Vital Signs

Leicester was the first city in Britain to go into lockdown due to its high infection rate, and the social restrictions remained for eleven months. However, despite the growing number of bodies waiting to be interred, the authorities relaxed the strict rules at Christmastime to allow family gatherings. After three days of merrymaking, the city’s population returned to a state of suspended animation and awaited a miracle.

* * *

There was a nip in the air and a dusting of hoarfrost on the asphalt outside the Newbury and Cookson Funeral Home. Yesterday’s rainfall had frozen overnight and brittle ice puddles crackled under Mr Newbury’s gleaming black wingtips as he approached the front door. Thomas, his pale-faced nephew, greeted him with a protective paper mask and they proceeded to the morgue together. The young man’s voice faltered as he broached the subject of his urgent phone call. 

   “Mrs Irwell’s eyes are wide open and…” he said. “There are signs of life.”

   “Well, I'll be,” said Mr Newbury, depositing his trusty tweed overcoat on a rack in the hallway next to the congested storage chamber. Mr Newbury rolled up his shirt sleeves and snapped on a pair of Nitrile gloves as they passed eight daunting lines of body-bags, arranged in order of arrival. He’d almost forgotten how many bodies required preparation for burial and cremation and how far their hectic schedule had drifted off course. They’d got their work cut out and time wasn’t on their side. As the couple neared Mrs Irwell’s metal trolley, he noted Thomas’s hesitation before drawing back her shroud. 

   “Oh, Lordy,” he said, wincing as he peered down at the half-covered body of the elderly woman. “I see what you mean about her eyes, lad.” 

   “They follow you round the room, don’t they?” 

   Mrs Irwell’s stare was disconcerting to be sure, but at least she wasn’t sitting up and bemoaning her change of status. Certainly, it would’ve been a shock if she’d greeted him with a brief smile or a hand wave. At least, everything else looked presentable; Mrs Irwell’s coiffed grey hair was tidy, as was her makeup and manicured nails; just as he’d left her before lunch on Christmas Eve.

   Mr Newbury checked the admission details scribbled on the cardboard tag tied to the big toe on her left foot. He recognised Mr Cookson’s distinctive signature and saw the note about extracting her pacemaker and making an inventory of any jewellery removed prior to cremation. Thomas had accounted for Mrs Irwell’s personal effects and drew back the sheet to display the pale scar on her chest. Mr Newbury shook his head and sighed as he stooped forward to observe the shallow breaths passing between his client’s gently parted lips. Mrs Irwell’s breathing was all but silent, except for the delicate rasp of inhaled air catching on her epiglottis. 

   “Has Mr Cookson been informed, Tom?” 

   “He was too busy to talk, but said he was on his way,” Tom said, chewing his lip. “So I couldn’t explain.”

   “I don’t suppose Mr Gerrard’s repaired the boiler?”

   “No chance,” Thomas said, shuffling from foot to foot. “If he’d come when he promised, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

   “I’m afraid it’s a busy time of the year, lad.”

   “It’s him that’s caused this mess.”

* * *

   There was no point in continuing to work without hot water on Christmas Eve. Everyone agreed. You can’t cleanse cadavers with cold water. ‘It’s a waste of time,’ they’d said, and after a hellish week, the staff used that ready-made excuse to leave early. There’d be no more incoming deliveries over the festive weekend, so they’d just have to play ‘catch up’ afterwards. Anything left unfinished could wait, they reasoned, providing Mr Gerrard fixed the boiler on Boxing Day. Besides, the staff all had domestic preparations to attend to and were grateful to escape the unheated mortuary and return to their warm homes.

   Mr Newbury agreed to his staff’s proposal and agreed to reconvene and resume work after Boxing Day. The morgue was cold enough to prevent the onset of decay and the recumbent clients weren’t going anywhere in the foreseeable future. That was the plan. However, it didn’t work out like that. When Thomas returned to the mortuary, on the twenty-seventh of December, there was no hot water.

* * *

In previous years, it was safe to say Newbury and Cookson’s premises were closed between Xmas and new Year. Any deaths that occurred were certified and remained at the hospital morgue until the second of January. However, this wasn’t a normal festive period, and it hadn’t been an average year. The ongoing pandemic had dominated proceedings and the vast number of dead bodies requiring certification had put everybody under pressure; the situation had overwhelmed the medical community. Immediate action was necessary to reduce the backlog and avoid a tsunami of public health issues. Leicester’s healthcare Authority reached an unprecedented conclusion and granted the city’s undertakers the legal responsibility to pronounce death. 

   “So, Thomas,” said Mr Newbury. “You arrived first thing and---”

   “The boiler wouldn’t fire up and I wanted to get started.”

   “Given the impending circumstances, you had no choice.”

   “I filled a bucket with cold water and grabbed a sponge.”

   “Surely the water must have been freezing first thing?”

   “That’s right, and I slapped a sponge-full on her chest.”

   “Clearly you heard an exhale as her chest tightened?”

   “Yes, but I didn’t expect a loud gasp afterwards.”

   “An inhalation, Thomas? Are you sure about---?”

   “Her eyes popped open. Wide open they were.”

   “And she’s been breathing ever since?”

   “Too right, and staring at me as well.”

* * *

It was a simple matter for Mr Newbury to check her jugular vein and determine a subtle pulse. He pursed his lips, drew a thoughtful breath, and nodded at Thomas. Mrs Irwell’s pulse was weak, but present nonetheless. Thomas called the emergency services’ number and joined the automated queuing system. ‘Damn it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We’re fourth in line.’ 

In the meantime, Mr Newbury grabbed as many sheets as he could find. There really wasn’t much choice in the matter. The couple lay them on top of Mrs Irwell. What else could they do?  

  “Won’t her eyes go all cloudy or something?” 

   Mr Newbury bit his lip and frowned.

   “We could try a damp flannel on her face.” 

   Mr Newbury shrugged. 

   “It can’t do any harm.”

   It was worth a try.

Mr Newbury prayed there’d be no more surprises, as there were plenty more bodies to attend to. With any luck, this would be the only unforeseen encounter, and the low room temperature would act in their favour. This situation wasn’t what he needed after a fraught Christmas pussy-footing around his relatives’ fragile sensibilities. 

   Soon after Thomas requested an emergency response team, Mr Cookson called to say he’d been delayed and would join them mid-afternoon. Mr Newbury was relieved his colleague wouldn’t be attending immediately. Mr Cookson was well known for his extravagant social life and the thought of him barging into the current crisis with a combination of tactless opinions and a raging hangover wasn’t an appealing prospect.

* * *

The two Emergency Medics who arrived before lunchtime were harassed and over worked. ‘What a palaver,’ they said on arrival. ‘It’s been non-stop all weekend.’ Neither had had a break over Christmas and were rushed off their feet because of ‘merrymakers, merrymaking over the festive weekend.’ The local A&E department was less busy than normal and still cautious about admissions because of viral contagion. The hospital’s authorities had discouraged unnecessary visits, leading to a sharp increase in call-outs to private addresses. A welcome respite for the hospital staff, but a nightmare for the paramedics. The majority of domestic injuries they’d attended had involved the consumption of cheap alcohol bought in bulk from local supermarkets. However, most of the injuries were either twisted ankles, scalded wrists or severe carpet burns, caused by inebriated family members negotiating cluttered pathways between their sofas and the nearest kettle. 

   “So, where’s your reincarnation job, lads?” said the assistant medic, charging-up his defibrillator in the nearest plug socket.

   “Mrs Irwell’s lying over here and---‘’

   “Let’s ‘ave a butcher’s, then.”

   Thomas led the senior medic to Mrs Irwell’s trolley and removed the flannel from her eyes and the shroud from her upper torso. 

   “Right, let’s see what’s occurring.” The medic leaned over Mrs Irwell with his stethoscope and navigated its diaphragm over her chest. He felt for a pulse in her wrist and shook his head. “Hmm… I’m having no luck.”

   “Any vital signs, boss?”

   Raising an eyebrow, he looked up at Mr Newbury, who grimaced in response.

   “Less than diddly-squat, matey,” he said, shrugging as he turned to his assistant. “There’s neither an obvious heartbeat, nor any sign of respiration, and her eyelids are closed, contrary to what we were led to believe.”

   “What about your defibrillator?”

   “Only works on a beating heart, lad.”

   “But she was breathing and…” Thomas frowned, “I saw her staring at me---”

   “Well, young man,” said the senior medic. “We’re all in luck, because now we’re onto our next job and you’ve no explaining to do.”

   “Not so great for Mrs Irwell, though.”

   “At least she lost no sleep over who cremated this year’s Christmas turkey.”

* * *

   “Look alive, you two!” It was business as usual when Mr Cookson arrived at three o’clock that afternoon. “Come on, Newbury. We’ve got a backlog to clear.” 

   Mr Newbury couldn’t help but smile and shook his head in disbelief. Under the circumstances, it could’ve been far worse. If his colleague had clocked into work on time, God only knows how events would’ve played out. 

   “Haven’t either of you lazy-bones sorted out Mrs Irwell’s pacemaker?”

   “I’ve made an inventory of her effects and---”

   “Damn it, lad!” said Mr Cookson, brandishing a curved bone saw in his right fist. “Do I have to do everything round here?”

   “Well, we thought---”

   “I didn’t see that one coming,” he said, pointing the serrated blade at Thomas’ chest. “I’ve reset the boiler and certified five stiffs since arriving here.”

   “Sorry, but we had a problem with---”

   “Shake a lad, young man. We’ve work to do…”

The End