Ma’am.’
Hortensia moved closer to the bed. She put her mouth in a line, surprised at herself, at the agreement she was making with her face that this was not the time for tears. She edged forward, took a look. Of course it wasn’t him. It never is. And, unable to stop it, the thought came that she too would lie down one day, not ever to get up, and maybe someone (the cleaner or the nurse in charge) would edge forward. Of course it would be the cleaner or the nurse. It wouldn’t (couldn’t) be anyone who actually knew her. It wouldn’t be anyone who would be able to tell that this wasn’t her; that, in death, she wasn’t herself. And wasn’t that somehow a failing – having no known-one there to witness? What could be more fitting than dying and having people who knew you from when you were alive; have them present to look into your casket and confirm that ‘It isn’t you’; that no, you were quite different in life; that yes, death had taken something, there had been something to take. Hortensia’s eyes wandered with her mind, she looked to the corners of the small wooden-panelled room, she looked to the ceiling. Imagine having people witness that, in death, you looked the same. And then her eyes fell to the dead body that was not Peter.
His face was grey-green and small. It had sunken in, as if he’d taken a very big breath, sucked all the air in and hollowed his cheeks, but not got the chance to breathe out again. She felt sorry for him. She reached out and touched his cheekbone. The skin was like wet, but it wasn’t. Damp somehow.
His hands were knobbled, in particular his ring-finger. The knuckle swollen, his golden band trapped in place. Hortensia moved her hand to the ring, to the cold of the soft metal. It was now too late. She sucked her tongue to distract herself – what was the point of crying now, whatever was the point? She turned to call the mortician back, tell the plank of a woman that she’d seen him enough. And just then Hortensia remembered that the paint-seller had called that colour, for the pots, ‘Magic Teal’. And after the pots had been delivered Hortensia had thought how unlike its name the colour looked. And, without any way of explaining it, she’d felt cheated.
After the viewing at the morgue, the tangle of arrangements started. Hortensia baulked both at the sympathy that spilled out from people and at the assumption that, at her advanced age, she had buried many already, that she understood how things worked. This produced a rather obscene casualness in the mortician, whom Hortensia now reliably recalled was a Ms Judith Mulligan. At their second meeting Judith had asked Hortensia whether she’d notified ‘the regulars’. And then later Judith had asked her if Peter had a Facebook page. It was a miserable time, not because her husband had died but because most of the living – people Hortensia had to associate with – appeared to be numbskulls.
Some man telephoned about a tombstone for Peter. Yes, apparently Peter had commissioned his own tombstone. She tried to get rid of the guy but he was resolute. The man had gruff in his voice, the kind of voice you’d think a sculptor, someone who worked with stone, should have. I don’t understand why you’re calling me, Hortensia said, her already short temper at its shortest that week. But Peter must have prepared Gary – that was his name – for this encounter with his wife. After Gary’s protracted explanation, Hortensia relented and agreed to receive him and inspect the work of art before its installation. The stone was to be placed, adjacent to the buried ashes, on a snatch of ground Peter had purchased a year back. Hortensia had joked at the time that it wasn’t big enough to fit a car.
Gary arrived in a white truck. He hooted at the gate, which was unnecessary – there was a perfectly working intercom. He had a beard and eyes so squinting you could hardly see them. Hortensia wondered, with a small sneer, if he
Hortensia moved closer to the bed. She put her mouth in a line, surprised at herself, at the agreement she was making with her face that this was not the time for tears. She edged forward, took a look. Of course it wasn’t him. It never is. And, unable to stop it, the thought came that she too would lie down one day, not ever to get up, and maybe someone (the cleaner or the nurse in charge) would edge forward. Of course it would be the cleaner or the nurse. It wouldn’t (couldn’t) be anyone who actually knew her. It wouldn’t be anyone who would be able to tell that this wasn’t her; that, in death, she wasn’t herself. And wasn’t that somehow a failing – having no known-one there to witness? What could be more fitting than dying and having people who knew you from when you were alive; have them present to look into your casket and confirm that ‘It isn’t you’; that no, you were quite different in life; that yes, death had taken something, there had been something to take. Hortensia’s eyes wandered with her mind, she looked to the corners of the small wooden-panelled room, she looked to the ceiling. Imagine having people witness that, in death, you looked the same. And then her eyes fell to the dead body that was not Peter.
His face was grey-green and small. It had sunken in, as if he’d taken a very big breath, sucked all the air in and hollowed his cheeks, but not got the chance to breathe out again. She felt sorry for him. She reached out and touched his cheekbone. The skin was like wet, but it wasn’t. Damp somehow.
His hands were knobbled, in particular his ring-finger. The knuckle swollen, his golden band trapped in place. Hortensia moved her hand to the ring, to the cold of the soft metal. It was now too late. She sucked her tongue to distract herself – what was the point of crying now, whatever was the point? She turned to call the mortician back, tell the plank of a woman that she’d seen him enough. And just then Hortensia remembered that the paint-seller had called that colour, for the pots, ‘Magic Teal’. And after the pots had been delivered Hortensia had thought how unlike its name the colour looked. And, without any way of explaining it, she’d felt cheated.
After the viewing at the morgue, the tangle of arrangements started. Hortensia baulked both at the sympathy that spilled out from people and at the assumption that, at her advanced age, she had buried many already, that she understood how things worked. This produced a rather obscene casualness in the mortician, whom Hortensia now reliably recalled was a Ms Judith Mulligan. At their second meeting Judith had asked Hortensia whether she’d notified ‘the regulars’. And then later Judith had asked her if Peter had a Facebook page. It was a miserable time, not because her husband had died but because most of the living – people Hortensia had to associate with – appeared to be numbskulls.
Some man telephoned about a tombstone for Peter. Yes, apparently Peter had commissioned his own tombstone. She tried to get rid of the guy but he was resolute. The man had gruff in his voice, the kind of voice you’d think a sculptor, someone who worked with stone, should have. I don’t understand why you’re calling me, Hortensia said, her already short temper at its shortest that week. But Peter must have prepared Gary – that was his name – for this encounter with his wife. After Gary’s protracted explanation, Hortensia relented and agreed to receive him and inspect the work of art before its installation. The stone was to be placed, adjacent to the buried ashes, on a snatch of ground Peter had purchased a year back. Hortensia had joked at the time that it wasn’t big enough to fit a car.
Gary arrived in a white truck. He hooted at the gate, which was unnecessary – there was a perfectly working intercom. He had a beard and eyes so squinting you could hardly see them. Hortensia wondered, with a small sneer, if he
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