Thirteen

“Thirteen.”

Geoffrey sighed. His mustache, usually primly waxed, was askew. He rubbed his handkerchief under his nose. The handkerchief resembled the mustache in its dishevelment.

“Thirteen.”

He did the accounting in his mind: A gallon of fluid for every fifty pounds. Thirteen, at, say, 165 pounds each. “No,” he muttered. “Enid Bag. She’s near three hundred. Better say 180 pounds each. “That’s . . . thirty-six gallons. Thirty-six. And he’d laid in only fifty gallons for the week. “I’ll have to call in,” he said. “See if they can deliver the weekly allotment a bit earlier. And not skip next week.”

He washed his hands at the sink, turned off the tap, and dried his hands on a blackening rolling towel. “Oh, that’s filthy,” he said. Won’t do. Better call the laundry man.

He turned briskly, then paused. He’d have to choose his route carefully. Enid there, Percival Banks next to her. How he’d managed that with the feuds they’d had, he’d never know. Past Percival to Oliver and then between Thwaites and Smith to Bragg, then Stover, then Bragg Junior. Said, that, he thought. Two in one family, and a family that never had two pennies to rub together.

Small, then Jones. No, that was Jones, then Small. “I’d better put out place cards,” he thought. Don’t want Jones to see a Small in the casket at the service. That wouldn’t do at all. Then Arnold. Geoffrey frowned. He still didn’t have the teeth right. False teeth were always a bother, and it didn’t help that folks where used to seeing Arnold’s teeth in crooked. If he didn’t cock them the right way, his wife would be sure to fuss and probably have a fit and heave herself atop the casket and there is no way they’d both fit inside, and besides she still hadn’t paid for it.

Sprague and Thistlewhite to round out the baker’s dozen. By all rights Sprague and Thistlewhite should be buried side by side, he thought, they spent enough time together after their spouses died. Cruel Mr. Thistlewhite cold in the grave fifteen years now, and Madame Sprague gone now twelve. He’d never seen the living happier when they were married.

And he did see a lot, as undertaker. You knew all the feuds, the deceits, the hidden loves. Sometimes he drew tangled webs and Venn diagrams underneath the satin in the coffins, in case there was an accounting when the Trump sounded and God Almighty came and wanted to know what’s what. He didn’t want to rely on his memory alone.

What killed them all, no one seemed to know. That something had killed them, and almost all at once was clear. If all the bills came paid, he’d have the best quarter that Briggenmast Ltd had ever had, and Briggenmast had seen the village through two world wars and countless coal strikes. He hoped the doctor had an inkling. And had kept good records, as he lay there in a mahogany coffin with brass handles, between Mr. Percival and Mr. Thwaites. “Maybe I’ll check with the hospital, see if they have a record or two they want buried with the brave doctor,” he thought.

He took his coat off the hook, buttoned it closely, then gently removed his hat from the shelf, creased it, and placed it on his head. He pause for a moment to look in the mirror, winced, and for a quiet moment waxed his mustache and tweaked it back into propriety.

They’d meet at the pub at half past eight, they said, when the morning rounds started and the allotment of clients were delivered. He’d sent Brown and Cockrell home hours ago; Brown was ashen after four, Cockrell, dogged Cockrell, lasted through nine. They were good boys. Good assistants. But, he thought, quickening his pace as he walked up the uneven concrete sidewalk, unaccustomed to the volume. “Can’t be helped,” he said. “Can’t be helped.” Oh, it probably could, he added. But no one wanted to talk about it. Sometimes, those who did found themselves on the slab, and in need of a good wash and brush and a bit of reconstruction with wax and felt and glue and a bit of cotton wool. This was not a time for questions.

And the bills were almost always paid.

Thirteen.

Thirteen.

As he walked, a black van dashed by. He recognized the driver, who nodded as they passed.

He sighed. Blackburn, the night man, would have to let him in. Two coffins, he thought. I have only two coffins left. Must contact the coffin man, taciturn on the best days. One would think a man who sold furnishings for people whose occupants would never complain about burst stitching or scratches on the woodwork would be happier, but no. And for the last year, even worse.

Best not to think of it. Best not to think of it at all.

Shepherd’s pie, he thought. And a bit of apple, bread, and cheese. That will wash away the taste of the day. He hurried more as another van shot past.