Dark Undertakings by Rebecca Tope Page B

him as much as she herself did.
    When the doorbell rang, Monica jumped a little, and then sighed, putting down the empty mug and getting tiredly to her feet. She had a good idea who it would be, an idea which proved correct when she opened the door. Dottie and Sarah from next door stood side by side, shoulder to ribcage, beaming sympathetic smiles on her. ‘Come in,’ she invited limply. They were both widows, after all. They must have some inkling of how chaotic it was.
    ‘It was very good of your Philip to come and tell us the news this morning,’ Sarah began. ‘He said he thought you wouldn’t mind us popping round this evening. We’ll only stay a minute, of course.’
    Both women were agog, darting little glances around the room, as if searching for signs of disturbance. Death surely must leave its trace, not just in the air, but visibly on the furniture. Or perhaps, thought Monica, they were looking for evidence that she had already begun to dispose of Jim’s possessions.
    ‘How are you managing?’ asked Sarah. ‘We’ll be happy, of course, to do anything we can to help. We thought perhaps, on the day of the funeral, we could keep an eye on the house for you. You do hear terrible stories about burglaries …’
    ‘That’s very kind. I haven’t really given much thought to the funeral yet. It seems an awfulhurdle to have to face at the moment.’
    ‘Oh, but it can help tremendously ,’ said Dottie. ‘I found it was the funeral that kept me going. Everybody was so kind, and it was exactly as Arthur said he wanted. A really good send-off.’
    ‘I don’t think Jim set much store by funerals,’ said Monica, thoughtfully. ‘I can’t remember a single instance where we talked about it, except that he wanted to be cremated. It’s just a disposal matter, really, isn’t it? Seems to me rather a lot of fuss and bother, actually.’
    ‘Oh, no , dear,’ Dottie corrected. ‘It’s so important to have a ceremony of some kind, to mark the passing. I’ve always thought so. I hate these modern cremations, so quick and bare. You mustn’t let them hurry you.’
    ‘I’m afraid it’ll be very simple.’ Monica refused to sound apologetic.
    ‘But Jim had so many friends,’ Sarah reminded her. ‘They’ll all want to pay their respects and see him on his way.’
    Funny , thought Monica, how we use the language of travel – of going on a voyage from one place to another . Though, in a sense, that was exactly what had happened. Even if the other realm was non-existence, total annihilation, (as she strongly suspected was the case), the dead did make a kind of transit. The idea expandedand took on more meaning, as she considered it. The Ferryman, with his penny fee; the Styx and the great dog guarding it; the long tunnel that people went down when they momentarily died on operating tables, the one with the bright light at the end of it. What was happening to Jim? Where had he gone? Was he in some horrible fridge, or lying on a cold slate slab? She had no idea what might go on in the murky, mysterious backrooms of an undertaker’s premises.
    ‘But before the funeral,’ Sarah pursued, ‘there must be something we can do. All those jobs – I remember it clearly. Flowers, newspaper notices, telling everybody … it just goes on and on.’
    Monica sighed, feeling overburdened. ‘I think it’ll go quite smoothly,’ she said. ‘And of course the boys will be a great support.’
    ‘Of course,’ agree Dottie, directing a look at Sarah. ‘You’re very lucky in your boys.’
    ‘And you’ve got a lot of friends, I know,’ added Sarah. ‘At times like this, friends are so precious.’
    ‘Well, thank you very much for popping in,’ said Monica. ‘It was really kind of you.’ She was saved from further insincerities by the warbling of the telephone. She smiled and raised her hand in valediction before moving to the phone. ‘Hello,’ was all her neighbours heard her say,before they were forced to retreat