The next day in Hell Close the Queen was watching as George Beresford knocked the last nail into the coffin.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Fit for a Queen, eh?’
‘A beautiful job,’ said the Queen. ‘How much do I owe you?’
George was offended. ‘Nowt,’ he said. ‘It were only a few off-cuts and I already ’ad the nails.’ He ran his hands over the coffin. Then he lifted the coffin lid away from where it leant against the garden fence and tried it for size.
‘Lovely fit, though I shouldn’t say so myself.’
‘I must pay you for your time,’ insisted the Queen, who hoped that George’s time came cheap. The Social Services funeral grant was not extravagant.
George said, ‘I’m master of my own time now. If I can’t help a neighbour out, it’s a poor do.’
The Queen ran her hands over the lid of the coffin. ‘You’re a craftsman, George,’ she said.
‘I were apprenticed to a cabinet maker. I worked for Barlows for fifteen years,’ he said.
The name meant nothing to the Queen, but she could tell from the proud tone of George’s voice that Barlows were a well-respected firm.
‘Why did you leave Barlows?’ she asked.
‘I ’ad to look after the wife,’ he said, his face clouding over.
‘She was ill?’ asked the Queen.
‘She ’ad a stroke,’ said George. ‘She were only thirty-three, never stopped talking. Anyroad, one minute she were waving me off to work, the next time I see ’er, she’s in hospital. Can’t talk, can’t move, can’t smile. She could cry though,’ George said sadly. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, still with his back to the Queen, ‘there were no one else to look after her. Wash ’er and feed ’er and stuff, and there were the little ’uns, our Tony and John, so I gave my job up. Then, after she’d passed on, Barlows had gone bust and all I could get was shopfittin’ work. I could do it with my eyes shut. Still it were work. I’m not happy if I’m not working. It’s not just the money,’ he said. He turned round to face the Queen, anxious to make his point. ‘It’s just the feeling of … it’s somebody needin’ you … I mean, what are you if you’re not workin’? I ’ad some good mates at the shopfittin’,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived on me own for three year and I’d be watchin’ a good telly programme and I’d be on me own and I’d think, in the morning I’ll tell me mates about this.’ George laughed. ‘Pathetic really, i’n’t it?’
‘Do you still see your mates?’ asked the Queen.
‘No, it don’t work like that,’ said George. ‘I can’t arrange to see ’em; they’d think I’d gone soft.’ He started to put his tools away into slots sewn inside a canvas bag. There was a home for each tool. The Queen noticed that ‘Barlows’ was stamped in black ink inside the tool bag. She took a sweeping brush and started to sweep the curled wood shavings into a heap.
George took the brush from her, saying, ‘You shun’t be doin’ that.’
The Queen grabbed the brush back and said, ‘I’m perfectly capable of sweeping a few wood shavings …’
‘No,’ said George, regaining control of the brush. ‘You weren’t brought up to do the dirty work.’
‘Then perhaps I should have been,’ said the Queen, as she yanked the brush out of George’s hands again.
There was silence between them, each concentrated on their work. George polished the coffin and the Queen put the shavings into a black plastic bag. Then George said, ‘I’m sorry about your mam.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Queen, and burst into tears for the first time since her mother’s death. George put his cloth down and took the Queen in his arms, saying, ‘There, there, let it all out. Go on, you ’ave a good cry.’
The Queen did have a good cry. George led her inside his neat home, showed her the sofa, ordered her to lie down, gave her a toilet roll to mop her tears and left her to her own misery. He knew that she would prefer it if he wasn’t there to watch her abandon herself to her grief. After fifteen minutes, when her sobs had subsided a little, he carried a tray of tea into the living room. The Queen sat up and took the cup and saucer that he offered her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘I’m not,’ said George.
As they drank their tea, the Queen tried to work out exactly how many cups of tea she had drunk since she’d moved to Hell Close. It must be hundreds.
‘Such a comfort, a cup of tea,’ she said aloud to George.
‘It’s hot and cheap,’ said George. ‘A bit of a treat when you’ve got nowt. An’ it breaks the day up, don’t it?’
The Queen emptied her cup and held it out to be refilled. She wanted to rest a while before tackling the other funeral arrangements.
Spiggy and Anne knocked on the back door and came through.
‘Your mam’s ’ad a good cry,’ said George to Anne.
‘Good,’ said Anne, and she sat on the arm of the sofa and patted her mother on the shoulder. Spiggy stood behind the Queen and squeezed her right arm in a clumsy gesture of condolence.
Anne said, ‘Spiggy and I have sorted out how to get Gran’s coffin to the church.’
‘You’ve found somebody with an estate car?’ asked the Queen, who had already worked out that a hearse and two cars for the mourners was financially impossible.
‘No,’ said Anne. ‘Gilbert can pull the coffin.’
‘On what?’
‘On Spiggy’s dad’s cart.’
‘Only needs a lick of paint,’ said Spiggy.
‘I’ve got some tins out the back,’ said George, warming to the idea.
The Queen said, ‘But Anne darling, Mummy can’t be buried from the back of a gypsy cart.’
Anne, who in her former life had been associated with Romany causes, bristled slightly at this slur. However, Spiggy, whose body coursed with Romany blood, took no offence. He said,
‘I c’n see your mam’s point of view, Anne. I mean, it ain’t exactly a state funeral, is it?’
George said to the Queen, ‘Your mam wouldn’t mind. Whenever I saw ’er in a carriage she looked happy enough.’
The Queen was too sad and tired to raise any more objections, so preparations went ahead that afternoon for a Hell Close-style state funeral. Black and purple paint were considered to be suitable colours for the fresh paintwork on the cart and George, Spiggy and Anne began to rub off the old carnival colours and prepare the cart for its more sombre outing in two days’ time.