The crematorium attendants have a little side room from which they control the music and lights and she, Roger and Ken, all suited and booted, have a quick chat with another funeral director in there about the good weather being a surprise that April.
Andy, the lay preacher of burnished hair and baby face, is inside the chapel – their zealous sergeant major, who can speak without embarrassment about the fire in his heart for the Lord. When he is not paging away the funeral procession, he rides the East Sussex hills on his tractor. He could be a corporate man, so clean and regular-looking is he, were it not for the radiance of his smile. He has spoken well of the deceased, on few notes, then gone on to push the envelope of faith and presented the mourners with an opportunity to meet Jesus Christ. Most pass. They’d rather not meet Him or his Old Man a minute sooner than they have to.
The Hickmott family, amounting to six people, have shuffled in to sit side by side on the same bench and bear with bowed heads the admonition of death. The services run every half-hour to the same format. From the side room they can hear that it’s only Andy who’s actually singing along to ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’.
‘People don’t sing these days,’ says the attendant, a tall bald man with clouds of hair above each ear. ‘You never hear them singing, do you?’
There is a unison of disapproval.
‘It’s the committal now,’ Audrey says, and on the monitor they see the curtains coming round the coffin.
‘That it?’ says Ken, aghast. ‘That the lot?’
They can hear Andy saying, ‘I am the resurrection,’ as the doors open and the farmer comes towards them, eyes electric.
The family follows his lead and assembles in the courtyard next to the racking for the flowers and each of them takes a turn to squint at the messages on the bouquets. The widow traces the writing on the cards with her fingertips and her daughter says at each one, ‘That’s nice.’
‘Where’s Audrey?’ Ken whispers to Roger, startling when he realizes she’s not there.
‘Off with the Two Ronnies,’ Roger whispers out of the side of his mouth.
Ken gives him a sharp look. ‘Pull yourself together, fella,’ he says.
Casually, Roger ambles off, hands in his pockets. He goes down past the Book of Remembrance Chapel into what looks for all the world like a school canteen, with great big waste containers on wheels outside, and he glances up to see the big steel chimney smoking.
Audrey pops down there from time to time to see the chaps who load the furnaces; they’re so often forgotten. At Christmas she tips them. They are both called Ron.
When Roger comes in, he finds the three of them standing in front of four cremators – ovens, steel and glass fronted, with little steel trays underneath their doors. The shorter Ron brings forth a steel bucket for inspection, and Audrey pokes her head in to see the charred metal hip-bone replacements. He shakes it as if he wants a contribution. ‘Raised a thousand pounds for the hospice recycling these last year.’
‘Good for you, Ronnie. How’s the missus?’ Audrey asks him.
‘Don’t ask,’ says the other Ron, coming forward and wiping his forearms. ‘She give me this ’ere cookbook for my birthday and she said, I haven’t wrapped it because you only tear the paper off.’
The other Ron shakes his head.
‘When did it all start? I thought. When did it all start going wrong . . .?’
An electronic alarm bell sounds. One of the Rons opens the hatch and pulls John Hickmott in his £299 veneered chipboard coffin on to a trolley and the two Rons wheel him across to oven number four, still talking to Audrey in a friendly way. When they open the oven, there’s a big raging orange heat and they load John Hickmott’s coffin into it and close the door, and fix it to, turning the big iron handle.
‘All she does is watch the telly. Why would anyone spend their time doing that?’
‘Do you like watching the telly, Roger?’ The taller Ron addresses Roger, knitting his brow and folding his arms.
Roger lifts his shoulders briefly. He glances warily at the oven door.
‘Want to see where we are with the hospice bucket, Roger?’
‘No.’
‘Man of few words, ’im. Innie, Audrey?’ The Ronnies grin.
‘He is.’
‘Solid, he looks.’
‘That’s right.’
Under such attention, Roger is visibly awkward, ready to be brave, ready to be amused, ready to be whatever he’s called, ready for praise, ready for abuse, and all of these considerations show themselves in a slight parting of his lips.
‘Come on then, sweet’eart,’ she says to him. ‘Best get back.’ Ron sticks the bucket back on the shelf to the side. ‘Ta-da then, you two. Nice to see you. ’Ere, Audrey, you’re the only one of the funeral directors who does come and see us, you know.’
‘We’re the untouchables, us two,’ says the other Ronnie with a grin, leaning against the wall above the computer.
On the concrete concourse, behind the fencing, with the clouds passing over the sun, in the new grey chill, she stops for a moment. It has come to her. There is no logical reason to do this work. She turns round and faces Roger.
‘Why don’t you do what you really want to do, Roger?’
She sees in the shadows of his eyes the vestiges of other shamings. She holds his head and kisses him on the mouth.