The receptionist with brown lipstick showed my son and me into a faultless waiting room, whose centrepiece was a big colour photograph of out-of-focus lavender florets.
A couplet written underneath said:
I’m the colourful leaves when autumn comes around
And the pure white snow that blankets the ground.
Had we made an appointment, she asked. We understood that it wasn’t necessary, we said, and that we could view the body ‘at any time within normal business hours’. She wrestled with her thoughts for a moment, then said she would have to get a man to come over from Torquay to help lift her out of the fridge. ‘Can we help?’ I said. ‘No. No,’ she said. ‘Health and safety, you understand.’ We understood, we said.
While we waited for the man from Torquay, what about a nice cup of coffee, she said. Then she disappeared off somewhere to make it. We sat in silence in the faultless room. We took in the glass cabinet with little alabaster reliquaries for sale and a selection of wicker caskets advertising the fact that wicker caskets came in a variety of colours, including buff, antique buff, cerise pink, dark blue and green. An information leaflet attracted attention with the strong-willed assertion: ‘I want to play “I Did it My Way” at the Funeral.’
The receptionist reappeared sooner than expected. ‘When you are ready you can now go in and pay your respects,’ she said. ‘Surely the man from Torquay hasn’t arrived already?’ I said. ‘She’s a light lady,’ she said. ‘Some are heavy, some are light. She’s light. I did it myself.’ ‘I’ve dimmed the lights,’ she added. ‘But if you want them turned up, please ask. And just to warn you, she’s been here since Friday and she’s very cold.’
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