the great red fortress towers tall above the cliff / the red dead red / the red stone / the ripped flesh / drenched in sun / red with blood / sunlight all washed red / so much red under a bloody red sky / all these young boys dead at the feet of the stone castle walls / stained with red rivers of blood / bloody bloody blood / it rained / it poured / the sea below was red / those poor boys / all slaughtered / butchered / how brave / they fought / look in the courtyard / how the well was filled with more bloody bodies / bones and ruin / that well will never be clean again / the water always stained / the rats not ever hungry here / crow and raven flew / all black beak crammed with red eyeball / red kidney / see that red heart eaten by wolves / do you remember now? / the wolves’ teeth all red with blood? / the dogs? / the bloodied heads on spikes / oh yes / I see it in your face / you remember it now / remember / that is where he fell / there / upon those rocks / oh shame oh shame oh shame / in God’s name / shame / I loved that boy / I see him now / a brown face / wild haired / trusting me / me of all people / me of all the devils / me and my holy father and spirit / my church and king / and him with his soft song from far away / he knew nothing / it was forbidden / love / and I cry now / remembering him / I know I wronged him / I used him up / I had him for myself / then I gave him up for gold / I am sorry now / that’s a truth / they took him / I stood silent / I kissed my gold crucifix / in the name of the father and the son and the holy spirit / they took him / dragged him kicking and screaming / they killed him slowly / that’s for sure / I see his face now in my mind / I feel a guilt that lasts eternity / and lust and shame and rush of want and sex / I don’t know / I never knew his family name / just that he came from another place / another God / delicious / forbidden fruit / I watched as they dragged him / ripped and tore and slit him open / smashed his bones / kicked his head / they caved it in / then threw him in pieces down upon the red bloodied rocks / I couldn’t speak / I was silent / I wouldn’t speak for fear the same would come of me / fear betraying my own self / fear betraying my own church / and king / how he haunts my dreams / haunts me here / I can never sleep / long may he rest in peace / sweet young boy / haunting me / and the castle washed red / with red sunset / and with blood / the ghosts in the well sing / no more no more no more / slaves sing / no more no more no more / the prisoners’ souls sing / no more no more no more / the sea salt beaten rocks cry / no more no more no more / I weep and they weep and we should all weep / no more no more no more / and the boy / the boy / my love / that boy / my love / no more no more no more.

  Oh to Be a Piano!

  Pssst . . . Shall I tell you a secret? I should have been a piano.

  I could have been the most elegant and faithful piano. I would’ve been a piano in a grand theatre played by only the greatest pianists. Ladies would faint at my beautiful notes and even men would swoon. I know I could have been a beautiful grand piano. Tuned and polished regularly and meticulously with beeswax and linseed oil. But you take what you can in this world and desk it was and so desk I am.

  I remember the tree that I once was. And my brother, I remember him, because he became a piano. Lucky. But I was cut and carved and polished and made into this shape, a desk shape. You cannot help the shape the world makes you be. Nobody gathers around a desk, but they gather around a piano. I should have been a piano. I would have made a lovely piano. I miss us when we were together. I never forgot our home. Our roots were in the forest, with the birds and the howling monkeys in our canopy of leaves. I remember how our boughs and branches filtered the sunlight dappling the forest floor.

  But that life ended and a new life began, all to the sound of chainsaws. To this day that sound makes me wince, sawing, the sound of sawing. I hate the sound of saws. I can only imagine it must be like a dentist drill to a human, imagine that, but like sawing through your legs and hammering nails into your knee caps and elbows. Exactly. Not very pleasant at all. Quite traumatic. I think I must have passed out, but when I was conscious again all I could smell was varnish and warmed leather and it was then I knew I was a shape other than tall tree. I was once outside and so long and tall and tree-shaped and then I was inside and made this rigid square desk shape. It took some adjustment. But you have to become who you are, you grow into your shape. You are the shape you are made. I could have been anything, but it was a desk that man and the world carved into me. The world does that, it looks at you and labels and boxes you, in my case quite literally. Box-shaped box.

  I learned very early on that unfortunately other furniture don’t know their purpose, not quite in the same way as me.

  Over the years I have tried to talk to other furniture but they don’t talk to me. Sturdy oak bookshelves stand silent, elegant maple dinner tables keep obedient; they just don’t speak my language. Most furniture is numb and silent. A coffee table made groaning noises once to me in the night, but it’s not quite the same, I mean it’s not a conversation, it’s not words, and words I know – I am a desk and I would, or should I say wood. Oh little joke, hahaha, excuse me. It is funny though, you know, most furniture does not know it has
tree soul, the beating heart of wood is always wood, they can cut and shave you, shape and chop you up; they can polish and varnish you, but they can’t change the soul of you, the age of you, the heart of you, the experience of you, your own born tree experience, they’ll never change that.

  And as for pianos, well, honestly, I have met many pianos now and most pianos forget their roots and become hollow boxes of strings. They are musical puppets, utterly unaware of their tree soul and the old language of leaves in the breeze. All I know is this, I would have made a beautiful piano and still kept in touch with my roots. We all come from the mud, we all come from earth, stop thinking you’re something you’re not or knot, hahaha, there I go again. I do wish I were a piano.

  I am a desk, not any desk, but the desk belonging solely to Mrs Death. She carved herself into me many years ago. I carry the memory of what has been written by her and what has come to pass, what has been dreamed and made upon my supple red leathery surface. What late-night letters she has scribbled, dreams dared, wishes made, what final demands have been delivered from here. What fictions have been weaved, plots hatched, confessions signed, deaths certified and ends met and warranted from here, from me, from this very desk.

  This is where the list is, and I mean the list of everyone, everyone coming and everyone going. Eggs hatching and dispatching. I have recorded every inky scratch of quill, the tap of her typewriter, the whisper of pencil and the slash of her fountain pen. Splashes of ink, wine and time. Now just put your ear here, Wolf, rest your head on my surface, you’ll hear all the ghosts of scribbling pens of dreams from before. Stroke your fingertips gently across my red skin, as though it is braille, you’ll be able to trace the hard-pressed writing from before.

  All of Mrs Death’s diaries and letters, her poems, her deepest thoughts that have sat at me and with me. I am made of her, I’m made with the life stories of Mrs Death, the signatures of other times and of the lives lived. Faint but true, every word written by her is here. I am the desk of Mrs Death. My beginning begins with her: to know her is to know her work and it begins with her writing. Hidden in the grains of my very fibre, it is indented in me. Mrs Death’s stories surround and fill me but I still hear the wind in the branches, feel the heat of the morning sun, as though I am still the tall young tree I once was. Lay your head here, Wolf Willeford, rest your curly head. Lay your ear to the desk, play me like a piano, play me, drum your fingers on me and play me, Wolf, and I’ll share with you all I know.

  Wolf: Conversations with Mrs Death

  Wolf records a conversation in the attic room above the Forest Tavern pub, present day

  [Int. Night time. Wolf’s room. Candlelight. One green lamp on the desk. One dictaphone set on record. An open laptop.

  Wolf sits at the newly acquired desk, a cheek pressed against its surface, listening. Entranced. A hand smooths the red leather surface. Fingers tap, tap, tap as though playing a piano. Wolf speaks.]

  Wolf:

  This is the desk, The Desk, that is owned by Mrs Death herself. This is The Desk where Mrs Death has written and dreamed. I whisper to The Desk, Oh, please tell me more. The Desk says, Wolf, write it all down. The Desk whispers back to me, Write down all I tell you, Wolf, write, write, write all day and write all night; all the stories are inside this wood grain, inside The Desk, inside here. It’s all inside here. I start typing.

  I have not been outside nor left the room since the desk was delivered three days ago. Or is it four? What day is it? I forget. Sometimes I hear Mrs Death herself. Sometimes. I think I am having a breakthrough. Am I hallucinating? Perhaps a little bit. Just a museum dose. Or was that a dream? Did you say that or think it? Can anyone hear me? It’s a silky pocket of time, the silk thread is a spider’s web, a sliver of space between universes, between here and there, dream and sleep. What is this life but a dream, what is a dream but a message from your subconscious mailbox. Now I see you, Mrs Death, I see how you echo and vibrate, how you change shape. Mrs Death, you are woman, you are human, you are animal, object, flame, energy, thought and suggestion.

  [Mrs Death begins to appear to Wolf, at first as a shimmering heat, a light that wavers and flickers like a mirage. Then slowly she becomes solid and fades up into the silhouette of a person.

  Now we see her. For now she looks like Billie Holiday. Beautiful Billie, in black and white, like a black and white movie, she flickers and jutters before being a clear image. Then Mrs Death is Billie Holiday in all her glory, a flower in her hair. Gardenia.

  Tell me, what was Billie’s last song?]

  Wolf:

  Tell me, what was Billie’s last song?

  [Mrs Death is silent. She smokes, drawing from an ivory cigarette holder, she fills the air with the smell of smoke and the perfume of gardenias. She is perched on the end of the desk, swinging her stockinged legs and pin-heel black stilettos. Wolf continues typing. Mrs Death watches, and then slowly peels an egg.]

  Mrs Death:

  Oh, look at you, Wolfie! My oh my! There you still are, sitting there, alone in your room for hours typing your stories about me. Where are you up to? Have you mentioned the space in-between yet?

  Wolf:

  Do you mean the space between universes, the space between dream and awake?

  Mrs Death:

  Yes and no and . . . well, I mean the space between death and life and dream and time. If you don’t mention the space in-between and the silence before and the space under the ever after, people won’t understand this story . . . You cannot very well write the life story of Mrs Death without it, can you? It’s all about what we don’t say, Wolfie, remember that.

  Wolf:

  The space between death and life and dream and time . . . OK . . . got it.

  Mrs Death:

  You know what I think?

  Wolf:

  What?

  Mrs Death:

  You should just give up.

  Wolf:

  Give up?

  Mrs Death:

  Give up! Lie down. Close your eyes. Go to sleep. Quit while you’re ahead. You need to grasp the basics of the space in-between, soul bendation, heart collaboration. You cannot very well write the life story of DEATH if you don’t even know about these basic things . . .

  Have you got any spaghetti seeds?

  Wolf:

  Give up?

  Soul bendation? Heart collaboration? What?

  Listen, I won’t give up. I am going to write this book whether you like it or not, Mrs Death, it’s up to me and The Desk, The Desk knows what we must write. Me and The Desk are working closely here . . .

  [Wolf leans forwards again, cheek on the desk, listening for voices, listening for stories, fingers tapping the desk surface gently, tap, tap, tap.]

  Mrs Death:

  Wolfie! Have you got any spaghetti seeds?

  Wolf:

  Spaghetti seeds?

  Mrs Death:

  You forgot to plant spaghetti seeds! I’m hungry! What are we doing for lunch? We need to grow some spaghetti! Wolfie, what is wrong with you? . . . Wolfie, what are you writing about now?

  Wolf:

  I am writing about . . . I am typing up everything you say to me, Mrs Death . . . I am waiting for you to give me another story like Tilly Tuppence. I am typing everything you say . . . Spaghetti seeds! What is wrong with you?

  Mrs Death:

  Really? Are you typing this?

  Wolf:

  Yep. I just typed: Really? Are you typing this?

  Mrs Death:

  Well, what do you want to know?

  Wolf:

  Well, what do you want to know?

  What do you mean, What do you want to know? Mrs Death, I want to know you. I want to know everything about Death and you, Mrs Death, at least everything you want me to know so I can write about you. I must admit I haven’t ghost-written a book before. Ha, that’s funny, I’m ghost-writing a book for Mrs Death, I’ll use that later . . . note to self.

  Anyway, I think this is more a case of
what you want to tell me about you, what you want to share about your um . . . life . . . What is your process? Do you have a process? Is there a system? How do you decide who lives and who dies? How does it feel to be you? When did you start being Death? Why are you ‘Mrs’? Have you been married? Who does Death love? Give me a scoop, tell me a secret, have you got any love interests right now? When did you get inside this desk? I dunno, I have a million questions . . . Let’s start somewhere easy . . .

  Question one: Mrs Death, do dead people go to their own funerals?

  Mrs Death:

  [Mrs Death slowly peels another smelly boiled egg.]

  Oh no! I hate funerals. Are you going to write about funerals? Urghhhh!

  You ask me: Do dead people go to their own funerals? Of course they do, but not in the way you’re thinking, not how it is in the movies. They don’t stand at the back, invisible, smiling and waiting for living people to say nice things about them. They don’t stand in the wake watching who is scoffing the egg sandwiches and who is grabbing after their money in the will or who is making advances on their widow. They don’t really care who is at the graveside or not. The dead have no interest in shit poems about how sad the living are when they die. If they did, there would be an uproar! Shit eulogies! What is it the living always say at funerals? He had a good innings! What does that even mean? Innings?

  Funerals are mostly for the living and not the dead. Funerals are ritual and letting go and saying goodbye. Dead people are at their funerals in spirit, in connection, in the shape of love. And no, they don’t care if the stale egg sandwiches are served on paper plates and not the good china. They don’t care if you cannot afford a nice new black suit. They don’t care if you cannot cry. Mostly they want to be remembered in your heart, they want to be remembered how they lived and not how they died. Wolf, are you writing a book about funerals? Are you sure anyone would want to read that? Bit dreary, don’t you think? A book of funerals. That’s a bit bleak, isn’t it? Which funerals will you write about? The funeral of the People’s Princess and the pauper’s funeral? I mean, picture me now: I’m in a bookshop in 2025.