by Ross Turner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I write short stories, novels and poetry. I study Creative Writing at the University of Gloucestershire, and am a member of the Royal Air Force Reserves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Undertaker’s Coffin<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Prepare to feed,\u2019 I say. \u2018Feed.<\/em>\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n The six Pallbearers are lined up in\nthree pairs. The Uncle and the younger Brother \u2013 the two shortest, and\ntherefore the front-most pair \u2013 reach into the yawning hearse. They grasp the\ntwo nearest handles, on either side of the pale, pine coffin, and pull. I have\nalready removed the goose neck \u2013 the stopper which keeps the coffin secure\nwhilst in transport. I left the rubber-tipped pegs in so it feeds out straight.\nThe coffin fires out head first, overshoots, crashes into the second pair of\nPallbearers\u2019 thighs, clatters to the floor; a thick shard of wood splinters off\none corner, skitters off over the tarmac.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Close my eyes, sigh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018It\u2019s on rollers, gentlemen,\u2019 I say.\n\u2018You have to feed slowly.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Five Pallbearers nod in dumb unison.\nThe sixth stands, winces, clutches his thigh. At my gesture, they gather around\nthe coffin, right it, lift it, feed it back into the hearse feet first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018In position,\u2019 I say. They line up\nlike toy soldiers. Dead serious. \u2018Prepare to feed. Feed.<\/em>\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cautious this time, the front pair\nfeed to the middle pair \u2013 Father and Friend \u2013 who in turn feed to the taller\nback pair \u2013 Cousin and older Brother \u2013 and all six face inwards. Eye each other.\nCoffin waist-high. Hands beneath the wood moulding base.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Prepare to lift. Lift.<\/em>\u2019 Coffin ascends. \u2018Slow. Dignified.\nLevel.\u2019 Ear panels come to eye-height. \u2018Outward, turn<\/em>.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Half turn one way, half the other. Coffin\nspills off unmatched shoulders, topples to the ground at normal speed. CRACK. Latch pins burst. Lid flies open. In my mind, I see coffin\ninnards vomiting over the tarmac, spewing corpse valance in front of the\nblackened bereaved. Fortunately, no one is there to see. The ruptured coffin lies\nempty, lined hollow white. The sound skips around the otherwise empty\npractice-yard. It\u2019s rare, I think, to have a Bearer Party as bad as this. It\u2019s\na good job Alice isn\u2019t in her grave yet, or she\u2019d already be turning in it. I\nreassure her \u2013 I\u2019ll whip them into shape if it kills me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Alright, gentlemen,\u2019 I say. \u2018Let\u2019s\ntry again.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Right the coffin, close the lid, hook\nup the latch receivers. Lift, twist, re-feed into the hearse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Gentlemen.\u2019 I rub my eyes. \u2018It\u2019s in\nbackwards, gentlemen.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Feed, rotate, re-feed. Time for a\nshort break. Dumb nods \u2013 dumb nobs. Inside, out of sight. Breathe. Breathe\nagain. Roy Palmer: experienced, empathetic Undertaker, exquisite funeral\nprovider. Before today, the hardest thing about my job was dressing overweight,\ndead people. But they\u2019re always compliant \u2013 malleable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Whenever a gentleman comes in for me\nto dress who takes a size 9, I always ask to try his shoes. I prefer brown\nleather if I\u2019m honest, but I wouldn\u2019t be caught dead in brown shoes \u2013 black is\nmuch smarter. In fact, I tried a pair last month. Very agreeable fellow, elderly\nchap, good taste.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Mr Graves,\u2019 I said. \u2018Might I try\nyour shoes for size?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Smart, leather shoes, two-tone \u2013\nlight black and dark black \u2013 subtle pattern, nothing too vulgar. I purchased\nthem online the next day. There was a problem with delivery though and I had to\nring customer services. Nightmare; live people try to think for themselves,\nnever listen, cause problems. The dead are much easier \u2013 much more palatable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Very good, gentlemen. Well done.\u2019\nThe coffin has been fed. It\u2019s up onto shoulders. The Pallbearers are all facing\nthe right way, arms crossed, hand on partner\u2019s shoulder. Alice would be dead\nimpressed. I pace out a dozen steps, set the training catafalque, return to the\nrear of the coffin. \u2018Now, don\u2019t forget, step with your inside foot first. Small\nsteps. Slow. Dignified. Level. Tomorrow you\u2019re bearing Alice for her final\njourney.\u2019 I place my hand on the coffin\u2019s rear face, tender. \u2018Prepare to step. Step<\/em>. Inside. Outside. Inside. Outside.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n For five paces \u2013 a generous four and\na half \u2013 all is well. I guide the coffin from the rear, palm flat, issuing\nquiet cadence. But on the fifth, the Cousin\u2019s hand slips. He\u2019s in the rear\npair, with the older Brother, carrying the head end. His shoulder tilts and the\ncoffin slides across into the Brother\u2019s head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Disperse!<\/em>\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n On that pre-arranged command, all six\nstep away. The coffin crashes to the floor again, spills its empty guts. I take\na haggard breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Again please, gentlemen.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, I make myself a roast dinner. Small,\noven-cooked turkey, complete with thick stuffing. Carrots and parsnips, cut\nlengthways. Beansprouts and cabbage, not cut at all. Roast potatoes, not too\nbig so they\u2019re crunchier. And, of course, Yorkshires. Boil the veg, use the\nwater for the gravy. Turn off the extractor. Christmas smell. Eat at my\nmahogany dining table \u2013 beautiful, dark wood. I shower, let the hot waterfall\nmassage my back, towel off, dress in beige chinos and a pink polo. Clean the\nkitchen, wipe the spotless, marble surfaces. Scrub the pots, pans, trays \u2013\ngeneric, mindless duties. Finally, place everything away, close drawers, shut\ncupboards, step out into the garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What gets bigger the more you take\naway from it? I stand above the hole, six-foot deep in irony. At the bottom,\nthe coffin. My coffin. Gorgeous dark wood mouldings, columns, ear panels.\nAlluring, tapered edges \u2013 wide and narrow in all the right places. Climb down,\nunthread the latch pins. Inside, valance spills out silk white against the\nevening. Remove my shoes, lie down. No cushioning, base hard against my back. Feels\ngood \u2013 natural. I close the lid but can\u2019t latch it from the inside. Doesn\u2019t\nmatter. Darkness hugs me. I fall asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When I wake up, I press the light on\nmy wristwatch, check the time \u2013 22:49. Raindrops patter against the hard,\nbeautiful wood, like a thousand maggots knocking quietly, asking permission to\ncreep inside and feed on my flesh. I sigh, push the lid open, close it quickly\nto keep the silk dry. Squelch my feet into my shoes, climb, go into the house\nto use the toilet. Wipe, flush, brush, bleach, flush brush again. Change into\nnightclothes, dry, warm. My bed is soft, deep, plush \u2013 extravagant valance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I am not disturbed. I do not toss and\nturn. I lie still. But sleep does not come. Check my wristwatch \u2013 01:41.\nFutile. I go back out into the garden. It\u2019s already Friday, the day of Alice\u2019s\nfuneral. Set my wristwatch alarm for 07:30. Hard wood against my back. Opaque\nair. Earthy smell. Fall asleep immediately. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The Cortege turns down Cemetery Drive at 5mph, passes between\nlisting headstones and overhanging maples, clutching the last of their leaves.\nI always request Barry \u2013 he is my preferred hearse driver, reliable, sombre,\nnever speeds. He stops the hearse at the entrance, at the edge of the carpeted\nwalkway. The family and Pallbearer cars pull up behind. Barry opens the boot,\nremoves the goose neck. Family and Pallbearer drivers open respective doors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sky is grey, cloudy. Hint of moisture\nin the air, but not quite rain. Perfect funeral weather. When I exhale, my\nbreath is just visible; it doubles back, swallows me to settle the score. Ideal\nsuit temperature \u2013 cold enough not to sweat, but not overcoat-cold. Morning is\nthe only correct time for a funeral. Paying respects should always be the first\norder of the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The funeral draws out, goes well \u2013 doesn\u2019t\ngo too badly, at least; no coffin innards are spilled. The only bad parts are\nthe parts I cannot control: the eulogies, the speakers themselves, the song.\nOnce I have commenced the service, the Mother speaks first, delivers her\neulogy. Besides what she says and how she says it, overall, I think, it\u2019s only\nmildly disrespectful to Alice. Next, the Sister speaks; she is worse,\nstuttering, crying, no respect. But the worst is yet to come. I\u2019m expecting it\n\u2013 I had the programmes printed. But that doesn\u2019t lessen the repugnance of it. I\nresume my place at the head of the service. All rise. Final farewells \u2013 cue the\nmusic. The Bee Gees, Stayin\u2019 Alive<\/em>. I\ncringe. One by one they step up to the open coffin. Blotchy faces. Red, puffy\neyes. Snivelling. Alice is the best dressed of them all. Seven clutch the rich,\ndark yew of her coffin. Three reach past that boundary, touch Alice herself. I\nwince, swallow the pastel look of her \u2013 impart a silent apology.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I often ask people what they see when\nthey look at the dead. Most say things like peacefulness, calm, contentedness;\nnone ever tell the truth. I look at Alice, see bleached beauty \u2013 unusual. But\nshe has the typical expression I have come to accept too \u2013 impatience. Not long\nnow, I promise her. Soon this will all be over, for good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Afterwards, the family thank me for a\njob well done. I tell them it\u2019s no trouble, once again offer my condolences.\nI\u2019m not in the run-of-the-mill funeral business. I love a good funeral, but it\nhas to be a good<\/em> funeral. I don\u2019t run\na sausage factory: a funeral every forty-five minutes, two doorways,\nsimultaneous exit and entry. Prepare to feed. Feed<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Bereaved scatter back to their cars,\nashes on a light breeze. Haul themselves in, belt up \u2013 having been so recently\nreminded of their mortality \u2013 and ride off into the sunset; perhaps more\naccurately, they drive away beneath the grey, forenoon sky. I turn around, look\nup, black chimney-smoke billows. There goes Alice, I think, smeared against the\nheavy clouds \u2013 free.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I get home early; on Friday\u2019s I usually do. Use the extra\ntime to make stew \u2013 mutton, with apricots. Clove of garlic, crushed. Onion,\npeeled and sliced under running water to prevent my eyes stinging. Carrots,\nthis time peeled and cut into square chunks. Cinnamon sticks and ground cumin.\nCoriander seeds and two cardamom pods, lightly crushed. Dried ginger root, good\nfor testosterone. Mace, the edible kind, not the self-defence kind. Pinch of\nstock. Splash of white wine. Spoon of good, fruit chutney. Pinch of salt and\nfresh, black pepper. Eat at the table \u2013 stroke the beautiful, dark mahogany.\nShip-shower, in and out. Towel, throw on joggers, t-shirt. Wipe down the\nkitchen, scrub it spotless, pots, pans, trays, marble. Polish knives, forks,\nspoons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Breathe again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Upstairs, slowly now. Change into my\nbest, black, three-piece suit. Made to measure, tapered. Shawl lapels with\nbuttonhole for my boutonni\u00e8re,\nblack rose, dark maroon. Fasten my cufflinks \u2013 tiny embossed coffins on my wrists. Out\ncomes my best watch, Omega, chrome-cogged face, silver links, three removed for\nthe perfect fit. Slip on my tie pin, coffin shaped, lovely tapered edges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Step out into the garden, plastic\nbags over my two-tone shoes \u2013 light black and dark black \u2013 smart, subtle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There\u2019s no alarm on my Omega, but I don\u2019t need one; it\u2019s Saturday tomorrow, no funerals. Off come the bags, in I go. Hard wood against my back. Smile. Fall asleep immediately.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":0,"template":"","categories":[398],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5341","project","type-project","status-publish","hentry","category-student-stories"],"acf":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/uniofglos.blog\/creativewriting\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/project\/5341","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/uniofglos.blog\/creativewriting\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/project"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/uniofglos.blog\/creativewriting\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/project"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/uniofglos.blog\/creativewriting\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5341"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/uniofglos.blog\/creativewriting\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5341"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/uniofglos.blog\/creativewriting\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5341"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}