—
Andrew tended not to stick around after the funerals. On the few occasions he had, he’d ended up having to make awkward conversation with funeral directors or last-minute rubberneckers. It was remarkable how many of the latter you would get, hanging around outside, farting out inane platitudes. Andrew was well practiced at slipping away so as to avoid such encounters, but today he’d briefly been distracted by a sign on the church noticeboard advertising the troublingly jaunty “Midsummer Madness Fete!” when he felt someone tapping him on the shoulder with the insistence of an impatient woodpecker. It was the vicar. He looked even younger close up, with his baby-blue eyes and blond curtains parted neatly in the middle, as if his mum might have done it for him.
“Hey, it’s Andrew, isn’t it? You’re from the council, right?”
“That’s right,” Andrew said.
“No luck finding any family then?”
Andrew shook his head.
“Shame, that. Real shame.”
The vicar seemed agitated, as if he were holding on to a secret that he desperately wanted to impart.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Yes,” Andrew said, quickly deciding on an excuse for why he couldn’t attend “Midsummer Madness!”
“How did you find that?” the vicar said.
“Do you mean . . . the funeral?” Andrew said, pulling at a bit of loose thread on his coat.
“Yeah. Well, more specifically my part in it all. Because, full disclosure, it was my first. I was quite relieved to be starting with this one, to be honest, because there wasn’t anybody here so it sort of felt like a bit of a practice run. Hopefully now I’m fully prepared for when there’s a proper one with a church full of friends and family, not just a guy from the council. No offense,” he added, putting a hand on Andrew’s arm. Andrew did his best not to recoil. He hated it when people did that. He wished he had some sort of squidlike defense that meant he could shoot ink into their eyes.
“So yeah,” the vicar said. “How’d you think I did?”
What do you want me to say? Andrew thought. Well, you didn’t knock the coffin over or accidentally call the deceased “Mr. Hitler,” so ten out of ten I’d say.
“You did very well,” he said.
“Ah, great, thanks, mate,” the vicar said, looking at him with renewed intensity. “I really appreciate that.”
He held out his hand. Andrew shook it and went to let go, but the vicar carried on.
“Anyway, I better be off,” Andrew said.
“Yes, yes of course,” said the vicar, finally letting go.
Andrew started off down the path, breathing a sigh of relief at escaping without further interrogation.
“See you soon I hope,” the vicar called after him.
— CHAPTER 2 —
The funerals had been given various prefixes over the years—“public health,” “contract,” “welfare,” “Section 46”—but none of the attempted rebrands would ever replace the original. When Andrew had come across the expression “pauper’s funeral” he’d found it quite evocative; romantic, even, in a Dickensian sort of way. It made him think of someone a hundred and fifty years ago in a remote village—all mud and clucking chickens—succumbing to a spectacular case of syphilis, dying at the fine old age of twenty-seven and being bundled merrily into a pit to regenerate the land. In practice, what he experienced was depressingly clinical. The funerals were now a legal obligation for councils across the UK, designed for those who’d slipped through the cracks—their death perhaps only noticed because of the smell of their body decomposing, or an unpaid bill. (It had been on several occasions now where Andrew had found that the deceased had enough money in a bank account for direct debits to cover utility bills for months after their death, meaning the house was kept warm enough to speed up their body’s decomposition. After the fifth harrowing instance of this, he’d considered mentioning it in the “Any other comments” section on his annual job satisfaction survey. In the end he went with asking if they could have another kettle in the shared kitchen.)
Another phrase he had become well acquainted with was “The Nine O’Clock Trot.” His boss, Cameron, had explained its origin to him while violently piercing the film on a microwavable biryani. “If you die alone”—stab, stab, stab—“you’re most likely buried alone too”—stab, stab, stab—“so the church can get the funeral out of the way at nine o’clock, safe in the knowledge that every train could be canceled”—stab—“every motorway gridlocked”—stab—“and it wouldn’t make a difference.” A final stab. “Because nobody’s on their way.”
In the previous year Andrew had arranged twenty-five of these funerals (his highest annual total yet). He’d attended all of them, too, though he wasn’t technically required to do so. It was, he told himself, a small but meaningful gesture for someone to be there who wasn’t legally obligated. But increasingly he found himself watching the simple, unvarnished coffins being lowered into the ground in a specially designated yet unmarked plot, knowing they would be uncovered three or four more times as other coffins were fitted in like a macabre game of Tetris, and think that his presence counted for nothing.
—
As Andrew sat on the bus to the office, he inspected his tie and shoes, both of which had seen better days. There was a persistent stain on his tie, origin unknown, that wouldn’t budge. His shoes were well polished but starting to look worn. Too many nicks from churchyard gravel, too many times the leather had strained where he’d curled his toes at a vicar’s verbal stumble. He really should replace both, come payday.
Now that the funeral was over, he took a moment to mentally file away John (surname Sturrock, he discovered, having turned on his phone). As ever, he tried to resist the temptation to obsess over how John had ended up in such a desperate position. Was there really no niece or godson he was on Christmas-card terms with? Or an old school friend who called, even just on his birthday? But it was a slippery slope. He had to stay as objective as possible, for his own sake, if only to be mentally strong enough to deal with the next poor person who ended up like this. The bus stopped at a red light. By the time it went green Andrew had made himself say a final good-bye.
He arrived at the office and returned Cameron’s enthusiastic wave with a more muted acknowledgment of his own. As he slumped into his well-weathered seat, which had molded itself to his form over the years, he let out a now sadly familiar grunt. He’d thought having only just turned forty-two he’d have a few more years before he began accompanying minor physical tasks by making odd noises, but it seemed to be the universe’s gentle way of telling him that he was now officially heading toward middle age. He only imagined before too long he’d wake up and immediately begin his day bemoaning how easy school exams were these days and bulk-buying cream chinos.
He waited for his computer to boot up and watched out of the corner of his eye as his colleague Keith demolished a hunk of chocolate cake and methodically sucked smears of icing from his stubby little fingers.
“Good one, was it?” Keith said, not taking his eyes off his screen, which Andrew knew was most likely showing a gallery of actresses who’d had the temerity to age, or something small and furry on a skateboard.
“It was okay,” Andrew said.
“Any rubberneckers?” came a voice from behind him.
Andrew flinched. He hadn’t seen Meredith take her seat.
“No,” he said, not bothering to turn around. “Just me and the vicar. It was his very first funeral, apparently.”
“Bloody hell, what a way to pop your cherry,” Meredith said.
“Better that than a room full of weepers, to be fair,” Keith said, with one final suck of his little finger. “You’d be shitting piss, wouldn’t you?”