You've got me dead wrong

Mrs Blumley’s hair is sitting nicely; a white, face framing coif of candy floss. She’s looking a bit pale though and she wouldn’t be happy with me if I didn’t get it just so.

‘I’m just going to put a little bit more blush on,’ I tell her, humming as I dab some more of the pink cream along her cheek bones.

She doesn’t smile. Her jaw is wired, and her lips are sewn shut after all, but I get the impression she’d approve. Nothing too over the top, the family have opted for a classy, blue three-piece ensemble, complete with pearl drop earrings. I gently slide the earrings from her lobes. Plopping them into a small bag, I make a mental note to give them to the family. We take them off before we put her in the fire, but for her final viewing with her husband and children, we presented her in her Sunday best. She looks nice and comfy, propped in the plump satin lining, restful hands clasped over her midriff.

‘It’s a good turn out today,’ I tell her, ‘And your husband is dressed very sharply, I must say.’

‘You do realise they’re never going to talk back,’ says Jim, feigning exasperation.

‘They might.’

‘If they do, let me know and I’ll get you some help,’ he teases. ‘We need to get her in place, the car park’s starting to fill up.’

One last spot check to make sure everything is as it should be and, pleased with my work, Jim and I heave the lid shut and seal it in place. I grab the head end of the cart and Jim shuffles backwards, nudging the doors open gently with his back. We set her in the centre of the aisle, right at the front. Top tier tickets. I stifle a sneeze. Roses fill every crevice of the space, and the smell is sickly. I pop the arrangement of white roses atop her coffin and survey the room.

‘OK, let them in,’ I instruct Jim, who nods diligently and strolls to open the doors. I arrange my features to display the correct amount of sympathy and confidence. It’s important to make sure the family feel they can flow from point A to point B in your competent hands. It’s also vital that they feel their loved one is important. They don’t need to know that we have four others chilling in the back. Young Mr Richardson is this afternoon’s project. Motorcycle accident: it will be a closed casket of course, though the girlfriend wants a viewing.

‘Hello again,’ I say, tone cordial yet sombre, as I shake the hand of the eldest daughter. It’s always funny to see how families fall into their positions. Often it happens without much comment, everyone lining up into their places naturally. Sometimes, it all implodes with a lot of kicking and screaming. People assume it must be hard to work with dead people. Personally, I find them delightfully cooperative. Today is a good line up; lots of loved ones on the roster. This daughter slid beautifully into her role of responsible sibling, shepherding her three younger brothers around like thirty-something year old ducklings. She tearfully shakes my hand, sniffing back her emotions and steeling herself to deliver the eulogy. I make my escape, darting deftly into the family room at the back, just before the service starts. I’ve said my goodbyes to dear old Mrs Blumley and this moment is for the family. 

‘Good turn out,’ Jim whispers, letting in a swell of music as he enters shortly after me and guides the door to a soft close behind him. I nod.

‘She’s a nice lady.’

‘You never even met her alive.’

‘I can tell.’

He rolls his eyes. We busy ourselves sterilising and clearing away the makeup pots, cleaning brushes and tidying the counter. The silence is comfortable and familiar; it settles around us like warm water.

‘Fancy a smoke?’ Jim asks, plucking a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. I shouldn’t, but I will. We stand on the threshold of the fire exit, Jim’s foot propping the door open. The cigarette smoke billows up and hangs suspended in the frigid December air like a cloud.

‘I think I’d like to die in December,’ he muses aloud.

‘Why?’

‘It’s festive,’ he says, like it makes total sense.

‘Dying is festive?’

‘Not the dying bit but the December bit, sure. All the lights, the ice. I like it.’

I regard him for a moment. The tip of his cigarette lights up bright orange, illuminating his brown eyes with tiny glints of fire. He’s wearing his customary smart black suit and white shirt.

‘Do you own any t-shirts?’ 

‘What?’

‘I’ve never seen you in a t-shirt,’ I explain, trying to imagine him in something with less buttons and starch.

‘I’m not really a t-shirt kind of guy.’

‘You don’t even wear them when it’s just us, no public,’ I say, gesturing to the doors behind which rows of mourners are currently dabbing their eyes and stifling the sudden need to cough.

‘I like to be smart for them. It only seems right to prepare them with a bit of professionalism’ he says defensively.

‘Aha! I knew you cared what they think, dead or not,’ I exclaim triumphantly.

He scowls. Stamping out our cigarette butts we turn inwards at the same time, each of our backs bumping off the closing doors and propelling us chest to chest. He gazes into my eyes for a moment before nudging me gently ahead of him. The speakers come to life in the other room, and I can hear the muffled rendition of Caledonia wafting through. Mrs Blumley was a patriot, it’s only right. The final song in the programme, it’s our cue to re-enter the room stealthily and make our way to the front doors. We shuffle silently along the side, flattening ourselves as close to the wall as possible. It’s a tight space so Jim is pressed close to me. A shiver runs over my back as he grips my waist with one hand to steady himself. As the song comes to a warbling finish and attendees start to rise in a rippling wave, Jim and I hold a handle each and sweep the doors open in unison. Thick beams of light flood the room. It’s my favourite moment of every funeral; it’s the exact moment that people remember life still exists outside. It’s amazing how quickly people forget it when they’re in the clutch of grief. Guests file out of the room from the front to the back, with closest family members first to go. They must be the first to greet people at the wake in the pub next door. The youngest guests file out into the sun with a look of shock. Death is still a surprise to them. The final people to leave are the elderly people in the back rows, to whom death is a familiar and acceptable outcome. They don’t cry but they’re very polite, always thankful and carry a quiet respect for the dead which I quite admire.

‘Lovely to see a couple offering this service together,’ comes the wispy voice of a frail old lady, dripping wrinkled skin and taking mouse like steps, ‘Makes it more personal.’

I smile, genuinely, at the practicality of old people. No point in correcting her. I kick a wooden wedge beneath each door to keep the light and air coming in and turn to Mrs Blumley. The pale winter sun illuminates her coffin. The white roses and shining wood look so ethereal I half expect the coffin to simply float out the door. But it remains, solid and still, and we wheel her to the furnace. There is no talking in these moments. We take a simple, reverent bow and transfer her to the entrance of the furnace. With one click, flames spray out like fiery aerosol cans, and she is engulfed as the mouth of the furnace closes beneath her.

‘I’m going to nip out for a bit and then come back to help with Mr Richardson,’ Jim says cheerfully.

‘Alright, I’m going to see if I can get anywhere with his face,’ I reply.

There’s nothing left to do in here for now; the flowers and ashes will be collected tomorrow and there are no services until Thursday. I head to the doors at the back of the room and slump through. It’s a humble place, with two small viewing rooms and a seating area armed with lots of tissues. The water cooler in the corner blubs spontaneously, making me jump. Through the back is the area where only we’re allowed, with enough refrigerators to hold six bodies and a space specifically for embalming. I keep all the makeup and hair supplies in a little pushcart, so I can do touch ups away from the clinical coldness, while I chat to my clients. Seems a bit nicer. 

‘So, Mr Richardson, we’re going to try again!’ I say perkily, pulling the silver handle and sliding his refrigeration unit out. Steadying the table beneath him, I carefully transfer him onto it and wheel him into the centre of the room. Most of the bone breaks were internal and not visible, besides the bruising. It was the skin that was the issue. He had slid for several sickening seconds across tarmac, without protective gear on. His skin had ribboned from his bones as the road flayed him. I touch the corner of his mouth gently and the large flap of clay that is now his cheek flops into my hand like a cold piece of deli meat.

‘Damn,’ I say under my breath.

‘Still no luck?’ comes Jim’s voice. My head whips up.

He’s standing there proudly gesturing to his torso. He’s wearing a red t-shirt, emblazoned with the logo of a local seafood restaurant: a lobster wearing a kilt.

‘A t-shirt,’ he exclaims proudly.

‘Yes, from the Scottish seaside seafood shack,’ I read. ‘Catchy.’

‘It was either this or pyjamas.’

‘Ugh, I can’t wear pyjamas. I just sleep naked,’ I blurt out.

His smile falls and a flush spreads up from the collar of his t-shirt. It’s not often that silence lands awkwardly between us. I can count on one hand the number of times it’s happened in the past three years, since we set up the business together. We met in college; we both shared a high regard for the macabre and a total disregard for the mundane. Since that day we moved around each other in harmony, with understanding and affection as our glue.

‘I’d like to see that,’ he mutters under his breath. I’m not sure I heard him right.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, I’d like to see that. You… with no pyjamas.’

He forces the words out thickly. My heart thumps obnoxiously, making me a little dizzy. I step back and with a soft rip, like a wet paper towel, Mr Richardsons newly formed cheek detaches from his jam-like face and lands with a light slap on the floor.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I say quietly, bending to pick it up. Jim walks over and crouches in front of me, his knees touching mine. His fingers graze mine as we each gingerly pick up an edge of Mr Richardson’s cheek.

‘I knew I loved you from the first day I saw you slicing through that frog’s abdomen,’ he confesses.

We balance the cheek between us like a tiny duvet. I roll it carefully onto Mr Richardson's face like fondant, pressing down the sides.

‘I thought you didn’t see me that way,’ I say cautiously.

‘I thought you didn’t see me that way!’ he replies, disbelief casting his voice a higher pitch than normal. ‘How could I not? You’re so good with people,’ he explains, looking down at Mr Richardson. His cheek is starting to slide again. ‘I love the way you change your voice to speak to the families. I love how good you are at wiring their jaws; I can never get my fingers to do it right, it’s too fiddly. I like the way your hair always smells like formaldehyde,’ he gushes. I scrunch up my nose.

‘Formaldehyde stinks.’

‘Not on you,’ he says.

‘I honestly can’t tell if that’s romantic.’

‘Why do you think I work with dead people!’ he cries in exasperation, brushing his fingers lightly down my cheek. It leaves a trail of something cold and wet.

‘Mr Richardson is on my cheek, isn’t he?’ I ask. Jim nods mutely, ripping some tissue from the big blue roll and wiping my face carefully.

‘I guess you are kind of sweet,’ I admit, a smile lifting my face. 

Jim leans in slowly and I stand on tip toe, bowing my stomach to avoid leaning on Mr Richardson. It’s not a star-spangled kiss, with fireworks and music. It’s a kiss that starts soft and builds in a wonderfully familiar way. It’s like warm water. I close my eyes as we find a rhythm. Slap.

‘I think his cheek has fallen again,’ Jim mumbles against my lips.

I nod, pulling away and smiling down at the ravaged face between us.

‘OK, Mr Richardson, let’s try some wax!’