A Trick I Learned From Dead Men
Page 9
Yesterday we had tortilla wraps for lunch. Derek said he’d never had a meat wrap. I got him grilled chicken, I had smokey barbecue. Derek can get philosophical when he’s eating. Life and death, it’s all the same, he says. Sometimes I forget which side I’m on, he says. I didn’t comment. I know what he means.
I get a rabbit. Olé. Beginner’s luck. I saw it under the fence, half in shadow. I aim, thinking, might as well. I steady my arm against the tree, hold my breath. Frankly, I don’t expect to hit it. Take my time, reckon it will run. Next thing it’s limp, blood on the grass. Clean kill. Nice one. I carry it home. A big buck, heavy. Skull knocks against my knee. Have to swap arms twice. When I get home it is still warm and sticky with blood.
Stew. Rabbit. Nice. I sign Ned.
He strokes the fur, examines the feet.
No, he signs. Slams the bouncy door on his way out. It quivers open.
Knob. He’d eat it if he was hungry.
I reckoned Ned would help. I’m disappointed. It’s on eHow: how to skin a rabbit. It would’ve been good. The brothers Hart and their rabbit dish. There are those who would put it on YouTube. We could’ve. Why not?
I lay it in the freezer in its fur. Its dark eye stares up, surprised. I close the lid.
Reckon our luck will change any minute. Stands to reason. Nothing stays the same, so. I tidy up, put the tea on. Shepherd’s pie, my own recipe, à la baked beans. I would have quite fancied being a shepherd. Wrong area, no sheep. If the farms were still going Ned would have found something by now, the last one was sold off in sections last year and ours went aeons before that. City knobs building weekend homes. Architects in leather coats arriving in wide cars, asking if the pub does decent food. Someone is converting the old barn, paddocks they want, for llamas.
Outside Ned goes up and down on the trampoline. He makes a different shape in mid-air each time. You wonder what the birds think.
The lady rings from the JobCentre to tell us Ned has an interview. A great opportunity, she calls it. Tasty, it sounds. Less than twenty miles away; a fifteen-minute train journey and a short bus ride.
But no.
No way, Gog. No can do. No way, he signs.
He won’t even go for the interview. They will get him some counselling, they say, but he’s far down the list as he’s not an emergency, they say.
Gracias. He is to me.
*
LET’S TO THE pub, Lethal. Perchance to drink a half. The night is young. The ale beckoneth. I wear my new jeans and Lacostes. Chilly evening but there is winter sun on the fields, shadows closing, slow birds making last-minute loops. I walk past my old school. Buenos tardes. Never taught me nothing here. Zero. Not even Spanish. Had to buy a CD for that. I give it the finger. Everyone speaks that one.
Usuals, as per. Someone has placed a sombrero on the bear’s head. The bespattered painters and decorators are at the bar. Raven is pigeon-toed in his tight black jeans and leather jacket.
Good evetide, maestro. How goes it? He has notes in his wallet, a few twenties. He is a happy swag. We sit beside the roaring bear, as per.
Cheers, then. Rave’s glass meets mine. His leather creaks.
To all who sail.
Me and him lean back, partake of, enjoy. We are in pensive mode, as befits.
I notice Rave’s jacket is a size too small, it prevents him raising his glass all the way up to his lips, he has to dip like a bird. His hair is ink-black, combed into five stiff cones. Still got his vanity. A whiff of hairspray makes me cough. Rave inspects his beer.
Did you know that yeast has got its own genetic code? he says. They say more than likely it’s been put on earth by highly evolved alien life forms for investigative purposes. True fact, Lee.
I nod. Yeah? Cool. How’s work?
Bedlam.
Bedlam is not a word I’ve heard him use before.
We are ants, Lee. Mere ants. Living on a giant anthill. The ultimate experiment.
Seems that way sometimes, I say.
That’s because it’s a fact. Think about it. An ant doesn’t know he’s an ant, does he? Rave creaks as he leans back. He raises his eyebrows.
Reckon I might travel, I say.
Set sail pronto, shipmate. Save a berth for me, he says. Cheers.
I’m not sure Raven has ever been abroad. We had a plan four years ago to drive across America. We had a route. We started saving. I was at Viking Direct in those days on the Brimsdown Estate. We had T-shirts printed, Rave & Lee Coast 2 Coast – Are you ready USA? It wasn’t meant to rhyme. Rave’s mum got them done at Snappy Snaps. I’ve never worn mine, it’s the thought that counts. We still haven’t finalised a date yet but it won’t be this year.
Australia has been on my mind, I say.
The water goes down the wrong way, says Rave.
Reckon I could do well there. Bigger place, I say, fewer people, speak the lingo.
G’day, mate, says Rave.
But. Can’t see Ned adapting.
Gud onya, Lethal. Might join you.
We sup our beer.
I don’t answer.
I see my funeral cortège in a dream, making its way up Rowntree Road. Halting the traffic, causing obstruction. Policemen line the road. Leading the mourners are Lorelle and Caitlin, arm in arm, dressed to the nines. They seem equally distraught, fifty-fifty. Don’t cry, I want to say. C’est la vie. Do not dwell. Buonasera señoritas. I cannot tell if Caitlin is wearing a leotard.
17
Drier, clearer, with more moderate winds, which will ease later on
IT’S DIFFERENT WHEN it’s one of your own, it would be. A blustery day. The sun dazzles when the clouds part, making us squint. Derek and his bearers have Lester on their shoulders. Derek looks the job in his finery, scrubs up well, always did. Coffin looks a treat, considering, handles glinting in the sunshine. From here you would never guess they are plastic rather than actual brass.
Organ music. I didn’t order that, it just comes with. A bit like a car alarm going off, you have to wait till it’s over. We follow on. I have never seen Ned in a suit. I loaned him one of mine, too big of course. His hair is wet-combed, centre parting. He looks like one of those homeless kids in the ads, Please help … His head twists left and right, taking it all in. Derek and his bearers step slow, steady on the red carpet. Lester glides aloft on the shoulders of working men. A decent send-off. He couldn’t complain.
He is laid on the catafalque. The bearers step back. A pause. The bearers bow to the coffin. They straighten up. Precise. Clockwork. They depart, eyes down, hands clasped. Short of a six-gun salute Lester could not have had it more dignified.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.
The vicar is a small man with a big voice. He does most of ours. Derek reckons he could have gone on the stage had he not been called by God.
He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
We do not sing a hymn. There’s only three of us, including Lester’s half-sister from Braintree, who we’ve never met. They suggested a CD. I said no. I don’t reckon it’s fair to Ned. We have a minute’s silence instead.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
Three voices mumble. Ned stares at the coffin.
The vicar steps forward, spreads his arms. I am seized by an image of Les singing What’s New Pussycat?
Let us commend Lester John Palmer to the mercy of God, our Maker and Redeemer.
Ned sniffs, gasps. I am surprised. I place my hand on his shoulder. Leave your hand too long you have intruded, too short and it is offhand. A relative should feel secure, unhurried. Remember, Lee, you are not Dracula.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Same old. In the sure and certain hope, or uncertain hopeless sure-enough. We are miracle workers, Lee. Nobody cares if God is infinite or indefinite. Fetch me a magic wand.
*
I DO NOT have a problem being chef in this house. Ned always cleans his plate, which I take as a compliment. There are many decent cider recipes, not all of them pork. I am considering getting up earlier and having me another rabbit. Two in the pot will make enough casserole to freeze. If you’re an early riser, you don’t need a ferret. I have seen them evenings near the woods. Those very same bandoleros will likewise be around at dawn. Buenos noches, amigos.
It’s all about mindset. We don’t do innards at work – I was unprepared. I can prep a bunny if I’m in the right frame of mind. Second time around, third time lucky. A decent saving on meat. No probs. I shall merely step out at dawn with my weapon and my narrow eye. Hasta la vista, baby.
Sky is heavy, wind in the trees. I slam the door by way of letting Ned know I am not in. They say no two skies are ever the same. Same goes for a snowflake or a prang on the dual carriageway. A shame then to waste this sky. I pause at the mast. A smell of metal in the air.
I check the lane. People don’t walk this route these days. I keep an eye out nevertheless. Two people questioned, apparently, no one arrested. Can’t be too careful. Stalkers, chasers. I’m ready. If I had the .22 I’d give him a scare, nick him in the leg, the arm. That’s a warning for you, my friend.
18
Early rain and brisk winds will ease quickly and move eastwards later on
IT’S FUNNY WHAT you get used to. I would not have touched a Healthy Options Prawn Salad the first month I worked here and now I look forward to it.
I have hoovered both Relatives Rooms. I start on Chapel 1. We’re not allowed to hoover if a coffined client is waiting to be viewed, though it’s OK to dust. Even when empty it feels all wrong to hoover the chapels, not that they’re especially holy, what with the Axminster tufted and the air chillers on. I can’t put my finger on it. The dead deserve some peace and quiet. Important to respect their needs, it’s not like they want much. Dead men need no one and nothing. Fair play to them, we could all take a tip. I learned it off them: need nothing, be patient.
Lorelle pops by at lunchtime. I make a dash for the loo: hair, breath, spinach.
All right, Lee?
Well, hello. Wasn’t expecting you.
I can’t stop. Just dropping the ones for the four o’clock.
You can’t resist my tea, though. Don’t try to fight it, I say, suddenly inspired.
She rolls her eyes.
I like it when Lorelle leans against the wall while I brew up in the office, like we’re in our own kitchen. We’re not, of course. Irene is there frowning at her screen, mouthing words. She pretends not to listen but she does. I want to mention my poem but something stops me.
Ever been to Turkey? Lorelle asks.
Not Turkey, no, I say.
Nor me, she says. I quite fancy it.
Turkey’s nice, says Irene, without looking up from her screen.
A moment. Me and Lorelle look at each other. I stir the teas. Lorelle smiles when I pass hers. I always offer the handle. I burn myself but I careth not.
I went to Paris on the train, May Bank Holiday, two years ago, Lorelle says.
Irene starts to hum. Not a tune, just arbitrary notes, any old. Just to cover up that she’s listening. Impossible to be yourself when someone’s having a nose. Especially when they’re pretending not to. Especially when you’re making the moves on a drop-dead gorgeous florist. I try to relax. I lean on Howard’s empty desk.
Ever had artichoke hearts? I ask. I speak casual, at a level I hope Irene won’t hear.
Lorelle blinks. What?
I would definitely recommend that particular dish if you are ever in the vicinity of Il Terrazzo, I say.
Derek spins in.
There you are! I’ll be burying myself at this rate. What the eff are you doing? Pardon my French, Lauren.
I collect the cups. Derek never remembers Lorelle’s name. Irene hums three loud notes and turns the printer on.
One of these days I will hold open the door of the van and lean in to kiss Lorelle as she clicks on her seat belt. On the nose, on the cheek. Nothing too forward. Circling my prey. But not today. I am waylaid again by Derek who, as it turns out, only wants to mention that the rocket leaves in his ciabatta taste like pissed-on dandelions. The delay means that Lorelle has already slammed the door before I get there. Timing. Spoilt opportunity, but. I’m a great believer in fate. Fate will find a way. I wave to the back of the van as it disappears up Seddlescombe Road.
*
I BOIL UP for the teas and coffees, arrange the mugs on the tray. Some people expect us to be religious here. We can be if required, it’s not a problem, we have crucifixes at the ready. Many of our deceased clients wear a religious symbol in their coffin, even if they didn’t in life.
Relatives like a little bit of something godly when they’re on the premises. Almost everyone wants prayers and Bible readings at the funeral service, as befits. I saw a family member cross himself with his mobile phone last week. God is in the modern world, moving mysteriously. He is probably on YouTube.
All denominations and believers are welcome here, even if we do not partake ourselves. Saying that, Mikey has leanings. He believes in God but he doesn’t go to church. There’s someone watching over us, he says, but he can’t be more specific than that.
Irene is the most religious here, even though she writes a stern letter when a payment is late. She goes to church Christmas, Lent and Easter. She will always lend you a fiver but she wants it back.
Howard is on the fence. He likes Christianity, the hymns, the palaver, but. He can’t say if there’s a God or not and he won’t be drawn. He said he admires Sufis. That shut us up. Derek does not believe. He says he did as a boy but the Royal Navy put paid to it. He may have drifted back to the fold, he says, but working with the deceased has warped his point of view. For me I would like to think there is a God, but it doesn’t look good from here. We don’t get bogged down, to be honest. We deal with the here and now. Paperwork, paperwork. We have to get them in their coffins, get them sorted, checked, checked again. Me and Derek need the odd little joke to get us through the day. Caution is the byword, mind you. Derek always says that. Once your reputation’s gone in this game, you’re dead, he says. Always the joker, but keep it behind closed doors. A good rep is important around the living but it’s one hundred per cent critical around the deceased.
19
A fine day, sunny at first with light showers developing in the south-west
HE COMES OUT of thin air. He loves it when I flinch. He lets out one of his giant elf laughs. I hear him breathing, thinking. I hear him moving, beads raining. He rests on the table, tipping it, blowing through his mouth, calculating my reaction. He smells of popcorn and BO. The hairs on his legs look blond under the desk lamp. Where Ned’s overall blondness went I cannot say, lost in the past with whatever it was we used to be.
He is semi-dressed, my clothes mainly. Upside-down words are written in black pen on his arm. He knocks my paperwork to the floor: electric bill, BT, estate agent correspondence. His hands sign.
Gog. Very bad headache. Bad. Bad. Medicine now.
He peers sleepily through his hair. How come his skin looks good when he barely washes?
He does this, interrupts. What he needs. More important, always was.
I don’t sign, I speak.
Hold your horses.
Ow, he signs again. Ow me. Head. Bad, bad.
Doing it, aren’t I? I shout. I sound upset.
Ow! Ow! Ow! He pulls my arm.
I close my eyes. Drives you round. Literally drives you.
Keep your hair on, I tell him.
He gasps. He thumps me on the shoulder. I turn to look at him. What in fuck’s name? I shove him in the chest. He runs to shove me back but I move first. I push him all the way till we hit the wall together. I leave him there.
We stand and watch while they skitter in all directions, hundreds of them running for freedom. As the last one settles I lob the empty bottle into the air, a final gesture, pointless. I giveth not. It bounces off the draining board, lands in the washing-up bowl. Olé, arsehole. Ned watches with suspicious interest, like when he’s watching Sky News. One or two tablets are crushed under my shoes as I go. I slam the door the way she used to; it bounces open behind me.
He never heard a single door she ever slammed, I heard every one. Some things he will never know. I leave him there surrounded by enough cut-price aspirin to top himself before tea if he’s lucky, do us all a favour. Buenos noches, Knobflap.
I fetch my key. I let the back door slam. He will feel it. I am making a point. He knows full well where the aspirin is, how to switch on the hot water immersion, but he won’t do it.
Lee does it three hundred and sixty-five, no time off for good behaviour. But Ned is the genius, the superstar. Why doesn’t he do it? Why me? No point carping. C’est la vie, Lee. No one hears. No one answers. I hear enough for two. No big deal, just outlining the facts.
*
I’VE STARTED TO read Lorelle like a book. Body language. Say what you like but your body says it better. Bodies tell the truth. As a matter of fact, due to this knowledge, I know I’m in with a chance. Result.
The giveaways are (1) Neck and throat exposure and (2) Hair-swinging. If she touches her hair, neck or throat you’re done and dusted. Game on. Which is how I know I’m on the grid. I know what you’re thinking, but. There is nothing Lorelle could deduce from my body language that would give her a clue as to how I feel. The reason being that I am body-aware. For example, I adopt a neutral stance: feet apart, hands in pockets, noncommittal eye contact. I don’t move a muscle, I do not touch my hair. I look ahead, give nothing away. Granted, I smile, but I keep it short and sweet. Women don’t like to see a man expressing himself, it puts them off. If you want to get their attention, stealth is the word.