Two days after Jack’s departure, Sam was at another funeral, silently watching a tiny coffin being lowered into the ground. Today the piece of silk draped over his funeral baton was white. Children’s burials were always the worst. The funeral of a man who had reached a respectable age would usually find its way to the tavern next to the cemetery, where liquor and games of skittles would shift the mood from misery to fond remembrances or funny stories about the deceased. But there was nothing funny to be said about a child that had barely reached its second month and there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to numb the pain of a couple who were burying their third child. As Mr Constable had said, ‘Ours is not a profession that values regular customers such as these.’
The mother shook with each violent, pained sob. It was on occasions such as this Sam was grateful that his role as mute prevented him from speaking. What could anyone say to this poor woman who had gone through labour three times but had no children to show for it? With each one’s death, another slice of hope was cut from her heart. Her husband kept his own feelings tucked behind his grey eyes, standing as still as a statue.
Several years ago, when the role of mute was new to Sam, he had been moved to tears seeing the look on a young widow’s face. After the funeral, Mr Constable had taken him to one side to have a word.
‘We are undertakers,’ he had said. ‘Some of our profession, most, perhaps, become immune to the sadness and personal tragedy which is our daily business, but that is not our way. My father used to tell me that we should never cease to feel for our clients. To do so would be to divorce ourselves from that which makes us human. And yet, this is a job. We have a responsibility to our customers. It is up to them how they demonstrate their grief. Some cry; some do not. Some conduct themselves with reserved dignity in public then, once behind closed doors, the floodgates will open. Some beat their chests and wail. Others eulogise or drink to the memories of their loved ones. It is our business to respect each decision. A grieving widow unable to shed a tear for her departed husband may be embarrassed by a stranger who weeps openly. We each are prisoners of our emotions. Our role is to allow the grieving the opportunity to grieve. It is not for us to dictate how, nor to grieve for them.’
Sam had never cried at a funeral again.
The husband finally found the strength to place an arm around his wife’s shoulder and lead her away from the grave, unknowingly taking her past the ghosts in the cemetery who sat mourning their own lives. Sam knew all the regulars. Most came to cry over the gravestones that bore their names. In some cases these lumps of stone were all the evidence that remained of their existence in the first place. Others angrily awaited visits from their relatives, bemoaning loudly the poor maintenance of their gravestones and lack of flowers. Only one of them came hoping to comfort his family when they visited. His name was Mr Ravenstock and Sam had known him in life and death. Seeing Sam he waved. Ghosts like him were few and far between. Most cared for no one but themselves.
Sam thought about Tanner. He had still been angry when he had met him on the hill because of Mr Sternwell and the will. He had calmed down now. With the clarity of hindsight he could see that Tanner had not been asking for a favour for himself. He was trying to prevent that strange black substance from spreading, and yet Sam had turned him away. Sam had always seen his ability as a burden to be borne, but what if it was also a gift to be used? What if he could make a difference, not just to the dead but to the living too? Mr Sternwell had betrayed Sam’s trust, but Sam could not allow one betrayal to destroy his trust in others.
He looked down the hill towards the distant skyline of London and resolved to speak to Mr Constable about taking the rest of the afternoon off. He had to find the boy Tanner.