The Thoughts and Happenings of Wilfred Price, Purveyor of Superior Funerals

by Wendy Jones

  Her father, pointing at the fruitcake, said to his wife, ‘Now, Mrs Reece, pull yourself together. Madoc will be back before you know it. And best cover this fruitcake with a net, or there’ll be flies landing on it. We wouldn’t want it to spoil.’

  Grace lowered her head and stared at her shoes, trying to focus. Her father was a highly educated man, but also a practical one. Doctors had to be practical. She knew that he would make a suggestion – a realistic, workable one that would hold within it a path forward. That was what he did for his patients; he gave them a way of coping.

  ‘Have you actually seen Wilfred?’ her mother called accusingly from within the pantry where she was selecting a cake-dome. Grace inwardly winced at her mother’s directness and also cringed at her last meeting with Wilfred. Narberth was a small town; someone would have seen her shaken and tearful at the bottom of Sheep Street or walking desolately to the castle where she had sat forlornly on the hefty broken wall of the keep, swinging her legs and crying. Someone would have noticed and told her mother.

  Grace was quiet, waiting for her father to speak, knowing he would.

  ‘I have a suggestion,’ he said, leaning back. ‘I shall invite Wilfred to come here for lunch this week, on Thursday. I shall use the telephone and ask him myself. What do you think to a shoulder of Welsh lamb with mint sauce and some mashed potatoes, Mrs Reece? Or perhaps a rabbit pie? Grace, perhaps you can make one of your Madeira cakes. Then at least you young people will see each other.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Grace’s mother, her eyes sharp and shining. ‘Now there’s good.’

  ‘I expect he’s overcome with sheepishness,’ her father surmised, ‘being an undertaker and all, and more used to funerals than weddings.’

  Wilfred was leaning on the kitchen table reading his notice in this week’s Narberth & Whitland Observer:

  Mister Wilfred Price.

  PURVEYOR OF SUPERIOR FUNERALS

  Motorized Hearse (with glass sides and wood panelling)

  11 Market Street, NARBERTH

  Telephone for all inquiries: Narberth 103

  Superior sounded honourable, although he could hardly advertise himself as Purveyor of Inferior Funerals. What would that mean? Burying the living? Dropping the body? That had happened. Trying to break a stiff corpse with rigor mortis so as to lay it flat in its coffin? No. Superior Funerals were the right words, the apposite words, for W. Price, Funeral Director, Narberth. And with a motorized hearse, despite the cost, all the polishing and the occasional temperamental behaviour from the engine, Wilfred was on to a winner. Adamantine, Wilfred said to himself: his motorized hearse was adamantine in the sun from all that polishing. He’d learned that word this morning.

  Wilfred went to the shelf and looked for something to eat. He grabbed the end of a loaf and the tin of Griddles Old-Fashioned Black Treacle, dipped a spoon into the treacle and spread it on the bread. Mind, a bit more custom wouldn’t go amiss. Not that there was much he could do about that; business was in the hands of the Lord.

  He took a bite off the corner of the bread and moved his dictionary to one side. Mr Ogmore Auden had said, ‘Everyone in Narberth is a potential customer, Wilfred. Treat them well. A corpse has yet to come through the front door and ask for a funeral.’ Wilfred tried always to be polite and was mindful of his pleases and thank yous, but beyond that he could hardly go around committing murder to acquire corpses. He licked the spoon clean. January and February – his busiest months, when it was cold and dark and more people passed away – were over and it would be quiet for a while now. Even worse, the weather was fine. That never helped because people didn’t kick the bucket half as much when it was sunny. He had heard though, that Mrs John Howell-Thomas, Kilgetty way, had a funny turn last Tuesday. But Mrs John Howell-Thomas was a tough old boot. And her sister had been ninety-four before she’d fallen off the perch.

  Wilfred rubbed the stubble on his cheeks thoughtfully. It was a long time since he had finished his apprenticeship and he ought to be extending the business. There was no shame in having been an apprentice. An apprenticeship was a very honourable path. His father had agreed to it: it would keep his son busy. Idle hands made work for the devil, especially for young men – and Wilfred would be exempt from conscription – and so his son was apprenticed to O. Auden, Funeral Undertakers, Wheelwrights & Cabinet Makers of Whitland, six miles away.

  Wilfred licked the back of the spoon. It had been easy for him to choose undertaking for his trade, what with his da being the Narberth gravedigger and – well … most of what he knew of the world was death. Perhaps it was because his mother had died when he was so young, only an infant, that Wilfred had gone into the funeral business. It was an unusual profession for a robust young man in rude health, but it was what Wilfred had always wanted to be – a craftsman and a businessman. A businessman: Wilfred felt pride when he said the word to himself. He rolled up his sleeves purposefully and took a big bite of the bread.

  Wilfred remembered how he had lodged six days a week with Mr and Mrs Auden, all the while becoming versed in the art of funerary. He had learned about the oak, the beech and the pine, and how to rub planks with a brick until they were smooth and splinter-free, and he’d made coffins, measured for drawers, hinged doors, glued veneers, dovetailed corners and, eventually, did inlay on cabinets.

  Wilfred remembered how he had returned after four years, full of hope and ambition, to Narberth to offer the services of coffin-maker whenever the Revd Waldo Williams, MA, popped round to visit his father with news of a death in the parish and the need for another grave. Old Tom Wheeler in the High Street, who made tables, chairs, dressers and coffins retired when Wilfred came back, and Wilfred was blessed with no competition, and these days, experience was making him increasingly proficient. Nevertheless it would make good sense to extend the business and, to that end, he was wondering about turning the parlour into a paint and wallpaper shop. It would improve his prospects, he would be better able to look after his da and it would keep him gainfully employed and perhaps even make him more eligible. Yes! The parlour would do splendidly as a wallpaper shop! He put the spoon down on the table decisively and stretched his arms along the back of the chair. Shelves along the rear wall. The counter facing the door so he could greet the flood of customers when they came in.

  He wouldn’t spend much money on the initial stock – he knew that was a common miscalculation that amateur businessmen made. ‘Young men can get too big for their boots,’ Mr Ogmore Auden had cautioned once, ‘have fancy ideas about their little businesses and get on their high horse. This is Pembrokeshire, Wilfred, not London.’ Wilfred had never left Wales and been up the line to England, and he was certain that Mr Ogmore Auden hadn’t either, but he suspected his apprentice-master was right. It was true that a Welsh gentleman, Mr John Lewis, had a department store in London, on a road called Oxford Street. So did Mr D. H. Evans, but they hadn’t started out as undertakers. When Wilfred opened a wallpaper shop, he would begin modestly, although he would need to place a new advertisement in the Observer:

  Mister Wilfred Price

  Funerals and Wallpapers of Distinction

  No, that wasn’t right, he realized. It sounded like he might wallpaper coffins.

  ‘Bora da, Wilfred. Post here for you,’ the postman shouted through the open front door.

  ‘Bora da, Willie. What have you been up to, then?’

  ‘Well, Wilfred, that’d be telling. But it’s wonderful what you see when you haven’t got a gun.’

  ‘How’s the wife?’

  ‘Right as rain.’

  Wilfred checked his pocketwatch; it was a quarter past two. The third post was as punctual as ever since they’d installed central heating in the general post office. There had been some concerns about that within Narberth, what with the installation costing sixty pounds.

  ‘I’s put the post here now for you, as usual, Wilf,’ the postman stated, pointing to the corner table in the hall with the telephone on it. ‘What are you up t
o, then, standing in the front room like a man with no sense?’

  ‘Business being as it is, I’m thinking of turning the parlour into a wallpaper shop,’ Wilfred explained.

  ‘There’s tidy,’ the postman said. ‘Wife can’t get enough of the stuff. She’s talking about wallpapering the scullery. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Wants to do it in cherry blossom. Nonsense on stilts. Too dull to fart, she is.’ He adjusted the bulging postbag on his shoulder, ‘Picture postcard for you, Wilfred. Can’t make any sense of the message on the back.’

  ‘Thank you, Willie. See you now.’

  Postcard? Wilfred thought, measuring the back wall for shelves and putting the ruler back in his trouser pocket. Eight foot long – that would be a good-sized shelf.

  It was a postcard with a photograph of the sea and two cottages. That’s on the way to Amroth, Wilfred thought. It showed a young woman in a large bonnet holding the saddle of a bicycle, and there was a man’s cycle propped up nearby on the grass. The Welsh sea was calm in the background.

  Wilfred turned the card over. The cottage, the cove, Saturday afternoon. No name, no signature, not even, Dear Wilfred. Was it for him? Yes. It was addressed to Mr Wilfred Price, Esquire. Who could it be from? Wilfred was flummoxed. Could it be from … a woman? But it was no good running away with fancy ideas. It could only be business. Had a person popped their clogs in one of those cottages and wanted the body removed and buried? He hadn’t heard of anyone being ill down Amroth way, nor of any ladies expecting. It wasn’t the usual way to contact the undertaker: mind, some of these farming folk had their own ways, weren’t quite up with the modern world and telephones.

  Wilfred began to mentally prepare. He would need to take the motorized hearse with him just in case; he couldn’t carry a body on his bicycle. And he’d have to press his white shirt. Thank goodness for a bit of business, thought Wilfred with relief, putting the postcard in his pocket – when the telephone trilled abruptly. Even more business, he thought with excitement, walking briskly and with a sense of purpose through to the hallway and picking up the receiver of the telephone. It was always an occasion when the telephone rang.

  ‘NARBERTH 103. WILFRED PRICE, FUNERAL DIRECTOR speaking.’ It was necessary to shout into the receiver, as reception was extremely poor, especially when it was raining. Wilfred thought sometimes it would be more efficient to stand at the front door and bellow the conversation.

  ‘Afternoon, Wilfred. DOCTOR REECE here. This is DOCTOR REECE speaking.’ Dr Reece, Wilfred thought and then, with excitement at the prospect of business: somebody has died.

  ‘Wilfred. You are invited to COME ROUND FOR DINNER. ON THURSDAY. THIS THURSDAY COMING. With Mrs Reece and myself. And our daughter, GRACE.’

  Wilfred was confused. The line crackled frantically with static.

  ‘You don’t have a FUNERAL, do you?’ Dr Reece enquired, filling the pause. ‘Do you, or do you not, have a FUNERAL, Wilfred?’

  ‘No …’ replied Wilfred, forgetting to shout. There were never funerals on a Saturday. Saturdays at St Andrew’s Church and the Bethesda, Calvinist and Tabernacle Chapels were kept for weddings.

  ‘That’s settled, then. Look FORWARD to it. We’ll see you at ONE on Thursday, Wilfred.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Wilfred shouted but he heard a click and the line went dead.

  That man! Why couldn’t he just stand up to him? And why did Dr Reece think he would want to go to lunch with Grace on Saturday when he was no longer engaged to her? Wilfred ran his hand through his hair. But then it occurred to him – Grace hadn’t told her parents. Which meant Wilfred would have to tell them himself.

  On Thursday lunchtime, Grace’s father carved the joint with the steel carving knife. He prided himself on his precision and the Welsh lamb flopped in even slices, each a quarter of an inch thick. His years of wielding the scalpel and performing small surgeries on lumps and warts and toes meant he was a confident carver of meat. Grace saw the lamb was lightly bloodied: in the middle of each slice was a large red spot. ‘Not properly cooked,’ her mother would have muttered critically if Grace had roasted the joint. But her mother said nothing. She wasn’t one to draw attention to her own failings or shortcomings in the kitchen.

  ‘Move the tureen of vegetables out of my way, please, Grace,’ her father requested, and she lifted the heavy tureen further away from the carving platter.

  ‘Thank you,’ her father replied. ‘And the gravy boat, please. It is also in my way.’

  Wilfred was supposed to be here. An extra tablemat and a silver knife and fork had been laid for him in Madoc’s place. Her father had invited Wilfred by telephone – had shouted the invitation down the line. Grace had heard him while she was upstairs. Wilfred no doubt had shouted back his acceptance. They had waited three-quarters of an hour until it was a quarter to two, by which time the boiled vegetables had long since stopped steaming and started to toughen. Now it was painfully obvious to her, and to her father and mother, that Wilfred had proposed – but not meant it – and said yes to dinner – and not meant it. Was there a word for this, Grace wondered. Jilted? No, jilted happened at the altar. This was being jilted before the altar was even in sight.

  ‘Is this lamb from Green Grove Farm, Mrs Reece?’

  ‘It is,’ her mother replied curtly. There was the sound of the knife sawing into the bone. A small pool of thin blood gathered on the platter. Raw meat was dangerous. When a patient rushed to see her father bent double, clutching their stomach, and the sound of their retching filled the whole house, her father lectured them on what he called food hygiene: ‘The cleaner you are, the healthier you are,’ he was fond of declaring, and advised his female patients that it was better to singe the pie or burn the joint than to undercook it. ‘A burned dinner is safer than a raw one,’ he’d state. But now at the dining-table he was unforthcoming in the face of the uncooked lamb, unwilling to provoke his snappy wife.

  Grace was trying hard to keep her thoughts under control and, to distract herself, began studying the picture decorating her dinner-plate. It was the Willow Pattern. Grace had read about it in her Olive Wadsley’s Weekly magazine: the blue man and the blue maiden, Chang and Knoon-shee, were crossing a bridge, Knoon-shee carrying her box of jewels, leaving the pagoda, fleeing her enraged father because he forbade their love. But Knoon-shee’s father would catch them and set the couple’s wooden house alight while they were sleeping. Her own father would do that! The two doves at the top of the plate were their spirits, flying to the realms of eternal happiness.

  ‘Mrs Reece, the dinner-plates, please,’ her father commanded, stroking his beard. Grace’s mother collected the plates and her father put a slice of meat on each one.

  Grace looked again at the three fragile figures on the bridge printed on her side-plate, and it occurred to her that perhaps, instead, it was the father and the daughter who were chasing the young man. Perhaps Chang was fleeing from imprisonment in an unwelcome marriage. Perhaps he was looking to the Sugarloaf Mountain ahead, to his freedom and his future in a blue and white landscape, while the father and Knoon-shee were running futilely, doomed to never reach him – always chasing, never catching.

  ‘Pass the gravy, Grace,’ her father requested. ‘You’ve made a wonderful meal, Mrs Reece. Most pleasing,’ he said to her mother, adding appeasingly, ‘Delicious, just what the doctor ordered!’ He smiled artificially at his joke, trying to cajole his wife to smile. Mrs Reece gave a taciturn half-smile.

  Thin blood seeped out of the undercooked lamb and over the bridge, the sea, the pagoda and the hills on Grace’s plate, then her mother slapped down a lump of grey mashed potato covering the tiny figures. Dinner finally began, although no one touched the meat, it being raw.

  ‘What an utter waste of food! This shoulder of lamb cost good money,’ her mother complained, addressing the empty seat, her voice high with annoyance. ‘If I’d have known I wouldn’t have bought it. I won’t give Wilfred Price house room from now on.’

  Grace, in ea
rnest hope, was wearing her yellow dress again, believing the sight and memory of her clothing would inspire and ignite Wilfred’s love and passion. Now she felt silly, pretending the lamb wasn’t raw, eating dinner in yellow silk, with each mouthful she ate emptying her plate until more of the Willow Pattern and another unhappy family were exposed.

  ‘You’ve had a long face on since we sat at the table, Grace Amelia; no wonder Wilfred doesn’t want you with a face like that.’

  Grace cut into a piece of honey-glazed carrot. She thought of the queen bee in her hive with her hundred, hundred lovers – all unswervingly devoted to her for the one whole summer of their short lives. But she wasn’t a queen bee and Wilfred wasn’t a drone.

  ‘Grace Amelia, sit up properly. No man will ever look at you if you slouch like that.’

  Perhaps Wilfred was held up by a sudden death, a body to collect, Grace thought, straightening her back.

  ‘Would you think Wilfred has gone to collect a body?’ her father asked, as if reading Grace’s mind. He too, must be searching for a simple, practical answer as to why Wilfred wasn’t here.

  ‘Who could that be, now?’

  Grace suspected her father was going through the names of his older and frailer patients. But it was unlikely, Grace knew, that there would be death in Narberth that her father didn’t know about. Usually within minutes of someone dying people rushed to her father, rapping on the front door, calling out his name, even when it was obvious their loved one was dead, not ill. It was as if they hoped the doctor could do something, cure mortality the way he cured sickness.

  ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,’ her mother stated.

  Grace squashed the cold leeks against the silver fork. The sense of insecurity that had resided in her these last few weeks now grew bigger and quivered within her and she felt nauseous.