NOW SHOWING
‘Treasure Trove!’ said a ruddy-faced man on the doorstep, though it seemed to cost him some effort. ‘We spoke on the telephone.’
Irish.
‘Mr. O’Dowd,’ I replied, recognizing his sketch from the Yellow Pages.
The hallway was a squeeze, but he seemed familiar enough with bottleneck canyons. Mr. O’Dowd planted a cigarette fairly and squarely between his lips, lit it, and set about a routine. I left him to tramp the rooms upstairs and down. It was comforting to hear someone else walking the boards.
The post was lying on the floor, most conspicuously a tubular package from Brevitt and Sons Funeral Home.
I froze.
More of Vera’s fragments?
Apprehensively, I sliced it open.
Not to worry. Melissa Braithwaite had sent a copy of the Birmingham Evening Mail—the front-page headline a regrettable ‘POL POT FEARED DEAD’—so that I would have a record of Ma’s death announcement in the classifieds on page seventy-eight.
The tiny column indicated a funeral service in St. John the Baptist at 10:45 am, followed by cremation at Lodge Hill at 11. Strange, I thought. It would take at least twenty minutes to drive from the church in Longbridge to the crematorium in Selly Oak—loading and unloading. Services were shorter these days, I guessed. But how did they manage a schedule like that? Was it a misprint? Did I care?
Strangely I did. I cared that someone had dispatched Ma properly.
Grief working on my soul at last.
Where was the time to carry out Vera’s wishes—so clearly spelled out on her prepaid funeral form—to sing ‘Abide with Me’ and ‘Jesu, Lover of My Soul’ return her to the hearse, drive to Lodge Hill cemetery, say prayers, cremate the body and then scatter ashes over a Garden of Remembrance? An hour or more, surely.
‘These clothes for me?’ yelled Mr. O’Dowd from the front bedroom.
‘Women’s shelter.’
‘Pity, because . . . fur stole . . . goodness . . . .’ His grim voice trailed off like rosary mumbo.
He appeared on the landing as though he’d seen a ghost but was trying desperately to be upbeat about that as well. Maybe he had seen her. Vera was part of the floral wallpaper, not just ashes open in an urn on the hall window sill (I’d misplaced the lid). Or maybe it was a shock that Vera’s fur—like the rest of her expensive-looking wardrobe—was fake, steadfastly synthetic.
‘Long way from home then, are you?’ he said.
In an elbow-patched jacket, Mr. O’Dowd was every bit the farmer, an impression deepened by his muddied—or dunged—wellington boots. And that his card indicated a dairy business as well as ‘collectibles’.
‘In a manner of speaking. Where are you from?’
He lumbered down the stairs, cigarette ash tumbling on his notes.
‘Out Kidderminster way. Never forget your roots though, do you?’ he said, sighing with the weightiness of reflection.
‘Never.’
Well over fifty, Mr. O’Dowd hooked a strand of longish hair over his ear and tapped his belly. He was trying to be jaunty—but with such a tragic expression—that I began to sense something chronically wrong.
‘We all come from somewhere,’ he added.
Platitudes-while-you-work. Maybe this was how he cheered himself up. Puss in Boots—the man was not really interested in conversation.
‘Don’t we,’ I replied, sellotaping a pack of dominoes.
Mr. O’Dowd dragged feverishly on the cigarette, jotting one thing after another on his clipboard. A nostril-nipping odour of manure—or putrefaction—rising with the trail of nicotine. Livestock? I couldn’t make it out.
‘Marked sofa, stereo functional. Hm, hm,’ he went on, smoke billowing from his nostrils. ‘First-rate job of organizing, Mr. Jones, I might say. Makes my chore a lot easier.’
I nodded.
He gave off the kind of authority one immediately finds suspect. The drinker’s marshmallow nose made him seem precarious. A secret, devastating life behind closed doors, perhaps. Or was it the desultory chatter-patter as he sifted and shuffled the detritus in his midst?
‘My condolences, by the way,’ he said, peering at the underside of a serving dish. ‘Mrs. Jones was one of a kind, so I heard. Adored by everyone hereabouts.’
‘Saint,’ I replied. Such was the popular—and misguided—fancy.
‘Was she getting old?’ he enquired, stirring about in a box containing the many—and highly ornamented—clocks that graced Vera’s universe.
‘Eighty-two.’
‘Ah, well.’
He held up one of the more spectacular clocks, a petite face in a bonnet of golden plastic sunburst. Bow-tied at the chin in glitter.
‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘Just needs a battery.’
‘Her heart gave out,’ I told him.
Though he must have spent a good deal of time in Birmingham, clearing the vestiges of poverty from deceased pensioners’ council houses, I noticed he couldn’t hide disappointment at the inventory of number 3 Edenhurst.
‘Wonky tickers,’ he replied. ‘Most of them go that way.’
I wished I had something more remarkable to sell him, raise his dampened spirits. But surely he didn’t expect a windfall from the Joneses’ house. This was Longbridge Lane, not Solihull.
‘She ran on a pig’s valve,’ I told him. ‘Had it fitted years ago.’
‘That so? Pig, hm?’
‘She always said it’d outlive her.’
‘Saved her bacon though eh, Mr. Jones?’
‘Right.’
The clocks weren’t just garish. Mr. O’Dowd didn’t know how much I wanted to trample their imperturbable faces, hurl them against windows for the unlived hours they’d counted. It was I who should have opened up. Not Vera. Or Mr. O’Dowd.
‘We had more clocks than the Swiss,’ I explained.
Together we gazed at these ugly, planetary faces. He nodded sadly at the numerals. I felt like I’d brought down the sky itself from Vera’s home and crammed it into banana boxes.
Mr. O’Dowd snapped out of distraction—as did I—and moved away.
The man’s bringing me to rock bottom, I thought, as we went in and out of rooms like chill air. He was better left alone. I needed respite.
Ring Melissa Braithwaite, why don’t you? There must have been a funeral somewhere in the split second allotted by Brevitt and Sons. I had to find out how they managed it.
‘I know, sir,’ Melissa said, at the funeral end, ‘it does seem a bit rushed, doesn’t it? But Lodge Hill is a hectic place after the winter months.’
‘How about at St. John’s—the church service? Two hymns, prayers, plus the drive. In fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes, Mr. Jones. Probably less than that.’
‘Less?’
‘‘Abide with Me’ as the casket goes down the aisle. They only sing one verse, two at most. Short prayer from the vicar and a few words. Congregation says “Amen.” “Jesu, Lover of my Soul” on the way back out. The casket doesn’t have to stay until singing finishes. Anyway, it’s only a verse or two. Down Longbridge Lane to the Bristol Road in our hearse. Traffic’s very light of a weekday morning. Brevitt’s drivers know all the speed traps; put their foot down when they need to.’
‘Crafty,’ I said, imagining Melissa’s frisson. How did St. John’s geriatrics keep up? With artificial hips and walking sticks, titanium knee joints and wobbly walkers. Most of them travelled by bus, if they spotted one.
‘The crematorium operates on a “first-come” basis. But weekday mornings are slow. Your mother’s lucky day! No waiting in a queue, most like. Coffin goes down the chapel and onto a platform. Mourners at the side entrance. Short prayer . . . .’
‘Congregation says “Amen”?’
‘Exactly. It sounds a hurry. But done with the greatest of respect, Mr. Jones. I know it would have been a lovely funeral. Your mother so insisted on the Basic Package.’
‘It cost over a thousand pounds.’
Melissa was adept at the pause.
‘Melissa?’
‘The actual cremation takes place after the congregation has left,’ she sailed on. ‘Exit right, that is. The ashes stowed as requested. All tags are removed from bouquets laid down outside on the grass and are given to family—I believe you received yours—so that thank-you notes may be posted to the senders.’
Melissa was reading to me.
I felt giddy.
The whole drama sounded like fast-forward Lego. How could you honour someone’s life ushered in and out like that?
But then again, I had not even shown up in England. Remained at my post at Toronto’s Union Station—’Lost and Found’ attendant for rail commuters.
Ma and I had history.
‘Lots of people are involved, Mr. Jones. Before and after the actual funeral. It’s a pity you couldn’t view the body here in our Sanctuary of Rest, for instance. A lot of people viewed. Your mother looked very peaceful.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘It was everything she wanted, Mr. Jones.’
‘It was.’
‘One little thing before we hang up the telephone, sir.’
I want the money back, Melissa. ‘Yes?’
‘The urn, Mr. Jones.’
‘It’s here. Open on my window sill for all to see.’
‘Lovely,’ purred Melissa. ‘We included our statement with the Birmingham newspaper.’
‘Statement?’
‘Our account, sir. For the urn.’
‘I guess it’s not part of the Basic?’
‘Oh, no.’
I left her a pause.
‘Can I be of any more assistance then, Mr. Jones?’ she said, compassionately. No challenging this young miss.
‘Hardly,’ I replied, failing to sound as gracious and charming as Melissa Braithwaite.
‘Our condolences once again, Mr. Jones,’ she added.
‘Just don’t bill me for them,’ I said, putting down the link to Breakneck Cremation.
Now I knew.
Vera had anticipated the farce of her remaining minutes on earth. I guarantee she was feeling less than peaceful in their Sanctuary of Rest at Brevitt and Sons. Stretched out and viewed in the Basic Package. The old warhorse was bracing herself for next day’s disposal. A smirk on that painted face.
Brevitt’s runs on piecework. The Sons must be on permanent holiday with that kind of income per mummy. What a lucrative market. The English Midlands was crawling with the near dead.
But before I could worry any more about Vera’s funfair funeral or a replacement urn lid, the O’Dowd wandered past—like Hamlet’s ghost—on his way to the back room.
Chronic depression in shitty wellies.
I shadowed him to the garden pond. Spring air of early May. I was hoping it would revive him. And me.
Over the ramparts at number 5 Edenhurst, the white-haired neighbours were taking advantage of improved weather: Ted Barton mowing their lawn; Nelly, his wife, hanging out an extensive weekly wash before clouds drew in from the Lickey Hills. On noticing Mr. O’Dowd and Enoch-the-Unmentionable-Absentee, they made a hasty move indoors.
‘What’s in the water?’ said Mr. O’Dowd, scribbling another price on his notepad.
‘Fish.’
‘Can’t see a perishing thing.’
‘Minnows and carp, I think. You’d have to use a net.’
‘We’ll dredge,’ he said boldly. ‘Don’t you sweat.’
‘You sell fish?’
‘Someone’ll eat ‘em,’ he replied.
The man’s spirits had collapsed irrevocably. He sat for a moment on Vera’s wooden bench. Laying aside the notes, he placed hands on knees and peered into blackwater. His gloomy expression moved me.
‘Is everything okay, Mr. O’Dowd?’
He gazed at the ripples as though deciphering messages. ‘Fine, Mr. Jones.’
‘Only you look a bit peaky.’
‘Do I?’
‘We can take a break, you know. Would you like a drink of something?’
‘Whisky?’ he said, rather promptly.
‘Yes, there is some.’
I brought him a glass and we sat staring at the pond. I glanced over at Ted Barton’s ground zero mowing and at Nelly’s skirts and blouses tripping about like a chorus line. Faces moved away from the Barton kitchen window.
‘Maudlin, really,’ he said after a few minutes.
He was coming out with it at last. I hoped it wasn’t too bleak.
‘Lost a Friesian,’ he mumbled.
At first I didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘Started running backwards last afternoon. Squealing and snorting, she was. Then dropped down dead in the brook.’
Mr. O’Dowd had lost a cow.
I had to keep calm. People lost dogs and hamsters all the time—and were accorded a most respectful understanding. Pets were family.
But a cow?
‘I’m very sorry, Mr. O’Dowd,’ I said. This was my first experience of someone with a close personal relationship to a dairy animal. ‘Had you known each other long?’
‘Years. She wasn’t like the others.’
What do you say next? She won’t be a burger between someone’s buns? Was that an unkind remark?
In some confusion, I looked up at the Barton house. Nelly and Ted had now shifted. From their back-bedroom window, two wintry heads showed above the netting. Like Friesians in a stall, really. How I wished they would start running backwards.
‘I’ll get over it, Mr. Jones,’ he said, slugging back the whisky. ‘Just as you will your mother.’
‘Enoch.’
‘Enoch.’
‘It’s very painful to lose someone you love,’ I suggested, getting into it. But sounding like Melissa Braithwaite.
He looked at me strangely. ‘Not taking the piss are you?’
‘Not at all, Mr. O’Dowd. I know a great deal about loss, if you want the truth.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, standing up. ‘The grief an’ all.’
‘I understand.’
Grief. Mr. O’Dowd had helped me into darkness. Thank you, Mr. O’Dowd. Memories—that gift as old as Methuselah—memories I’d rather have evaded, would have their fullest innings this time around.
O’Dowd held out his tumbler rather imploringly.
‘Drop more?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt, would it?’
I waved hello to the Bartons upstairs as we strolled past the shed to the French door. I wouldn’t want to be rude.
Ghost and shadow back inside; Mr. O’Dowd following me to the whisky which, like much of the house, was inside a box in the hall.
Treasure Trove’s thundercloud had lifted slightly by the time he’d quaffed a second scotch and lit up yet another cigarette. I sensed he’d enjoy further drinks for the road, but truly this was enough. There was only so much road to prepare for. The listing of Vera’s possessions—and the Friesian bereavement—had worn me down.
Mr. O’Dowd stood by the front door—in light from a hall window—doing his final arithmetic with a stubby pencil, cigarette and smoke writhing between his dentures. ‘Twenty-six, four hundred and . . .’
Without a word and in great solemnity, at last he handed me a folded sheet of paper and turned away. Sums for the schoolmaster.
Cautiously—to accommodate his fragile state—I opened it as if handling one of those Shakespeare Folios—’Seven hundred and seventy-five pounds, all found,’ it read. ‘Full house clearance for Mr. Jones.’
Least it wasn’t 666.
His calculations seemed fair enough. I was encouraged. This was the highest quote yet. Three had preceded his.
As I considered the offer, Mr. O’Dowd grew impatient, as though he didn’t know where to look, penned in between boxes.
All of a sudden—as I was about to accept the man’s price—he inhaled a mammoth drag from his cigarette and ground it out in the urn: Vera’s ashes innocently minding their own business on the window sill.
I gasped.
O’Dowd was startled—and fell back against the door, his stain of a nose ripening with alarm.
‘I know,’ he moaned, ‘but what can I do?’
His forehead was shiny; he wrung his hands.
‘No, no, Mr. O’Dowd, it’s okay,’ I said, gazing from urn to the man’s anguished face.
‘Look,’ he said, mustering his forces. ‘Let’s make it an even eight hundred. Eight hundred quid and the house cleared and scrubbed like a baby’s bum?’
Clapping his hands, he made mincemeat of a deal.
‘Fine, fine, Mr. O’Dowd,’ I said appeasingly, still mesmerized by the filter-tip poking out of my mother. ‘Done.’
‘Phew,’ he said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I thought we’d lost you at the crucial moment!’
Mr. O’Dowd grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. There was a not ungritty dust on his fingertips—and now in my palm. He bounced down the slope towards his Land Rover.
‘Saturday week do you?’ he shouted, beaming. ‘Nine?’
‘Perfect!’ I called back, brushing my fingers.
He must have been more accustomed to calling across acres of pasture than a Grove. Out in the road his personality was transformed. Had I been the one to make his mood darken?
‘Cheerio then, Mr. Jones!’ he said, waving.
‘What was her name, by the way?’ I called out.
‘Whose?’
‘The dairy animal.’
‘No name,’ he replied.
‘Just a pretty face, Mr. O’Dowd?’
‘Great flanks,’ he roared back, winking.
Did I understand this man at all?
‘Treasure Trove at your service, Mr. Jones!’ he bellowed, giving a forelock salute before leaping into the driver’s seat. Buccaneer at his wheel.
I stared at the urn and closed the door.
‘Don’t say a dicky-bird,’ I told Vera, reaching in and exhuming the cigarette nub. ‘Be thankful it wasn’t a cigar.’
I knew Vera would get a tickle out of Mr. O’Dowd’s using her as an ashtray. Just as she’d find her funeral a hoot—all those Pinky and Perky people scurrying to get her to the grill on time.
When she let herself enjoy it, Vera had the chirpiest sense of humour in all Longbridge. Wasn’t this the best? For the first time since arriving in Birmingham, I missed the ancient baggage. A mountain-sized chuckle in that wronged life of hers.
I was hearing Vera at last. Wasn’t I? Laughter? Giggling. The way she turned aside to bury it, clutching her skirt like a shy child.
Memories gained on me.
Before I could take a step further, tears stung my eyes.
For the rest of her days, Vera would have told neighbours up and down Edenhurst about Mr. O’Dowd’s cigarette. She’d have had them rolling in the aisles, I just know. Maybe there’s love here somewhere, Ma. For that rare, perfect funny bone in you—another keepsake as old as Adam. Within the harshness and longing.
I stared at ash. Grizzled. Even a mad cow has its mourner, I thought. You mustn’t fear the grief.
Along the skirting board lay more unopened letters, one from the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Edgbaston. Couldn’t be a bill, I thought. How curious. Vera was National Health to her pom-pom slippers.
Wiping my eyes, I tore it open and meandered to the back room. ‘Dear Mrs. Vera Jones,’ it read. ‘Following instructions from your consultant, it has become necessary to alter your appointment at Dr. Piddick’s Coronary Clinic. A new time has been arranged for Thursday September 22nd at 4:00pm. I hope that this does not cause you any inconvenience.’
Dr. Piddick treated the living and the dead.
‘Why not show up, Ma?’ I said, tossing his letter into the empty fireplace and heading out through Vera’s French door. ‘Today, you were something else.’
***
