mat. They are very clever with their fingers.
The phone rang and it was Dr Nevis saying there had to be an autopsy but it was ‘difficult’ since it was the holiday season and to warn me there might be ‘delays’. I told him this wouldn’t make much difference to Ted. He asked me how I was and I said I was making Christmas dinner: I explained it was a family gathering; all Ted’s relatives were arriving from Ireland. I didn’t like to turn them away, and to hold an impromptu wake now would save them all a lot of travelling expense later. Dr Nevis offered me Valium and sleeping pills. I said no.
I went upstairs to put on a clean dress and change my wet shoes. I put the twins on the front door to explain what was going on to the arriving guests: I could hear them from upstairs.
Maude.... We have to tell you our father’s dead.
Martha.... Last night in his sleep. Mother’s just back from the morgue.
Maude.... The doctor says it’s not suspicious.
Martha.... But please do stay for lunch.
Maude.... Mum needs to keep busy.
Martha.... It’s the way she copes.
Maude.... We all cooked it together.
Maude-and-Martha.... Do stay! Turkey and all the trimmings. Waste not, want not.
If the twins were being at their most Aspergery it was not surprising; first an all-night party; then their father, there yesterday, gone today. I hurried down. All who arrived stayed. They came in assorted executive cars, provided by their hotel in Knightsbridge. They seemed stunned and upset and took time to settle. They were sombre and embarrassed over the turkey but cheered up over Christmas pudding and drank and toasted and laughed and chattered; even the twins smiled, if only in unison. We all distributed presents as planned. Ted’s were put aside on the hall stand, still wrapped, to go straight to charity. Only the present from me to Ted stayed under the Christmas tree. When all the guests were gone I looked at the tag on the slippers I’d wrapped for him the night before, and it was blank, though I remembered very clearly writing out his name. Still, one can be mistaken. But to me it was as if Ted’s presence on this earth was being rapidly and steadily obliterated by forces greater than me. Well, odd things happen.
December 25th and 26th were public holidays so I couldn’t get down to the Harrow Civic Centre to register the death until Thursday the 27th. When I found I was not entitled to a certificate because the coroner had to sign off the autopsy and I needed various papers I didn’t have, I fainted. I was picked up, sat down and given water by a Civic Centre employee wearing a Happy Winter Festive Season broach that flashed on and off very close at eye level. Reality dawned and grief began.
Cynara’s words in my head… ‘I’m not saying they bumped Ted off just to try it out, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’
Why had the body seemed so cold when I woke? Was that natural? Weren’t bodies meant to take time to cool down? Could the chill be indicative of some kind of poison? But wouldn’t an autopsy pick such a thing up? I came back from the Civic Centre wondering exactly where Ted was. I’d assumed he’d be in the morgue where I’d left him: I rang them and they said they’d signed it out to the undertakers of my choice – oddly named Loam & Leap, chosen from a list the morgue gave me. I called Loam & Leap who referred me back to the medical attendant who had signed the death confirmation, apparently different from a death certificate.
I went round with the twins to the surgery. Old Dr Nevis was ‘away on a well-earned holiday’ so they gave us an earnest young man who stared goggle-eyed at the twins. Pretty identical twins, especially if they have long blonde hair, are much in demand in the porn industry, and heaven alone knew what erotic fantasies came to his mind. The twins have a lot to put up with – and all my fault, according to the latest findings of the medical profession. Being starved of
The phone rang and it was Dr Nevis saying there had to be an autopsy but it was ‘difficult’ since it was the holiday season and to warn me there might be ‘delays’. I told him this wouldn’t make much difference to Ted. He asked me how I was and I said I was making Christmas dinner: I explained it was a family gathering; all Ted’s relatives were arriving from Ireland. I didn’t like to turn them away, and to hold an impromptu wake now would save them all a lot of travelling expense later. Dr Nevis offered me Valium and sleeping pills. I said no.
I went upstairs to put on a clean dress and change my wet shoes. I put the twins on the front door to explain what was going on to the arriving guests: I could hear them from upstairs.
Maude.... We have to tell you our father’s dead.
Martha.... Last night in his sleep. Mother’s just back from the morgue.
Maude.... The doctor says it’s not suspicious.
Martha.... But please do stay for lunch.
Maude.... Mum needs to keep busy.
Martha.... It’s the way she copes.
Maude.... We all cooked it together.
Maude-and-Martha.... Do stay! Turkey and all the trimmings. Waste not, want not.
If the twins were being at their most Aspergery it was not surprising; first an all-night party; then their father, there yesterday, gone today. I hurried down. All who arrived stayed. They came in assorted executive cars, provided by their hotel in Knightsbridge. They seemed stunned and upset and took time to settle. They were sombre and embarrassed over the turkey but cheered up over Christmas pudding and drank and toasted and laughed and chattered; even the twins smiled, if only in unison. We all distributed presents as planned. Ted’s were put aside on the hall stand, still wrapped, to go straight to charity. Only the present from me to Ted stayed under the Christmas tree. When all the guests were gone I looked at the tag on the slippers I’d wrapped for him the night before, and it was blank, though I remembered very clearly writing out his name. Still, one can be mistaken. But to me it was as if Ted’s presence on this earth was being rapidly and steadily obliterated by forces greater than me. Well, odd things happen.
December 25th and 26th were public holidays so I couldn’t get down to the Harrow Civic Centre to register the death until Thursday the 27th. When I found I was not entitled to a certificate because the coroner had to sign off the autopsy and I needed various papers I didn’t have, I fainted. I was picked up, sat down and given water by a Civic Centre employee wearing a Happy Winter Festive Season broach that flashed on and off very close at eye level. Reality dawned and grief began.
Cynara’s words in my head… ‘I’m not saying they bumped Ted off just to try it out, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’
Why had the body seemed so cold when I woke? Was that natural? Weren’t bodies meant to take time to cool down? Could the chill be indicative of some kind of poison? But wouldn’t an autopsy pick such a thing up? I came back from the Civic Centre wondering exactly where Ted was. I’d assumed he’d be in the morgue where I’d left him: I rang them and they said they’d signed it out to the undertakers of my choice – oddly named Loam & Leap, chosen from a list the morgue gave me. I called Loam & Leap who referred me back to the medical attendant who had signed the death confirmation, apparently different from a death certificate.
I went round with the twins to the surgery. Old Dr Nevis was ‘away on a well-earned holiday’ so they gave us an earnest young man who stared goggle-eyed at the twins. Pretty identical twins, especially if they have long blonde hair, are much in demand in the porn industry, and heaven alone knew what erotic fantasies came to his mind. The twins have a lot to put up with – and all my fault, according to the latest findings of the medical profession. Being starved of
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