Read Online A Trick I Learned From Dead Men by Kitty Aldridge - Free Book Online
Authors: Kitty Aldridge
Tags: Contemporary
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smoke. Sunlight falls through the trees and lands on us, strobing, warming us up. Smoke drifts. It’s like we are hunters and this is our base camp.
I hear Crow at last.
Nice base camp, Lee.
Cheers, Crow. Welcome to Lee’s Wood.
No one says anything else. I reckon I am happy. Definition of happiness: When knob-all happens but you don’t mind in the least. Can’t last of course, nothing does.
10
Any cloud in the south of the region will soon move away, leaving a dry day
DEREK IS PACING up and down in the workshop in front of the Mid Oak Veneers. His gut leads the way.
One and two and one and two, he counts, like a bride down the aisle, a pregnant one. The
and
gives you the timing, he says. Are you with me? Otherwise you’ll be off like a steamed cat. Nerves, Lee. Empty your mind, he says. Bit like ballroom dancing, he says, without the music or the twists and turns, or the partner. Got it? Off you go.
I feel like a bona fide twot. Coffins are empty but. I get an idea of a smirking client inside each. Derek counts me, One
and
two
and
.
I got a text this morning from Lorelle in response to my joke. It was brief. It said, He he. That was it. Nothing more. Beggars can’t be choosers. Least she replied, he he. I’m not cut out for this. Leading the coffins calls for a certain type, an extrovert. Derek or Howard for example. I am not of that ilk.
Slower, Lee.
All eyes are on the page for a start. He leads on. Everyone looks. No thanks. This is why I don’t dance. I don’t take to the floor, not even at weddings.
And two. Slower!
I keep my eye fixed on the corner of the room where the spiderwebs hang.
Tough Guys Don’t Dance
, I never saw that movie. No idea what it’s about.
You look like a fascist, Lee.
This will be over in a minute. I’ll be deemed unfit. He he.
Derek runs a tight team. My lads, he calls his pall-bearers, though the youngest is fifty-nine. He won’t have them mucked about, protective he is. I don’t want my lads injured, he says. If the vicar gets slow in front, Derek bumps him gently with the coffin to speed him up, save the bearers.
A marathon around some of these churchyards, Derek says. You’ll hear about it if one of my lads goes down, he says. We are men, not machines.
Finally, Derek stands.
Right. That’s enough, son. Either got it or you haven’t. Grieve ye not. It’s not
Strictly Come Whatever
.
Sorry, Del, I say. Turn a new
page
, I say. He he, I think. But he doesn’t get it.
There’s a removal to do.
Where?
The nursing home. When shall I tell them?
Be at least an hour. An hour at least. Do you mean Elmwood?
That’s it. I’ll say three o’clock, half past three OK?
No problem. Shouldn’t be a problem.
I’ll tell Mike. The rear car park. That’s what she said.
Okey-dokey. Got it. Rear entrance. Half past. What you laughing at?
I text Lorelle another joke, something to brighten her day.
Hola! Como esta? What beats his chest and swings from cake 2 cake? Tarzipan. He he! Mind how u go. Lee.
Howard is back from the motorcycle funeral and is having a lie down in Relatives 2. Give me a biker’s funeral any day. Game on. We use 2wheels2heaven, a reliable outfit with a nifty website. You name it, they’ve got it: Triumph, Suzuki, Harleys. All bikes are modified with the hearse attachment which travels sidecar plus all are constructed to UK funeral profession specifications. Talk about top-drawer. The hearse has all mod cons: flower rail, wraparound windows, internal temperature control, de-mister, internal lights and special cubbyhole to display the deceased’s boots. Nice one. They’ve thought of everything, including a pillion seat for the funeral director. I fancy the Triumph hearse; tasteful, though Howard may beg to disagree. They did the ton, apparently, on the A22 road heading north. Final wishes of the deceased, you can’t not. You’d have thought being a Tour de France fan Howard would’ve been fine, but no. It was a blur, he says.
I hear Crow at last.
Nice base camp, Lee.
Cheers, Crow. Welcome to Lee’s Wood.
No one says anything else. I reckon I am happy. Definition of happiness: When knob-all happens but you don’t mind in the least. Can’t last of course, nothing does.
10
Any cloud in the south of the region will soon move away, leaving a dry day
DEREK IS PACING up and down in the workshop in front of the Mid Oak Veneers. His gut leads the way.
One and two and one and two, he counts, like a bride down the aisle, a pregnant one. The
and
gives you the timing, he says. Are you with me? Otherwise you’ll be off like a steamed cat. Nerves, Lee. Empty your mind, he says. Bit like ballroom dancing, he says, without the music or the twists and turns, or the partner. Got it? Off you go.
I feel like a bona fide twot. Coffins are empty but. I get an idea of a smirking client inside each. Derek counts me, One
and
two
and
.
I got a text this morning from Lorelle in response to my joke. It was brief. It said, He he. That was it. Nothing more. Beggars can’t be choosers. Least she replied, he he. I’m not cut out for this. Leading the coffins calls for a certain type, an extrovert. Derek or Howard for example. I am not of that ilk.
Slower, Lee.
All eyes are on the page for a start. He leads on. Everyone looks. No thanks. This is why I don’t dance. I don’t take to the floor, not even at weddings.
And two. Slower!
I keep my eye fixed on the corner of the room where the spiderwebs hang.
Tough Guys Don’t Dance
, I never saw that movie. No idea what it’s about.
You look like a fascist, Lee.
This will be over in a minute. I’ll be deemed unfit. He he.
Derek runs a tight team. My lads, he calls his pall-bearers, though the youngest is fifty-nine. He won’t have them mucked about, protective he is. I don’t want my lads injured, he says. If the vicar gets slow in front, Derek bumps him gently with the coffin to speed him up, save the bearers.
A marathon around some of these churchyards, Derek says. You’ll hear about it if one of my lads goes down, he says. We are men, not machines.
Finally, Derek stands.
Right. That’s enough, son. Either got it or you haven’t. Grieve ye not. It’s not
Strictly Come Whatever
.
Sorry, Del, I say. Turn a new
page
, I say. He he, I think. But he doesn’t get it.
There’s a removal to do.
Where?
The nursing home. When shall I tell them?
Be at least an hour. An hour at least. Do you mean Elmwood?
That’s it. I’ll say three o’clock, half past three OK?
No problem. Shouldn’t be a problem.
I’ll tell Mike. The rear car park. That’s what she said.
Okey-dokey. Got it. Rear entrance. Half past. What you laughing at?
I text Lorelle another joke, something to brighten her day.
Hola! Como esta? What beats his chest and swings from cake 2 cake? Tarzipan. He he! Mind how u go. Lee.
Howard is back from the motorcycle funeral and is having a lie down in Relatives 2. Give me a biker’s funeral any day. Game on. We use 2wheels2heaven, a reliable outfit with a nifty website. You name it, they’ve got it: Triumph, Suzuki, Harleys. All bikes are modified with the hearse attachment which travels sidecar plus all are constructed to UK funeral profession specifications. Talk about top-drawer. The hearse has all mod cons: flower rail, wraparound windows, internal temperature control, de-mister, internal lights and special cubbyhole to display the deceased’s boots. Nice one. They’ve thought of everything, including a pillion seat for the funeral director. I fancy the Triumph hearse; tasteful, though Howard may beg to disagree. They did the ton, apparently, on the A22 road heading north. Final wishes of the deceased, you can’t not. You’d have thought being a Tour de France fan Howard would’ve been fine, but no. It was a blur, he says.
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