A Trick I Learned from Dead Men - By Kitty Aldridge Page 0,1

fetch my scissors, Mr Gillespie. Nearly done, I say. I don’t see the need to work in silence, it’s not a library. Derek has Radio 5 on.

Everything sinks after death, Mr Gillespie has loose folds. Funny how bones rise up as deterioration begins, but it’s natural as. Everything dissolves in the end, it’s the process. A face shows its skull, a challenge for us. No point dwelling. The trick is be positive, be respectful, even when you’re pushed for time. Mr Gillespie has all his own teeth, not a full set, but still.

Here we go, Mr Gillespie, I say. I tilt his jaw and go through the soft palate with my long needle; there is a little pop – same as when we needle-threaded our paper mâché sculptures at school for hang and display – a million years ago seems.

* * *

Shakespeare & Son Funeral Services is situated between the old council estate and the playing fields. A pebble-dashed single-storey, you wouldn’t look twice. Mind you, when the sky is blue the roof looks red, when it is in fact brown. At the other end of the street is a pub called The Ship. We don’t drink there.

I tend not to vary my route. Often you don’t see another soul, just the birds calling, sound of your shoes on the lane. Animals raise their heads when they see you. Just me, Lee, I say. Same old. Harvest time you might meet a giant contraption coming the other way. The combine is wider than the road, hung with choppers, spreaders, you name it. You have to step in the ditch for it to pass. Contractors nowadays, strangers in the cab; everyone knew everyone when we were at school. I’m not saying it was better.

Takes a minute to get out of the ditch without making a mess of my trousers. I wear a suit for work. It’s a question of respect. I have two suits and I rotate them. I have three self-ironing shirts off eBay. I bought them with a pinch of salt, but they have proved to be worth their weight in gold.

On clear mornings you can see the forest from the bridge over the dual carriageway. It sweeps to the left, widens, curves around to the right. I hadn’t realised a forest could do that, turn like a river. Not a natural forest of course, but still. Sometimes there is mist on the carriageway. Cars hurtling blind, dangerous. I catch the face of a driver looking up, seeing me, afraid I might jump. Funny. I wave but they’re already gone.

My friend, Rob Avon, works at Gatwick Airport. The Red Lion is our local. It is your average pub, a few hundred years old with a resident ghost and subsidence. Rob Avon, aka Raven. The name harks back to his Goth phase – he still dyes his hair black, but he’s left the eyeliner behind.

Local ale we do partake of. We sit in the corner beside the grizzly bear; a feat of taxidermy, the landlord calls it, which is fine if you speak good English. The bear was a performer, once upon a time, he still wears the collar and chain. You could feel sorry for him, except that he’s roaring his head off, even now he’s dead. Not to worry, he won’t hurt you.

You don’t have to be mad to work here. Someone’s crossed out mad and written dead. A stab at humour. It was Derek who brought the word foible to my attention; I try to use it in conversation, without wanting to come over as a ponce. I also find per se creeping into my everyday speech. I was wary but so far no one’s said, Don’t be a knob, Lee, that’s French.

Amazing what people take with them. Ancient Egyptians, all of us. You couldn’t make it up. They say you can’t take it with you; you can. So long as it’s not cash. If the family requests it, we do it, within reason, nothing flammable obviously. Personal Effects are the items accompanying the deceased inside the coffin. First time I tucked a cheque for a million between the fingers of one of our gents I thought, nice one. Brilliant, basically. I’d like that for myself. Who doesn’t want to die a millionaire? Tax free.

It’s the little things, the in-jokes, the ironic touches that lift people’s spirits. Death can leave a person’s sense of humour intact, it’s not all doom and gloom.

Any coffin details for these?

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