Characters

Melissa, female, Irish, age 35, married, honest and forthright.

MELISSA

Some songs you can hear every day and find they still have power over you. Perhaps it’s the subject or the melody or the first time you’ve heard it. Sometimes you hear a song, and you think why did I ever like that? It’s much the same with relationships.

One of the first instructions I got when I started was that if people asked for a song but didn’t specify the singer then it was my responsibility to make the selection. I’d always preferred the Elvis Presley version of My Way. So that’s what I did whenever I was faced with that dilemma. I mean who would deliberately choose Shirley Bassey? And if you excuse the pun Frank Sinatra has been done to death.

When I began working at the Smith & Murray Undertakers in the village I hadn’t worked outside the home in years. Paid work I mean. School work and voluntary and market research but nothing as real as what this turned out to be. We were desperate so when I saw the ad online I was in there like a bullet. Light administrative tasks were all they needed. They were overwhelmed. I was to be their temporary assistant. Their permanent Hannah Granger had been there years, so she showed me the ropes. A six-year-old could do it. Foolproof I think was the description that Hannah used.

My necessity for employment was not unique I should add. My husband George being a self-employed IT consultant (whatever that is) had only declared the minimum income for tax purposes last year so when the government assistance became available we could only claim for the minimum amount. Basically, he lied about his income so he could earn more and bring the family to Disneyland Florida for Christmas which on reflection was the stupidest idea ever as no one in the family likes theme parks except George. And of course, as a consultant he was terminated very quickly. He immediately refused to apply to the shopping center like Max next door and by the time he had come to his senses all the posts were filled.

People in their fifties have an unnatural fondness for Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers. I don’t know why. Maybe they all love the film Ghost. Hannah advised that when in doubt I should give people of choice of music, a few suggestions, and let them pick. I started to push Madonna and Britney Spears but there were no takers.

I began with three mornings per week in the office with Hannah and answered the phone and sent the letters. No hard sell of funeral packages for me. We decided we wouldn’t use the official description of Corona Virus and settled on ‘Rona’ instead, as it made us feel that what was beginning to unfurl was familiar like a friend. We wore masks at our desks but not in the kitchen as the window was open. We only smoked in the ladies’ loo. When the Burial & Funeral team were about we tended to keep our distance. Hannah is married to Jack and has three children, just like me. Last year she thought she was pregnant again, but it was a false alarm. She is constantly on a diet but basically happy. Every morning, she volunteers precisely what she has eaten the day before. She is light on fresh fruit and green vegetables but fond of rye and sourdough. Initially I just nodded but after a week I cracked under pressure and now do the same. Maybe I have Stockholm Syndrome? She is fascinated by me and everything about my family particularly my sister Martha who is a psychotherapist. After the first week she started to refer to Martha as a psychic and by the end of the month she morphed inexplicably to psycho which in truth I couldn’t correct as that is exactly how she is viewed by most of the family, even those who like her.

Hannah wears double denim at least twice a week and this gives her a strange cowgirl appearance. On the first Friday I was there she wore triple denim with the addition of a black waistcoat, and I almost asked her if she had no gay male friends. If I didn’t have to work with her I wouldn’t talk to her out of choice. Then after two weeks I realised I had more in common with her than any of my friends. George oversees the home schooling and now we have five computers in the house, one for each of us. Most days I only see the children at mealtimes. Everyone appears happy. I feel like I’m living in a dream, neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

They upped me to five days per week and offered me extra money if I went to the crematorium and help greet and seat people. This is because someone is constantly off sick. Also, I think it was to have a female present as most of those attending were women. The first one I worked at was for Alice Butler, aged 64 and she wanted some reggae so UB40 was my suggestion. She had no family, just friends, and afterwards they all stood outside and talked for ages. We had to finally move them on as there was a full slate that afternoon. Bill Sharkey, who is the manager of the Funerals & Burials team said no matter what mood he is in, a good send-off always cheers him up. A bad one can bring you down. I smiled when he said this and thought he was another I would never speak to outside work. At home we have started to have takeaway food for dinner at least twice a week. I suspect they are doing this during the day as well.

George has got some remote IT consultancy work, so he does this in the evenings mostly. We had to do a complete financial stock take and the verdict is we are in trouble. We can’t manage all the bills, so we must economise. We have cancelled some credit cards and moved to zero-interest accounts. Foolproof indeed. George has spent hours on the phone to British Airways trying to get a refund on the holiday. One evening I switched on Netflix and noted that someone has watched every season of Breaking Bad in the last three weeks. I should be worried but I’m not. At least I get out every day.

Bill Sharkey’s wife Sharon died last week. It was a short illness at home then into hospital and then three days later gone. She was only thirty-five. Considering what we work with every day this has impacted the team in a most profound way. Bill has taken two weeks off and they have drafted in Catherine from the central team to help. She will essentially cover all Bill’s duties. At Charlie Hill’s service on Monday, I learned all about Catherine. She is ex-military and says she has an excellent work/life balance. When she finishes work she goes home and drinks, mainly wine and then gin in that order. She wants to retire when she is forty-five and move to the Cotswolds. She’s very hot on counting the numbers of attendees and once the quota is reached she won’t let anyone in. Last week a woman nearly missed her husband’s funeral because she was late getting there. Catherine had to roughly remove a third cousin to mollify her. We have also noticed funeral groupies trying to get in where they do not belong. I suppose people are getting bored at home or maybe there has always been an urban tribe who have a fondness for funerals or perhaps that’s what old people have always done. Catherine has advised me to keep a list of serial offenders and to turn up the volume on the speakers in the hall of rest to drown out the weeping.

We got to September and Hannah started to cry alone in the ladies’. Initially I didn’t ask, as I didn’t want to reinforce negative behaviour; however, as it continued I felt I needed to acknowledge the red eyes, sniffling and the number of tissues that were being discarded on a regular basis. Eventually I said she had to tell me what this was all about. Reluctantly she agreed but asked me not to tell Martha the psycho and I of course agreed. She said she was lost. She said it in a little girl voice and then sobbed. Is that it? I wanted to scream. The whole bloody country’s lost! But I didn’t say anything. I gave her some more tissues and went to the loo to compose myself, and when I came out Bill Sharkey, now back at work, was waiting for me and asked if he could kiss me. I said not now, and he responded with a desperate if not now when?

When I get back to the office Hannah says that if she had carried the baby full term it would be one year old this week. She is sad she lost the baby but glad that she hasn’t got a young child now with everything going on. She says she feels guilty and can talk to no one about any of this. Strangely I’m not surprised. I ask if she thinks it was a girl or a boy and she says boy. When we finish up for the day I take some flowers from the big walk-in fridge downstairs, and we go for walk along the river and over the bridge to the old graveyard. We walk a bit and eventually I find what we need. The gravestone says John-Michael Griffith deceased 1869 age eight months. I give her the flowers and tell her to put them on the grave. I say we are burying the baby that was never born. We both cry; her for her loss and me of course for my life. When we have done we walk hand in hand to the gate and I sense the weight is gone. We never speak of John-Michael again. But I know that if she wants to she knows she can.

The next week Bill asks me again. He says he thinks I’m hot stuff and I instantly consider having Donna Summer’s version of Hot Stuff played at my own funeral. He says life is short and he might die tomorrow. He says he wants to make love to me once and assures me that I won’t forget it.

I throw caution to the wind, as they say, and despite what the bereaved families and partners request I arrange songs that I particularly like to be played at the funerals I work at and alternate Bette Davis Eyes with My Heart Will Go On and nobody complains. If I’m still here at Christmas I will play Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth for all of December.

I meet Bill one evening at the bench at the end of the road after declaring that I’m going for a walk. We drive to the woods behind the factory and have sex with the seats put back. As I straddle him I look at his face which, I think is peaceful like he is praying and feel heat like electricity between the two of us. It is an experience I will never forget because it is intimate, and dangerous and innocent all at the same time. When we finally finish we lie uncomfortably in the dark and say nothing. He drops me at the bench, and I stroll home. The children are watching television in silence the lounge all huddled on the couch, and I instantly sense something is wrong. They tell me George is in the study. When I go in I see he has been drinking the good cognac and his dark sadness has returned. I sit with him, hold his hand, and watch the clock.

Will we be alright? He asks after fifteen minutes; his eyes pleading and his mouth tight with confusion. Yes, I say, because it’s all I have.