afternoon, Mrs Howell-Thomas,’ Wilfred said slowly and loudly, as if the deceased were deaf. ‘We want you to look nice for her.’
The air was getting a bit rich in here; he’d have to get the viewing done early this afternoon, then nail down the lid as soon as he could. He opened the workshop window.
‘Bit hot in here today, isn’t it?’ he remarked.
Hopefully after the viewing the family would say that the deceased ‘looked at peace’. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ Wilfred would answer meaningfully. It was essential for business, Wilfred knew, that the dead must look at peace, rather than rotting. So he ‘did the necessary’, as Mr Auden delicately phrased it. It meant the deceased didn’t smell and the coffin didn’t leak. A dab of face power, sometimes a shave, even a smear of lipstick – and dentures; dentures were always essential – and the faces of most were palatable. An undertaker was in the business of lying about death. Even the poor devils who had passed away in great pain from cancer looked at peace once Wilfred had finished with them. Those corpses smelled – especially the ladies with tumours on their breasts, like a bunch of big, black grapes. Of course, nobody, least of all the undertaker, ever revealed that a person had passed away with cancer. It was a terrible secret, because if the neighbours knew they would be terrified of catching it.
Peering into Mrs Howell-Thomas’s coffin, he realised he wasn’t going to be able to get that damn ring off. He looked more closely at her fingers which were already purple and bloated, and wondered if Howard Carter had had this problem with Tutankhamun.
‘There was a tomb that Tutankhamun had!’ he remarked to Mrs Howell-Thomas. ‘Absolutely magnificent!’
‘What are you talking about in there, Wilfred?’ said his da, who was sitting on the flowerbed wall, drinking his tea. ‘Are you talking to a corpse again?’
‘Oh! Da … Just about to touch up the coffin with some varnish. Just thinking about how magnificent it will look … when the varnish is on,’ Wilfred said, poking his head out of the workshop door.
‘There we are then,’ said his da, somewhat sceptically.
‘Varnish is magnificent,’ Wilfred added self-consciously.
‘Oh yes. It is.’ There was a pause.
‘Better be getting on,’ said Wilfred.
He leaned on the coffin, stumped as to what to do with the ring. It was on his mind that he had to go to lunch at the Reeces’ on Saturday. He would call around and speak to Dr Reece later and explain the engagement was off. Grace must have been, understandably, too frightened to explain to her mother and father what had happened. She no doubt felt humiliated – no one ever liked being unwanted. He sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but it must be done. In fact, he was dreading it, which was why he’d procrastinated. It would be that much easier all round to send a note. Grace wouldn’t have to see him and have the rejection compounded; a visit might add insult to injury. Perhaps he would pop a note through the door this evening. Wilfred knew he would have to act soon.
He looked at Mrs Howell-Thomas’s wedding ring. It was made of reddish Welsh gold and half a century of wearing had scratched and rubbed it smooth. It was part of Mrs Howell-Thomas’s body now, like her marriage had been part of her life, and it belonged to her and was with her in death and, as in life, she would not forsake or relinquish her husband. It was often like this with old ladies, that he couldn’t remove the thin, clogau gold band that had been given to them on their wedding day, at some point in the last century. They had put it on as a quivering and smooth-skinned maiden standing at the altar, and they had never, ever taken it off again.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Howell-Thomas, while I …’ he commented as he jammed soap under the ring. Then he rubbed the finger with castor oil and finally engine lubricant, but it wouldn’t budge. Mrs Howell-Thomas, so compliant in life, so stubborn in death! Ruddy ring was stuck tight. Wilfred gave it a final tug but nothing was doing. He would just have to mention to her daughter later – in the most delicate terms – that the ring was stuck fast on the deceased’s third finger and wouldn’t come off, even with quite a lot of force applied.
He could say, perhaps, ‘In preparing