‘It’s a bit late for that, man, the casket’s been closed. We’re all ready for the funeral this morning. Look, you’re upset and who wouldn’t be after losing their baby? Come in man, we’ll have some tea and I’ll call your wife and tell her you’re here.’
‘Don’t want no tea,’ insisted Griffiths, shrugging off Prosser’s attempt to take his arm, ‘I want my baby to have this ring with her. I need her to know I cared. I wasn’t there when she died. I was on the Cornwall run, away for three days, I was.’
Prosser nodded. He knew Griffiths was a long-distance lorry driver and that he’d been away when his baby daughter had fallen victim to cot-death syndrome.
‘Christ, if only I’d been there,’ continued Griffiths, his voice breaking. ‘I might have heard her cry out in the night. I could have picked her up and cuddled her … told her her daddy was there and there was nothing to worry about … But I wasn’t, was I? I was hundreds of miles away and she just slipped away in the night, crept out of our house, she did, out of our lives.’
Prosser felt a lump come to his throat. He’d seen a lot of grief in his time and become hardened to it behind a sombre professional front but there was something raw and undiluted about Griffiths’ pain that got to him. ‘Come inside anyway, man. It’s cold.’
Prosser led the way through the partitioned interior of the parlour to a small dark office, equipped with only a desk and three chairs. This was where Prosser consulted the newly bereaved over their choice of funeral ‘accessories’. A large, spiral-bound book lay on the desk with illustrations of coffins and their furnishings. Prosser pushed it to one side with the palm of his hand and rested both arms on the desk. ‘Look, man,’ he said. ‘I know you mean to do what’s for the best but you’re so full of grief that you’re not thinking straight.’
Griffiths put the ring box on the desk and opened it clumsily with thick callused fingers to reveal an old engagement ring: it was an emerald mounted in a cluster of small diamonds. ‘It was my grandmother’s and then my mother’s. She told me to give it to my lass when she got married but she’s not getting married, not now, not ever, so if you’ll just open up the box I’ll give it to her now.’
Prosser moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I don’t think you should do this Martin,’ he said. ‘It’s better you should remember your little lass as she was, not as …’ Prosser’s voice trailed off.
Griffiths frowned. ‘What the hell are you on about?’ he demanded.
Prosser wrung his hands in discomfort. ‘People working in medical science have to find out just how and why awful things like Megan’s death happen,’ he began. ‘If the doctors are to have any hope of stopping other people going through what you’re going through they have to investigate things … thoroughly.’
‘What are you trying to say, Prosser?’ demanded Griffiths, now becoming suspicious about Prosser’s obvious agitation.
Prosser wriggled in his seat again before saying, ‘The pathologists at the hospital had to carry out certain examinations on Megan …’
Griffiths’ eyes opened wide. ‘Are you telling me they damaged my Megan?’ he asked in a low, harsh whisper.
‘A post-mortem examination has to be done in such cases,’ replied Prosser quietly. ‘It’s the law, see, and a certain amount of … damage, as you put it, is inevitable.’ In truth he wasn’t sure what the case was with Megan Griffiths. He hadn’t collected the body personally so he hadn’t seen it. It was usual for the people at the hospital to make the body as presentable as possible after PM examination but on the other hand, viewing of the body was usually carried out at the hospital chapel, aided by suitable drapings and a glass partition screen.
‘I want her to have my mother’s ring,’ said Griffiths, digging in his heels.
Prosser could see that further
‘Don’t want no tea,’ insisted Griffiths, shrugging off Prosser’s attempt to take his arm, ‘I want my baby to have this ring with her. I need her to know I cared. I wasn’t there when she died. I was on the Cornwall run, away for three days, I was.’
Prosser nodded. He knew Griffiths was a long-distance lorry driver and that he’d been away when his baby daughter had fallen victim to cot-death syndrome.
‘Christ, if only I’d been there,’ continued Griffiths, his voice breaking. ‘I might have heard her cry out in the night. I could have picked her up and cuddled her … told her her daddy was there and there was nothing to worry about … But I wasn’t, was I? I was hundreds of miles away and she just slipped away in the night, crept out of our house, she did, out of our lives.’
Prosser felt a lump come to his throat. He’d seen a lot of grief in his time and become hardened to it behind a sombre professional front but there was something raw and undiluted about Griffiths’ pain that got to him. ‘Come inside anyway, man. It’s cold.’
Prosser led the way through the partitioned interior of the parlour to a small dark office, equipped with only a desk and three chairs. This was where Prosser consulted the newly bereaved over their choice of funeral ‘accessories’. A large, spiral-bound book lay on the desk with illustrations of coffins and their furnishings. Prosser pushed it to one side with the palm of his hand and rested both arms on the desk. ‘Look, man,’ he said. ‘I know you mean to do what’s for the best but you’re so full of grief that you’re not thinking straight.’
Griffiths put the ring box on the desk and opened it clumsily with thick callused fingers to reveal an old engagement ring: it was an emerald mounted in a cluster of small diamonds. ‘It was my grandmother’s and then my mother’s. She told me to give it to my lass when she got married but she’s not getting married, not now, not ever, so if you’ll just open up the box I’ll give it to her now.’
Prosser moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I don’t think you should do this Martin,’ he said. ‘It’s better you should remember your little lass as she was, not as …’ Prosser’s voice trailed off.
Griffiths frowned. ‘What the hell are you on about?’ he demanded.
Prosser wrung his hands in discomfort. ‘People working in medical science have to find out just how and why awful things like Megan’s death happen,’ he began. ‘If the doctors are to have any hope of stopping other people going through what you’re going through they have to investigate things … thoroughly.’
‘What are you trying to say, Prosser?’ demanded Griffiths, now becoming suspicious about Prosser’s obvious agitation.
Prosser wriggled in his seat again before saying, ‘The pathologists at the hospital had to carry out certain examinations on Megan …’
Griffiths’ eyes opened wide. ‘Are you telling me they damaged my Megan?’ he asked in a low, harsh whisper.
‘A post-mortem examination has to be done in such cases,’ replied Prosser quietly. ‘It’s the law, see, and a certain amount of … damage, as you put it, is inevitable.’ In truth he wasn’t sure what the case was with Megan Griffiths. He hadn’t collected the body personally so he hadn’t seen it. It was usual for the people at the hospital to make the body as presentable as possible after PM examination but on the other hand, viewing of the body was usually carried out at the hospital chapel, aided by suitable drapings and a glass partition screen.
‘I want her to have my mother’s ring,’ said Griffiths, digging in his heels.
Prosser could see that further
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