The Ferryman

The red double-decker omnibus jostled along the uneven, cobbled street. Signage displayed Penge prominently above the driver.

Reginald P. Blenkinsopp preferred sitting in the first row of the upper deck, even on drizzly days. There was something cavalier about it - the slight breeze, the rush of passing scenery, the risk of soiling his suit. Regardless, he never missed an opportunity to ride up top, if only to evoke a comforting nostalgia for his more reckless years. 

Nearing his stop, Mr. Blenkinsopp pulled on the floor cable to notify the lower deck, and, in turn, the conductor rang a bell to signal the driver to brake.

The omnibus came to a slow roll and halted.

Lugging his umbrella and briefcase, Mr. Blenkinsopp descended the stairs to encounter a bustling atmosphere of chattering riders seated on wood benches that faced each other. The smartly-dressed conductor nodded at him.

“A good day, sir.”

With a tip of his wide-brimmed Homburg, Mr. Blenkinsopp exited onto the road, and afterward, the omnibus departed amidst a fury of honks from irate automobile drivers.

Briefly checking his watch then the gray of the overcast sky, Mr. Blenkinsopp took to the pavement.

Elmwood Avenue featured a row of two-story Victorian houses with red brick exteriors and pitched roofs, contrasted by stark white trimmings bordering sash windows. Their gardens and shrubs were boxed in by iron railings, and their front doors were adorned with brass knockers and letterboxes.

Tall and lanky, Mr. Blenkinsopp neared seventy yet his pace was brisk for his age; his slender frame imparted youthful agility to his movements. Having a strong jawline and sharp, angular features below a healthy crop of well-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, Mr. Blenkinsopp’s soft eyes conveyed a sense of approachability and warmth. Dressed in an impeccable dark-colored tweed suit that complemented his hat, his single-breasted jacket bore a gold pin of two crossed oars on its lapel. Mr. Blenkinsopp was the embodiment of timeless formality. 

Slowing his pace, Mr. Blenkinsopp retrieved a creased computer printout from his jacket to confirm the address. He cringed at its modern typeface, an imperfect emulation of a sturdy typewriter key that would impact the paper’s surface with force and intention. This was a droll thing, faded, a dull combination of whitespace and horizontal lines, and to Mr. Blenkinsopp, it conveyed passivity, expediency, and mediocrity.

Rolling his eyes, he folded the paper, seized the knocker, and banged it once against the door.

Beatrice Hargreaves, a housewife dressed for chores and cleaning, answered the door cradling a porcelain vase.

Mr. Blenkinsopp smiled pleasantly at Beatrice before she gave a horrified, blood-curdling scream, and sent the vase shattering at her feet.

* * *

Mr. Blenkinsopp smelled strong floral accents as he brought the teacup to his lips.

“Darjeeling,” he breathed. “Splendid.”

Painted the color of inoffensive soft cream yet decorated with a noisy patterned wallpaper, the Hargreaves’ living room exuded a classic - apologetically-British - character.

White, embroidered curtains hung before the windows, bathing the room with soft natural light.

Mr. Blenkinsopp sat in a plush upholstered armchair beside a mahogany fireplace with an intricately designed mantel showcasing family photographs, fine china, and a few cherished mementos.

In the center of the room was an oak coffee table where, at one time, a porcelain vase held a bouquet of flowers, a fact Mr. Blenkinsopp intuited given the outline on its veneer.

A couch matching the damask pattern of Mr. Blenkinsopp’s armchair was on its opposite side, whereas Beatrice, her husband, Harold, and their 14-year-old daughter, Emily, sat blanched and slackjawed.

“Well,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said, resting his cup and saucer on the coffee table, “to the matter at hand, I suppose.”

Delving into his jacket’s inner pocket, he retrieved a sealed, unassuming envelope measuring four by six inches.

Beatrice anxiously took Harold’s hand.

“The Bureau never tells us,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said, chortling in a unique, buoyant blend of mirth, amusement, and whimsey. “It’s always considered a discrete, private matter.”

Emily looked nervously at her mother.

“We could, um, do it like that chap in the States, on the telly, er-”

“Johnny Carson,” Emily whispered.

“Yes. Carson. Very humorous, that fellow,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said, tapping the envelope to his forehead, but in witnessing their troubled expressions, he simply opened it.

His hands tremored as he withdrew a card printed on fine stationery, and - sending it back and forth from his eyes - he frowned. “It’s, um, Mr. Hargreaves, I’m afraid.”

“Oh!” Beatrice winced and nearly leaped from her seat. Tears welled. She placed a restraining hand over her mouth.

The blood drained from Harold’s face. “But, sir, I, er - well, there must be a mistake!”

“No, no mistake,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said as he turned the card around to read its back. “Myocardial Infarction. Heart attack.”

“How-how long?” Beatrice gasped, gripping Harold’s arm.

“Well, today, of course,” Mr. Blenkinsopp shrugged, indifferent.

“Daddy!” Emily embraced her father.

Mr. Blenkinsopp handed the card over to Harold. Shaking, he meekly accepted it and put on a brave face to his family.

Mindful of the moment’s delicate nature, Mr. Blenkinsopp remained silent, keeping his posture upright and attentive. In his forty-eight loyal years with the service, he’d managed to assuage the fears of the damned with impeccable professionalism and dignity, and today, Harold Hargreaves would be no exception.

Mr. Blenkinsopp was a Ferryman, a licensed agent of the Bureau of Mortality.

An office of HM Revenue & Customs, the Bureau’s recordkeeping on taxes and healthcare was so astonishingly thorough that it could pinpoint the precise date and time of every UK citizen’s demise. Natural deaths, of course; surprises were referred to as deviations and managed by a separate department.

But indeed, the Bureau’s accuracy was so exceptional it eventually attracted the attention of The Grim Reaper, who eagerly deputized the Bureau’s agents for the collection of souls. As worldwide population growth and wartime efficiency compounded the Reaper’s work, delegation was seen as a useful tool for scaling production.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship. In their arrangement, The Pale Rider received damned souls at minimal effort, whereas the UK Government ensured the smoothest transition of private equity to public coffers.

It was a proverbial win-win.

Further, and perhaps most relevant to Mr. Blenkinsopp, death could be managed. Its sheer inconvenience made death very unpopular in the polls (it was every seasoned MP’s nightmare,) so licensed Ferrymen harkened death’s arrival with well-attended grace and civility.

Affording the Hargreaves a few grieving minutes, Mr. Blenkinsopp leaned forward, cocked his brows, and asked, “Of course, I could come back at another time?”

“No, please,” Beatrice sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the hem of her dress. “We’d hate to inconvenience you with a return visit. M-More tea?”

Mr. Blenkinsopp smiled. “You are too kind.”

Beatrice left the room.

“Mr. Blenkinsopp,” Harold quivered.

“Yes, Mr. Hargreaves?”

“Must I go? Now? I honestly believed I’d have a couple more years to adopt a healthier lifestyle.”

Mr. Blenkinsopp clasped his hands together. “Regrettably, Mr. Hargreaves, it is as they say about death and taxes.”

“But I understood the Bureau had some … leeway in these matters?”

“Quite,” Mr. Blenkinsopp politely smiled, reaching for his briefcase. He produced a government document printed with black text and red-toned illustrations on A4-sized paper entitled, Your Options for a Later Death.

Harold perused the pamphlet.

“The Bureau has fair, convenient alternatives meeting anyone’s budget,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said, gesturing to the material. “Many find an additional week the most cost-effective.”

“20-thousand-pounds?!” Harold gasped, placing a hand against his heart. Emily looked sadly at her father.

Mr. Blenkinsopp relaxed into the chair. “Our month-to-month option, yes. Rather rich, I’ll admit, but necessary in some cases. Oh, why thank you, Mrs. Hargreaves.”

Beatrice poured Mr. Blenkinsopp another cuppa.

“Good news,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said, squinting, reviewing some additional paperwork he recovered from his briefcase. “You’ve no liens nor adjustments, and you’re caught up on your taxes, Mr. Hargreaves. If it were the other way around, I’m afraid these options wouldn’t be available to you. The benefit of staying current, as we like to remind people.”

Harold patted the back of Emily’s head. “I-I always try to do right by my country and family, sir.”

“Rightly so, and I understand your concern.” Mr. Blenkinsopp lifted the saucer and cup and drew a gangly leg over a knee. “But fear not, Mr. Hargreaves. Your family will be assigned a Bureau case worker.”

“That’s such a relief,” Beatrice admitted, taking a seat. She offered Harold an encouraging, hopeful face.

“A tasteful concierge. Top-notch,” Mr. Blenkinsopp assured, sipping his tea.

Harold asked, “What sort of services are offered, sir?”

“Funeral arrangements, financial settlements with state and private lenders, legal paperwork, difficult and untimely letters to friends, family,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said. “Nothing but the best to help see them through these challenging times.”

“Father,” Emily said, concerned. She gently touched Harold’s arm and whispered, “We shouldn’t inconvenience Aunt Liddy. Her wedding is next month.”

“You are so right, Emily.” Beatrice agreed. “Nor the Crawfords. Lucy’s mother passed unexpectedly last week. We wouldn’t want to compound their misery.”

Harold nodded, struggling to keep a stiff upper lip.

Mr. Blenkinsopp returned the teacup to the balanced saucer in his hand, saying, “You see, the Bureau makes every effort to ease communal burdens.”

He simultaneously smiled, chuckled, and snorted, charmingly.

“Not to be indelicate,” Beatrice asked, extending a sorrowful glance at her husband, “but, er, what are we to do with, um-”

“The body?” Mr. Blenkinsopp casually interjected.

“Yes,” Beatrice breathed.

Harold diligently continued reviewing his options.

Mr. Blenkinsopp smiled. “Why, nothing to concern yourself about at all, Mrs. Hargreaves. It’s all part of the service. My role is to see Mr. Hargreaves safely to the other side, and after my work is done, he’ll be attended to by crack medical professionals. Shortly thereafter, you’ll have a consult with a Bureau mortician to help select your preferred manner of disposal-”

Harold set the government pamphlet down and urgently pointed at a paragraph, tapping it twice. “Here. This one. Three days.”

“Our Bronze Plan,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said with a minty hint of judgment. He set his saucer on the table and lowered his voice to speak earnestly to Harold. “Mr. Hargreaves, are you quite sure the Silver Plan - an additional blessed week for you and your loved ones - isn’t the right plan for you?”

Harold wasn’t sure. He glanced at Beatrice and mouthed, “Five thousand pounds!”

Beatrice, for her part, swallowed, gazed to the floor, then raised her head in sharp realization. “Do it. I’ll make up for it in your insurance payout.”

“Brilliant!” Mr. Blenkinsopp waved a finger at Beatrice. “That’s the spirit!”

“Oh, Daddy,” Emily beamed, looking between Harold and her mum. “It’ll be a most wonderful week! The best ever!”

His face staunch, resolute, Harold announced, “Yes! I shall file for vacation pay-”

Mr. Blenkinsopp arched an overt eyebrow at Harold.

“-the day after tomorrow,” Harold added. “I, er, wouldn’t want to leave them in the lurch like that.”

Mr. Blenkinsopp slapped his knee. “Good show, Mr. Hargreaves! We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

Beatrice hugged her husband and smiled. “Oh, Harold, I’m … I’m so proud. Tonight, I-I’ll prepare pudding and roast, your favorite!”

“But, dear,” Harold cried out as if she were mad, “it’s not Sunday!”

Addressing his briefcase again, Mr. Blenkinsopp removed several forms prepared in triplicate. Feeling the weighty stack of paper in his hand. He so appreciated the heft of carbon. He placed them before the Hargreaves and dutifully offered a pen for their trouble.

Affording them time to review, Mr. Blenkinsopp checked the time on his wristwatch and reflected on his life’s work. Nearly fifty years under the employ of the Bureau, Reginald P. Blenkinsopp worried for the future. Newcomers to the agency saw the Ferrymen as a stodgy lot, akin to the strange fraternal societies of Masons and Oddfellows, incapable or unwilling to embrace modern change. If they had their way, they’d see the esteemed Order of Ferrymen discontinued in favor of posted letters, telegrams, or - heaven forbid - telephone calls, and who, Mr. Blenkinsopp wondered, who would be here to help?

To Mr. Blenkinsopp, a world without Ferrymen sounded ghastly. Death, indiscriminately creeps up on you, randomly stealing a life in the night, loved ones unaware, smothered in shock and pain, leaving an inconvenient corpse and an empty purse.

No, he thought. Such thinking was absurd. It would be impolite, disrespectful, and demeaning.

Mr. Blenkinsopp adjusted his tie.

Not while he still had air in his lungs.

“There!” Harold said after signing all of the forms with an assertive flourish.

Beatrice handed Mr. Blenkinsopp a cheque for £5,000.

Standing, Mr. Blenkinsopp tore away the Hargreaves’ copies and filed the rest in his briefcase. “Well, not as bad as we thought, perhaps? All seems to be in order. I shall return next week.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blenkinsopp,” Harold said, shaking his hand. “I will look forward to seeing you.”

“And I you,” Mr. Blenkinsopp chortled, slightly rocking his head and patting Harold twice on the shoulder. “Mrs. Hargreaves, the tea was blissful.”

Flushing, Beatrice waved him off. “T’was nothing, really.”

“Emily,” Mr. Blenkinsopp said, tipping the rim of his hat.

“Good day, sir,” she replied, beaming.

“Delightful.” Mr. Blenkinsopp gave the family a sturdy look. “Absolutely delightful.”

Leaving the Hargreaves, Mr. Blenkinsopp checked the sky to once again ascertain the potential for rain. He decided to keep the umbrella rolled up in his hand.

Striding out to the pavement, he wandered further down Elmwood Avenue. He breathed deeply, taking in a healthy share of afternoon air, and wandered down to the road to arrive at another home. Re-checking the address on his printout, he approached the residence and gave the door a good rap.

An old woman wound tightly in a knitted shawl opened the door.

“Mr. Blenkinsopp,” she said, recognizing him.

“Mrs. Pembroke,” he replied and tastefully removed his hat. “I’m here for Charlie.”

“Yes, please, come in,” she said, opening the door wider for Mr. Blenkinsopp.

The home smelled of cabbage. Passing the stairs, when he entered the drawing room, he found its walls lined with a lifetime of memories - tasteful 19th-century photographs and artwork, crystalline figurines, and other sentimental artifacts collected over a lifetime. Warm lighting emanated from a brass chandelier, glowing gently throughout the room. Its furniture was of a bygone era, used, frayed, and worn, and a looked-after ash wood desk filled with inkwells, liquid pen quills, and a decades-long collection of handwritten letters.

And there, face-up on the floor, was the dead body of Charlie Pembroke.

“T’was like y’ said,” she whispered, gathering her shawl. She looked at Charlie hauntingly from a distance. “An aneurysm. Fell flat on ‘es back, dead as nails. T’was bendin’ over to tie his shoelaces. Warned ‘em, I did, slip-ons, you know? ‘You should ‘ave slip-ons, Charlie’, I’s said, last time y’ visited, Mr. B., but he didn’t listen. Charlie never listened, but I loved ‘em. Poor, poor Charlie.”

Kneeling, Mr. Blenkinsopp set his umbrella and briefcase on the floor and respectfully straightened Charlie’s hair; he closed Charlie’s gaping eyes and mouth; he set Charle’s jaw straight; he helped Charlie appear right and proper.

“Um, it’s all right, Mrs. Pembroke,” Mr. Blenkinsopp nodded. “Not to worry. Remain by the door, please. My colleagues will arrive shortly.”

“Alright,” Mrs. Pembroke said, leaving Mr. Blenkinsopp alone with the body in the drawing room.

Reaching into his pant pocket, Mr. Blenkinsopp produced two large gold coins. They were misshapen, their edges rough and hewn. One depicted an owl; the other, the profile of a Roman centurion.

The moment he removed them, everything fell quiet.

Placing them on each of Charlie’s eyes, he muttered an ancient, arcane prayer, and made a cross on Mr. Pembroke’s forehead.

Resting a comforting hand on the corpse’s chest, Mr. Blenkinsopp prayed for Mr. Pembroke’s safe passage, for the eternal well-being of a man he never knew.

Within his ears, Mr. Blenkinsopp heard the sound of rushing water; he felt the yearning pull of a tide beneath his legs; he felt the sway and pitch of a rocking vessel; he heard the yawning, creaking sound of oars rowed against a powerful current.

Then Charlie Pembroke’s body twitched.

Who will do this when we’re gone, Mr. Blenkinsopp thought, tidying up Charlie’s clothing. Who will help? Who will see them through?

“There,” the Ferryman whispered, removing the coins from the corpse’s eyes. He smiled warmly and patted Charlie’s sweater vest. “Safely on the other side. Pip pip.”

Mr. Blenkinsopp stepped into the hallway just as an ambulance and social worker arrived on the front lawn.

Raising his hat to Mrs. Pembroke, Mr. Blenkinsopp left through the front door and gave a wide berth to the medics approaching with a gurney.

“Mrs. Applebaum,” he said, cheerfully greeting the social worker accompanying the medics.

“Mr. Blenkinsopp,” Mrs. Applebaum smiled, passing by.

“And a good day to you, Mrs. Pembroke.”

“G’night, Mr. B.,” she waved as Mrs. Applebaum escorted her back inside.

And Reginald P. Blenkinsopp made his way up Elmwood Avenue, back to the bus stop, eager for another ride up top, then home, before sunset.