Grave Concerns

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Oh?’ Drew’s interest blossomed. ‘What do you think that means?’

  ‘Well, from what we can glean – and Willard does know people out there – that stupid girl had been going round talking to the local women, encouraging them to fight for their rights. One of them was a young student of English, so she understood more than the others. She went home all fired up, and her father saw red. He happened to be one of the most reactionary chaps around. It sent shockwaves through Cairo. They like to think of themselves as pretty progressive compared to places like Algeria and Saudi.’

  The account she had given was more or less consistent with that of Karl Habergas, Drew noted.

  Stephanie began to bang her heels on the lower strut of her buggy, a sure sign of restlessness. ‘I’ll have to go,’ Drew decided. ‘If that’s all you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Expect a visit from Trevor,’ she said. ‘He might be just the person you need to complete your investigation.’

  He swallowed the How? and Why? questions. He thought he understood this woman better now. A lively mind trapped in an almost immobile body, with little to do all day but weave links between unlikely people. She must have thought she’d gone to heaven when Drew called on her looking for Gwen Absolon. Yet he strongly suspected that she knew nothing about what had in fact befallen Gwen once she left her bedsitter for the last time. She was getting there, slowly, perhaps, as Drew was himself. His competitive streak quivered at the prospect of a race to the finishing post.

  ‘Well, it’s been very interesting,’ he said neutrally, getting up to go. The prospect of a rival excited him, as he was sure it excited her.

  Maggs was obviously annoyed when he found her in the office. ‘You’re never here,’ she complained. ‘This is getting ridiculous. The phone’s been red-hot all morning, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.’

  Drew took a deep breath. ‘OK, I’m here now. I’ll try not to go away again today. Who phoned?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ she muttered, flicking a hand at the notepad on the desk. A neat list had been made on it. 1. Mrs Slater. 2. Mrs Hankey. 3. Daphne Plant. 4. Mrs Slater. 5. Fiona.

  ‘Daphne Plant?’ he queried in surprise. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She didn’t say exactly. My guess is she’s heard you’re officiating at the funeral tomorrow and she wants to know what’s going on.’

  ‘The Garnstone undertaker must have told her. You can’t keep anything secret in this business. Still – maybe that’s good. It might lead to more work.’

  Maggs gave an explosively mocking laugh. ‘You’re joking!’ she said. ‘Daphne’s not going to recommend you, is she?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. It’s no skin off her nose. It’s not the same thing as doing burials, taking business away from her. Officiating’s something different altogether.’

  ‘She doesn’t like you, Drew,’ Maggs told him grimly. ‘Hasn’t that got through to you yet? You’ve rocked her boat too many times. Before you came along, her life was a lot easier.’

  ‘She was spoilt,’ he said obstinately. ‘I’m not doing her any harm. If she’s giving people what they want, she’ll get plenty of business, whatever I might do.’

  ‘Mrs Slater phoned,’ she reminded him. ‘Twice.’

  ‘So I see,’ he said, hoping he sounded casual. ‘She didn’t leave any message?’

  ‘Just that she’d like you to call her. Mrs Hankey the same. Fiona wants the account for the burial asap. I told her we’d post it today.’

  ‘You can do that. We told her four fifty, didn’t we?’

  ‘Does that include a tree? She said she thought a tree would be nice.’

  ‘Did she?’ Drew was pleased. ‘We could do something for another twenty. That’s still a lot less than she’d have had to pay for a cremation.’

  ‘And you wonder why Daphne’s miffed with you! You know she makes at least a hundred quid profit, even on the contract funerals?’

  Drew gave her a sceptical look. ‘Where d’you get that from?’

  ‘Work it out yourself. Seeing that there’s at least – what? – eight or nine a year, you’d be doing her out of something like a thousand a year. That’s not far off the total phone bill, just to give a for instance.’

  ‘Maggs, you’re a marvel,’ Drew said. ‘A brain like a computer.’

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ she said impatiently. ‘Other people just don’t make the effort.’

  ‘Before I forget – did you see young Stuart over the weekend?’

  She frowned and shook her head. ‘No I didn’t. I was with Auntie Sharon.’

  ‘Both days?’

  She nodded and put up a hand to forestall further questions. ‘Phone the Slater woman, will you?’ she said. ‘The sooner she’s out of our hair, the sooner everyone’ll be happy.’

  Except me, thought Drew guiltily.

  When he returned her call, Genevieve enquired briefly as to how the burial had gone, and Drew gave an equally brief reply.

  ‘Can you come over?’ she asked next.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, painfully. ‘I can’t. Maggs needs me here for the rest of today. And tomorrow I’m officiating at a cremation. It’ll have to be Wednesday. Can you tell me why you want to see me?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ she said, in a purring tone. ‘It’s just nice to talk to you. And perhaps we should assess where we’ve got to in investigating what happened to Mum. I hate to say it, but I’m not sure you’ve earned your pay up to now – have you?’

  ‘I haven’t stopped working on it,’ he assured her. ‘In fact, I think it might be coming together at last. There’ve been one or two new developments.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing. Stuart’s still here, by the way. He’s being very sweet. But he’s decided to look for a job, so he’s going to be out most of the time, once he finds something.’

  ‘So he’s going to be a permanent fixture, is he?’ It occurred to Drew that he might usefully have a word with Stuart. Another angle on the family background wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  ‘Well, for a few months, anyway. He’s got a place at Newcastle University in the autumn. This is one of those year-out arrangements, where you just footle around wasting everybody’s time.’

  For the first time, Drew heard Genevieve sounding her age. He wished he could tease her about it, but he was too acutely aware of being nearly ten years her junior. Like Habergas and Gwen, he thought suddenly. He contented himself with a short laugh, before confirming their appointment. ‘I’ll be there at four on Wednesday – after Karen’s collected Stephanie. OK?’

  ‘It’ll have to be, I suppose.’ He could hear the suppressed reproach, the not-quite-gracious acceptance of the delay. What does she do all day? he wondered. Maybe digging into her mother’s fate was really little more than time-killing while she waited for her baby to be born.

  As Monday wore on, Drew began to feel nervous about the next day’s funeral. In his head, he could give the perfect eulogy, neither too sentimental nor too brusque, personal but also general. True without being platitudinous. ‘Death comes to us all,’ he rehearsed aloud. ‘But the death of our own loved one always feels like a unique event. For that family, that particular circle, it is of course unique. And nothing afterwards is ever the same again. The pattern has to be redrawn, the loss accommodated …’ So far, so good, he assured himself. In fact, a lot better than anything he’d ever heard a church minister say. Even if he just paraphrased the usual Funeral Service words, it would sound fresher and make more sense than the tired old routine.

  Something about the need for a ritual to mark the changed circumstances. The respect due to the dead person, the long life now finished; the inescapable ruthlessness of death … no that was a bit too strong. It probably wasn’t a good idea to remind everyone that their turn was sure to come. He walked up and down the office, practising, repeating a good phrase, hoping it would stick in his memory
. It was OK, he assured himself. It was going to work. He planned to charge ninety-five pounds for his services, and he reckoned Mrs Hankey was getting pretty good value for money.

  Stephanie was quiet all day, eating her lunch without fuss, and taking a long nap afterwards. She slept deeply, lying on her back, arms flung out, a solid little body. Absorbed in his rehearsal, Drew paused to look down at her on her cushions. She provided a perfect antidote to thoughts of mortality and loss. Stephanie was his link to the future now. She would remember him when he was dead; she might even take over the business, expanding, transforming, innovating. There was land in abundance all around them, scope for all kinds of enhancement. Growing up here, in the beauty and peace of the village, she would be more than happy to put down roots.

  Crossly, he shook himself. It wasn’t fair to map out her future like this. She might want to live in New York or Japan, to become a dentist or a stockbroker. Anything, he reminded himself, was possible. And – damn it – what about the new baby? It might be a son, intent on taking over the business from Drew, ambitious, avaricious, single-minded. Drew was deeply alarmed to discover how stubbornly unenthusiastic he felt at the prospect of a boy child.

  Karen fetched Stephanie ten minutes later than usual. She looked pale and seemed to move stiffly. ‘Are you all right?’ Drew asked her.

  ‘I twisted my back at lunchtime,’ she admitted. ‘I was doing playground duty, and stretched to catch a ball someone threw to me. It just caught me a bit awkwardly. It’s nothing. My balance is a bit off these days. It’ll be better tomorrow.’

  ‘If it isn’t, you’re to take the day off. More, if necessary. In fact, perhaps you should phone now, and give them a chance to find a supply teacher.’

  ‘I can’t, Drew,’ she said. ‘The kids are behind as it is. Supply teachers are really bad news these days. I’d have to work three times as hard when I went back again.’

  ‘You can only do so much. These targets and stuff are impossible, anyway. You’re mad to drive yourself into the ground over them.’ He was beginning to raise his voice in admonition, as seemed to happen every time he tried to talk to Karen these days. She turned her back on him, and began to bend down to gather Stephanie into her arms.

  ‘Aargh,’ she groaned, and slowly straightened up again. ‘Can you lift her? It doesn’t want to bend.’ She pressed a hand to her lower back. ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’

  Drew looked into her face, which was even paler than before. ‘Come on,’ he said, more gently. ‘You’re going to lie down. And you are definitely not going to school tomorrow. Have a lazy morning, at least.’ He attempted a disarming grin. ‘And then in the afternoon, you can mind Her Ladyship while I officiate at a funeral. See? It’s all working out fine.’

  The state Karen was in, he felt confident that she’d go along with the idea. Despite her irritation at his going out on Saturday, she liked the prospect of his becoming a regular alternative officiant, and Drew knew it.

  ‘Working out fine for you maybe,’ was all she said, before allowing herself to be ushered into the house and onto the settee. Drew made her a mug of tea and a honey sandwich, earning himself a warmer smile than he’d had for many a week.

  Drew hadn’t been prepared for the smirks and oblique comments in the office at the crematorium, when he arrived fifteen minutes ahead of the scheduled time for the Hankey funeral.

  ‘Is this going to be a regular thing – or did you know the bloke?’ Desmond asked him.

  ‘I didn’t know him. It’s all part of my new venture, in a way.’ He was fiddling with a stack of slim service books, which the crem provided. They contained a number of variations of the basic Funeral Service, along with a selection of the most popular hymns. He realised they’d been removed from the chapel when it became clear that this was to be a non-religious funeral. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or unnerved.

  ‘I thought you only did burials,’ Desmond pursued. Another realisation hit Drew: the manager of the crematorium was unlikely to be favourably disposed towards someone actively working to diminish the proportion of cremations to burials.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘But this is something extra. Non-religious officiant. It came out of the blue, to be honest, but if this one goes well, I might try and get some more. You could help spread the word for me.’

  Desmond pursed his lips. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said sceptically.

  The chapel was fuller than Drew had expected. Five rows were filled completely, on both sides of the aisle, and a scattering of mourners occupied some seats nearer the back. A huge clock hung on the rear wall, over the door, so there could be no excuse for over-running. Drew had already ascertained that there was a funeral following directly after this one. He breathed deeply, and tried to remember everything he’d learnt from his time working at Plant’s.

  The funeral conductor and bearers were all strangers to him. He’d exchanged a brief word with the conductor, agreeing that the mourners should be seated before the coffin was carried in, and that Drew would take all responsibility for playing the music at the selected intervals. Two switches were discreetly hidden under the lectern – one to operate the sound system, one to close the curtains around the catafalque. Normally, the minister only used the latter – an organist was usually in charge of the music. But Marjorie Hankey had dispensed with organ music. ‘Harold hated it,’ she said.

  The ceremony passed in a whirl for Drew. After his brief introduction and the opening burst of taped music, the son spoke haltingly of his father, with two or three small family anecdotes, and a nicely worded acknowledgement of how hard it was to sustain a successful father-son relationship. Everyone looked moved.

  Drew embarked on his eulogy. Without notes, he looked from face to face, gesturing now and then at the coffin, making no attempt to avoid the reality of why they were there. The widow kept her eyes on his face, serious but tearless. Other people were nodding, a few frowning, but he thought he could sense a growing relaxation, a gathered feeling as if they trusted him. A glance up at the clock told him he had spoken for six minutes, which was more than enough. He finished, with the words, ‘We will say goodbye to Harold now, each in our own way, as we listen to a piece of his best-loved music. At the end of the music, the curtains will close, and we will take our leave.’

  He let them sit for just over a minute after the curtains had done their jerkily automated turn. The symbolism was unavoidable, especially after Drew’s closing words, and the people in the chapel all seemed to exhale at once. That was that, then. They’d done their best to mark the moment and follow the dead man’s wishes – now they could get on with the rest of their lives. Drew began to walk towards the side door, where the conductor was standing, ready to throw it open. Between them, they escorted everyone outside – an awkward part of the proceedings in most cremations. Everyone waited to see if there was a strict sequence – whether close family should line up to shake hands with the rest – what they were supposed to do once outside.

  Flowers were laid out in alcoves, with the names of the day’s dead on little labels. It was the one and only chance the family had to inspect them, and knowing how much money could be spent on a simple tribute, it was incumbent upon them to at least go through the motions. Drew stood self-effacingly beside the conductor. He was slightly surprised when the man palmed a small brown envelope into his own hand, with a tight smile and nod. It dawned on him that this was his fee. At Plant’s, the ministers had all been sent a cheque for their services at the end of each month. Cash in hand seemed oddly quaint and patronising.

  Marjorie Hankey was surrounded by friends, most of them of a similar age to herself, and the great majority female. Drew hadn’t thought to ask whether she’d like him to announce that there would be refreshments served somewhere afterwards – on the whole he believed it was bad taste anyway to make any such reference. Was it permissable to slip away now, he wondered. He couldn’t think of any reason w
hy he might still be needed – but neither did he want to look impatient to be off.

  As he dithered, the widow broke out of the enclosing group and came up to him. ‘You did that marvellously,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you. It was exactly what Harold would have wanted. I could feel his approval. Nobody could ask for anything better.’

  Drew blinked. ‘Well—’ he began, ‘I’m glad you’re satisfied.’

  She leant towards him and lowered her voice. ‘You’re going to be in great demand, you know. You have a rare talent for capturing the right tone. Don’t let anything spoil it, will you?’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said, louder, her natural asperity winning through. ‘At your age, you’ve got everything still ahead of you. You could really make something out of this work you’re doing. All it needs is for the word to spread, and for a few people to take the plunge, and you’ll be setting the tone for all funerals in a few years. Most of us hate what the American undertakers are doing, but not many of us have the courage to do anything about it. I can’t tell you what a difference you’ve made to me. When Harold was ill, I found myself dreading the funeral, with all the insulting platitudes and dreadful insincerity. I bless the day I found you, Drew Slocombe. And if you ever want a testimonial, you know where to come.’

  Drew could do little more than shake her hand and depart. The sense of satisfaction was like being coated in warm honey, and he wanted to go away and savour it. And Marjorie’s words had excited him; if she was right, and his ideas did take root in the general community, he might well find his life taking a dramatic turn for the better.