Our eyes meet across the coffin

A stranger attends a funeral. And an undertaker's ordered life is turned upside down.

Our eyes meet across the coffin.

He does not acknowledge me as we lay it to rest, but as we straighten up, I catch a proper glimpse. A fine-featured man with a sweeping fringe and hazel eyes, the black hair peppered with grey.

My face maintains its sombre air. I’ve always been good at containing my emotions; no ill placed smile or tear will disturb the grieving families I serve. But in my mind, I am a whirl.

Who is this man? I don’t remember him being there before.

Musing, I draw into the background. Outwardly, the funeral seems to run itself, yet it is the culmination of meticulous planning, a thousand little details snapping into place. The music plays without a hitch and when one elderly woman seems to stumble up the steps to do her reading, I am there to steady her arm.

The curtains close over the coffin and it vanishes, gone forever. This particular family have opted for cremation, as many do, though the reasoning behind their decision is not my concern. I am merely an instrument. I guide them through their pain.

We leave the chapel.  The man has disappeared but the ripple he caused remains. My shirt feels tight, uncomfortable, as if the sombre suit I have worn all my working life has shrunk, or I have expanded.

The family notice nothing. They shake my hand then head to the wake, glad this day is almost done, though those closest to the deceased will find the grief bites harder now the ceremony is over. At least, that’s what’s often said.

I turn towards the funeral car and find the man standing next to me, wearing a dark trenchcoat.

He’s about forty, I think. Perhaps a little older. His hazel eyes stare deep into mine.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says.

#

We encounter each other again several days later in the funeral home lobby. He is wearing the same trenchcoat, sitting neatly, as if he has an appointment.

The embarrassment of our last encounter flares. Basic politeness failed me then. I’d stammered an excuse, scrambled into the car and shut the door, trying to disguise my fluttering heart.

He catches my eye, expectant. Politeness calls for an explanation of my previous rudeness, or at least an acknowledgment of his presence.

Yet I can say nothing. The words feel too full.

I drop my head and hurry into the office. The shame of my social faux par clings, along with another feeling I dare not name.

It’s absurd, I tell myself, trying to settle into the steady, quiet groove of what needs to be done. But nothing will stay still.

In an attempt to reset, I go to the kitchen to make coffee. The water bubbles away in the kettle, a soothing sound that permits thoughts of other things: the clients on my morning list, the urns I must arrange, the email correspondence with the embalmer. The day is divided up and measured out, pinned neatly into place.

And then I see him. Standing beside me, his arm mere inches from mine. He says nothing.

My neatly ordered day collapses in a muddled jumble.

#

It’s been suggested by the regional manager to take some time off.

It seems appropriate. I have been late for appointments. A family received lilies, when they wanted roses. A hearse arrived at the wrong crematorium.

I tell my colleagues I am going away for a last-minute getaway, catching some sea and sun – Malaga, perhaps.

My passport remains in its drawer.

The week of holiday spreads itself with infinite slowness. Not that I am completely idle; I fill the days. Go to the park and walk. Sit at my window, pretend to read. Watch TV, accomplish nothing.

At night, I reach for a man who isn’t there.

After almost thirty years in the funeral business, I have finally begun to understand the sharpness of loss – for something I never had. The absurdity is laughable.

On my last day of holiday, I decide that enough is enough. I must cure myself of this futile obsession, this silly fantasy. Must seek out my siren, and banish him.

In a blaze of purpose, I walk to the park next to the funeral home, sit down on a nearby bench and pretend to read, glancing up every other second to see if he passes.

An hour passes, then two. It starts to rain. It occurs to me how foolish I must look, without an umbrella, holding a dripping copy of a James Patterson thriller, glasses clouding over with mist, wasting a day off. It’s time to go.

‘Good afternoon.’

That voice, deep yet soft. I glance at him, slim and delicate boned, that peppered hair half disguising.

I look down. Half stand, then sit again.

He asks what I am reading.

‘Oh. It’s nothing.’

Water drips down my nose, reminiscent of snot. I shiver in my anorak and he asks if I am cold. He asks with such tender concern that I almost weep aloud. I am the one who attends to the needs of others. Who ensures everything is just so. Who eases their pain, their grief, their suffering.

Yet he asks me if I am cold.

In the cafe, our eyes meet, coffin absentia. I have taken off my anorak, soaked through, the waterproofing gone. He has taken off his coat too and sits perfectly straight, running his hand continually through his fringe. Two steaming mugs sit in front of us.

‘Do you like undertaking?’ he asks me.

I pause. No one has ever asked me such a question. ‘It’s important,’ I tell him.

‘That isn’t an answer.’

His hand runs through his hair again, revealing those eyes. They dig into me, disturbing ground that ought to lay buried.

‘I like to be helpful.’

It is a half truth. My job is not a question of liking or disliking. I could call it duty, vocation even, but even that implies some level of choice. Undertaking is my life. I cannot imagine it otherwise.

‘What about you?’ I find myself saying. ‘What do you enjoy?’

For the first time, he is the one who seems nervous. ‘Nothing worth mentioning,’ he says at last, rubbing his thumb up and down the mug handle. I am taken by the smooth curve of his fingernails, the cheapness of his watch. I feel a sudden urge to take his hand in mine, to trace the delicate creases in its palm.

He lets go of the mug and places his hand on the table, mere centimetres from my own. But I do not move. We simply sit there in silence, the space between us comfortable and warm. We are like old friends, who have known each other for many years, who have learned that what is unspoken matters more than what is.

At last, he removes his hand from the table. ‘I’m afraid I must be going.’

I try to hide my disappointment. ‘Of course. I should be going too. Back to work on Monday and all that.’

He nods. We leave our coffee, hardly touched. The door bangs behind us, closing a chapter of what might have been.

The drizzle of earlier has turned into a steady downpour. My poor friend has no waterproof coat, no umbrella. I wish I could give him my anorak, but my short, dumpy shape wouldn’t fit him.

We stand under the awnings outside the café, watching the ceaseless rain. It shatters down, unending and grey, banging on the canopy above our heads. My glasses steam up again and I go to wipe them on my jacket sleeve.

He is hazy through my misty frames, and for the first time, I feel I am the one who is more solid.

I wipe my glasses, see clearly at last. He’s smiling at me, warm and beneficent. And I find myself saying.

‘Must you really go?’

He looks down at the puddled pavement, saddened. Tears mist on the ends of doelike lashes. ‘I wish I could stay.’

The honey voice, so deep and clear, is breaking. I long to reach out, to root him here in this moment forever.

We never touch. It is space itself that shrinks.

#

Monday morning is sunny and clear, the winter sky a false, deceiving blue.

Colleagues say hello to me, ask me about Malaga. One jokes about my lack of tan. To my shame, I snap back at him about the importance of sun cream and the risk of skin cancer.

I cannot bear their talk. I cannot bear the emails, or the phone calls, the appointments. I cannot stand any of it.

As soon as twelve strikes, I whisk myself outside, walk to the café. He isn’t there, as I knew he wouldn’t be. I buy a coffee to go and walk slowly back.

‘Do you know what happened to the man with the dark hair?’ I ask my colleague on my return, coffee still in hand. ‘Wearing a trenchcoat? He was here a few weeks ago.’

She shakes her head. She has no idea what I mean. I could be talking about just about anyone.

Yet a sickening feeling pulls down at me, dragging me earthwards. It takes all my effort to keep to my feet.

‘Are you feeling alright? Perhaps you should go home. We can manage.’

‘Yes – yes, I think you’re right.’

The street is full of people. I barge through, not caring what they think. They could all drop down dead, their corpses unburied, their passing unmourned.

I finally know where I have to go.

#

The crematorium is quiet. Peaceful. As it should be.

I touch the cool slate of the memorial plaque. Closer than ever; a cruel irony.

How I never recognised his face, I do not know. But he looked so different to the photograph on the order of service. So much more alive.

Loving father, says the memorial, beloved son, cherished grandson. Familiar words, displayed on a thousand gravestones. They tell me nothing of who he really was, what he cared for, what kept him up at night. There are no memories to fill the blanks, to paint the gaps etched in slate.

I trace my finger over his name, as if it might summon him. My heart. My desire.

My ghost.