Reginald LePlank’s business card lists him as a worker in wood. It also claims that he will create anything that can be depicted in that very medium. At least that is what it says. And thus it used to be. Reg could turn a piece of good mahogany or beautifully grained deal into a likeness of flowers, or a family crest, or a roaring tiger—in fact he was prepared to carve the likeness of anything required by the client. And he was good. His workmanship was acclaimed wherever it was on show. But that was then. Now things are very different. It is true that his talent has not diminished in any manner, in fact it has if anything improved—become more sensitive, more sympathetic. And although business is a brisk as ever Reg’s work has taken on a singular form, and it is driving his family mad.
It began I suppose when he was asked to provide a rather special item for the recently deceased town mayor. This particular mayor was not only well known but also much revered by the townsfolk. His career had been exemplary, a model of public duty and of singular service. No complainant who knocked at his door was ever turned away. Even when there was nothing he could do to help—a sympathetic ear was always made available.
Unusually for a public figure he was also much liked. His ready laugh could always be heard on a Saturday evening at the Batchelor’s Dream, the posh one of the two local pubs.
But just like everyone else, eventually this mayor died.
The council met and when it came to funeral arrangements for the great man it was decided that they must provide something very special for this very special man. They wanted something different, unique even. They, the town council that is, recognised that the forthcoming funeral would be the very last opportunity to provide something out of the ordinary. So they went through all aspects of his funeral and eventually concluded that the only item which could possibly provide something unique but fitting was the man’s coffin.
They decided that the casket with the mayor in it would lie in state in the church for one whole week before being placed in the brand new family vault in the church grounds. The coffin then was to be the glorious commemoration to the good man.
There was no choice to be made—there was only one man who could provide an appropriate design which would flatter the mayor, be approved by the council, and appreciated by the village people who would be encouraged to visit the church to see this special creation. This was our Reg.
The design chosen from several drawn up by Reg was a head and shoulders portrait of the mayor carved in wood above a coat of arms of the village. Unfortunately this presented Reg with a problem—the parish had no coat of arms. A situation which needed to be remedied—and fast.
After much argument the choice was made—a shield on a bed of oak branches divided into four segments each containing an aspect of village life.
A cow gently grazing would grace the top left quadrant. A pig suckling young was to be in the right. The pub would occupy the bottom left, with the a front profile of the church itself in the bottom right. This last was insisted on by the vicar as the price of using the vault.
Such was the proposition agreed with Reg.
Reg realised that in order to do the thing justice he would have to work night and day on it for three or four days. The council were unhappy about the time he would require but felt that they had little choice but to accept.
And so it was established.
The final work was a small masterpiece. The coffin with its newly designed town coat of arms lay on the tressel as more and more villagers filed past, stopping as each admirer paused to study the exquisite workmanship.
Then the local press provided a whole page about the coffin and its creator. A curious reporter from one of the big nationals read the article and made her way down to the village to see this wonder for herself. Her subsequent article was read by a TV reporter for one of the major TV channels and then there it was for the world to see broadcast on every news programme that day. It was later pushed out of the news by a man with a history of setting fire to himself, and who was complaining that the local shop refused to sell him a box of matches. `It infringed his human rights,’ he said.
The problem started like many a thing does in a small way, a man of noble birth got in touch with Reg and contracted him to design and carve the lid motif of the coffin in which he was to lie when the time came. Then came a wealthy industrialist and a notorious pop star.
Reg had soon contracted enough work to last him until the end of his days—all coffins.
More than one client passed on before their item was ready and the family had to be compensated.
So what of Reg’s family? Were they happy that they were now considerably well off as Reg could charge almost anything for his work.
No they weren’t.
They could not get away from coffins, they were everywhere. Reg had no time for the nicety of planning his workshop and so their living quarters had to be commandeered. His wife Edna drew the line at their bedroom however. His son and daughter were both away at college and only complained when they found the odd casket lying half completed in their rooms.
The work load began to take its toll of Reg’s health, so his very concerned wife called a family conference.
`It can’t go on like this—you will soon be lying in one of your own coffins if you continue to keep taking on all orders,’ she said, `you need help.’ The children agreed.
But where to obtain workers with that artistic ability create original designs of a similar quality?
Even as they were trying to obtain assistance the work was piling up. And the resulting workmanship was somewhat inferior.
Then one day when Reg tripped on a coffin left where it should not have been and fell over. He struck his head on the edge of the very solid casket and lost consciousness. He only came to as his wife was saying that now he was dead there was no special coffin for him.
`You won’t be needing one yet,’ he cried, `you see I’m very much alive.’
So his wife called another get together. `We cannot go on like this,’ she said.
Reg said nothing.
His son and daughter were full of suggestions since they were quite partial to the financial rewards the business afforded, but non of these were viable. After much discussion it was noted that the time consuming part of the work lay in creating a unique and very personal design for each individual. It seemed an insurmountable problem, but then his son solved the problem. It was a stroke of pure genius.
At his college, where he had been attending a course of business studies, they had been studying Henry Ford.
`Mass production—that is the answer.’ said he with that absolute conviction of the young and inexperienced.
Reg said nothing.
`It is the modern way, all successful modern firms are turning to it.’
Reg said nothing.
`It worked for the motor car industry why not coffins?’ His son persisted.
Reg spoke.
`Our business relies totally on every client having the freedom to have something of his or her personal choice. A unique design in fact—surely mass production is the opposite of this principle. And as such we would soon be out of orders.’
`Ah yes,’ replied his son all eager to educate his old man. `But here is the clever bit—I suggest we look through the complete list of what our clients have requested in the past and I will bet you that we will find that there is a core of very similar themes. We can then provide rough drawings of these as if they are new ideas in the process of being formed. All the time we imply that their choice will be unique—without, that is, actually saying so. And in a sense it will be—we can always add a small modification to make any of the designs actually unique.’
There was a long pause whilst they considered this.
`I don’t see the advantage,’ said Reg eventually.
`The advantage is that we could take on staff who could be set to create a store of such items ready to be taken out and finished in a fraction of the time it takes now—just think of the turnover.’
`I don’t know,’ said Reg. `It was all much simpler in the beginning.’
But after further discussion they agreed to try it.
It took some time to set up and to prepare the book of choices, but Reg found that his son was right—there were just a few themes which covered most of them with just a few really unique ones—like Mrs Scott’s one for her much loved scotty.
So with a staff of five good men the business was a success.
Sadly, the one person who was now redundant—was Reg. He had absolutely nothing to do.
He tried carving other things but they did not appeal.
Besides which every bench and all the carving tools were in permanent use.
They were now quite wealthy but as there funds increased Reg’s health deteriorated.
He had lost his driving force.
He was lonely.
Was bored.
Lost.
With lots of time on his hands. Skilled hands. Hands that could be used to depict anything he chose.
Anything?
Did I say anything?
Absolutely and totally anything?
Did he really truly understand that it meant anything?
The thought of it was a revelation.
An astonishing idea.
With possibilities.
An opportunity.
Anything?
Reg began to think. Coffins he realised had their limitations. Limitations which had served him well and continued to do so. But a coffin was a coffin and there was a whole world of other things. Millions of things. Trillions of things.
The thought almost overwhelmed him.
So where to begin?
He decided to expand his experience and after a brief discussion with Enda it was decided that they should travel and see something of the rest of the world. They would not draw up an itinerary but would just go where the mood took them.
They decided to do the long haul places first starting with Rio De Janeiro and were there in time for Carnival. Reg was entranced, he could never have imagined such colour—it took his breath away. Following this they visited other places on the South American continent before heading north to Disney World in Florida and this also took our Reg by surprise. He was astonished at the breadth of the human imagination and wanted to stay longer but there was much else to see—Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon were next before heading for China and the Great Wall and more of Asia, Australia, Africa and then Europe.
Poor old Reg, we do have to feel sorry for him. He had left the mahogany and oak coloured world of the worker in wood to be plunged into the vivid multi-chromatic scenery of the rest of the world.
He had great difficulty accepting the colourless aspect of his previous life. He felt that he had worked within a very limited framework.
It took his family some great effort to stop him from slapping bright paint all over some client’s beautiful oak casket.
During their travels they had collected lots of CD recordings of the places they had seen and poor old Reg spent hours every day playing these back. Whilst it gave him much pleasure it worried his family.
Then one very bad winter, no longer young, our hero succumbed to a serious bout of flu which turned to pneumonia, and he passed away as gently as he had lived.
His will was read in the ultra calm environment of the solicitor’s office.
His financial arrangements were approved by his wife, son and daughter without a problem.
`. . . I leave to my wife, with special thanks for sharing with me the tour of the rest of the world,’ Old Mr Seemly read from the document.
` and it is from this tour that I have chosen and made my own very special coffin which you will find under the dust sheet in the old shed. I have chosen the theme which most impressed me on our world tour.’ He concluded.
The family thanked the solicitor and soon found themselves at the door of the old shed.
We do not know what they were expecting, something by Michael Angelo perhaps, or the likeness of a saint—but when the dust sheet was drawn back there in vivid Technicolor was a full sized coffin in the shape of the one and only Mickey Mouse.
* * *
They failed to keep the lid on it—Reg’s funeral was national news.
JML
27/7/2011