Chapter Four #2
“We transport the bodies from their collection point – hospital, hospice, their home, what have you – and we bring them down here on a gurney,” I said, by way of explanation. “It’s an age-old process that I’ve carried out thousands of times.”
“Your family has been doing this kind of work for a long time, then?” asked Grace.
I grimaced. Your family. It only ever felt half-true, given that my parents were not biologically mine.
They were, in fact, my aunt and uncle, and my brother Alexander was my cousin.
Knowing how others in the industry felt about my inheritance, it curled my toes to refer to the family as being mine, let alone the business.
“The Crowthornes were funeral directors for hundreds of years. Over one hundred of them were in this house,” I said. “I confess I was never meant to be any real part of it. But that’s a story for another time.”
I saw her dark eyes widen just slightly with that curiosity again, and I almost felt the urge to tell her just a little bit more – but I let it fade.
We entered the clinical space, with its floor-to-ceiling white tiles and under-floor drainage system.
I guided her around our refrigerated rooms for the storing of the bodies, and the tall cupboards where we kept our fluids, aprons, gloves, and tools.
By the time I’d concluded the tour, Grace looked fascinated, if a little bewildered.
Her eyes lingered, especially, on the bodies beneath their sheets on the gurneys.
It warmed my heart, to be able to share this world of mine with someone.
Something about her quiet awe made it magical.
I could see she was interested, really interested.
I had to wonder how on earth a twenty-one-year-old woman from a remote farm in the Dales could find herself here, wanting to assist me in a role like this. It did seem serendipitous. Rolling up my cuffs, I dressed myself in a gown and apron, and donned a pair of blue sterile gloves.
“You’ll need to wear a set of these, too,” I said. “And that hair will need one of these fancy blue bonnets, I’m afraid.”
Without a word, she dressed and covered her hair. I was surprised not to see even the slightest hint of fear in her; not a shiver, not a shaking of the hand.
Testing her further, I beckoned her to follow me to the refrigerated room and watch as I collected our patient for the morning – an elderly woman who had lived close by.
A wealthy local who had filled in her forms and paid for her own casket and service years ago.
She was parcelled up in her bag, though I wasted no time in unzipping her and revealing her to Grace.
I watched her expression, sure that if ever there was a moment when she might suddenly baulk, it would be now. She did no such thing. Her expression remained polite and respectful, as if she saw dead bodies every day.
“You weren’t lying when you said you were comfortable around death, were you?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” she said. “It’s a natural part of the life cycle, after all.”
“Good,” I said.
I was satisfied that she had been telling me the truth, and that we weren’t wasting one another’s time. She may be new and unqualified, but her stoicism was the perfect foundation for this kind of work. I was feeling ever more hopeful.
“This lady’s name is Ethel Bates. Ordinarily, you will have met with the family or the person who is responsible for arranging her service, and you will have some idea of who she was when she was alive.
It’s important at all times to remember that they are a person who is loved, and deserving of respect at all times.
They aren’t just a number, not to us, not ever. ”
Grace met my eyes and nodded her agreement. Her small, bow-like lips betrayed no anxiety at all, if she had any.
“Now, using the sheet beneath her, help me slide her onto this worktop, and we’ll get started.”
Grace rolled up her sleeves.
Over the hours that followed, Grace surprised me ever more.
Not only did she wash Ethel from head to toe, even shampooing her thin, silvery-grey hair, but she assisted me in massaging her limbs, forcing her muscles to relax.
Even during the embalming process, she watched closely as I inserted the cannula into Ethel’s neck, and assisted me again as we encouraged the blood to drain from her limbs, to be replaced by my concoction of chemicals.
She shone, particularly, when it came to dressing and styling.
She fell into deep concentration as she studied Ethel’s photograph and gently curled her hair with hot tongs, even applying hair spray and manipulating it with a brush to get the appropriate effect.
Her breaths came slow and steady as she twirled the locks of silver-grey around her fingers to encourage a perfect helix.
“It’s the solitude you enjoy, isn’t it?” I asked, watching her expression with my heart thumping hard in my chest. “You enjoy working alone in the quiet.”
Grace’s eyes wandered to me and sparkled as she smiled, delighted to be recognised. Knowing she was understood, and that she understood me in turn.
My breath caught in my throat to see it. To know we had that love of solitude in common.