How to Say Goodbye

Chapter 2

A gust of icy wind cut through my winter coat as I waited for the temporary traffic lights to change. Amber pools of light from passing cars lit up the non-stop drizzle that fell from the heavy grey clouds. Darkness curled around me. Last week it had been bright sunshine; the row of forlorn daffodils at the roadside were presumably regretting their optimistic decision to pop open. I awkwardly used my elbow to press the button at the crossing. I’d been trapped there that morning on my way to work, forced to ignore two stocky men wearing grubby hi-viz vests who’d hollered to me from the scaffolding opposite. The workmen had long downed tools and gone home.

I’d stayed much later than I’d planned, working on the final prep for Mr Stuart’s big day next week. I hadn’t even realised what time it was. Finally, the traffic stopped and the beeps rang out. I still made sure to turn my head two, three times to check the coast was clear before I put a foot in the road. You couldn’t be too careful. I’d read recently that the number of road deaths had hit a five-year high.

‘Ah, here she is, our saving Grace,’ Raj bellowed as I walked into his shop.

‘Evening,’ I smiled.

‘Oh, wait!’ He held up a chubby hand and reached the other under the counter, which was covered in neat displays of chewing gum, reams of scratch cards and a plastic cabinet containing e-cigarette liquid. He pulled out a pocket-sized notebook and flicked through it.

‘OK, here we go.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice slightly. ‘Hello, Grace. How’s life?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘No!’

He made me jump. ‘What?’

He sighed loudly and ran a hand across his sweating brow. ‘Ah, wait. I’ve got it wrong. You’re meant to say how’s life and then I reply with, fine, pause, and how’s death! Geddit?’ He chuckled.

This was Raj’s thing. Since I’d bought the flat upstairs and he’d realised who his neighbour was and what she did for a living, he’d decided to use me as some sort of muse for his fledgling stand-up routine. A way to test out naff jokes and build up his material. It had been going on for years. If you asked him what he did he’d tell you he was a comedian, despite never performing for a paying audience in his life. His proper job was running the Minimart-post-office-deli. Every time a witty, or not so witty, one-liner came to him he’d immediately pull out his joke notebook and jot it down. Often I would ask him when he was going to actually perform this material at a stand-up night, but he’d always insist he wasn’t ready yet. I could understand why he was reluctant.

‘Good one,’ I smiled awkwardly. It was marginally better than when he insisted on saying ‘Good Mourning’ to me, heavily emphasising the mouuuurrning part, then doing a funny thing with his index fingers as if banging an imaginary drum in the air.

‘Oh, I’ve got another too. It came to me when I was helping Rani with the latest stocktake.’ He licked his lips and changed his stance as if standing under an imaginary spotlight. ‘Every year we get sent birthday cards, but how about a deathiversary card? They would really put the fun into funerals.’ He waited for my reaction.

Inside I cringed but, not wanting to hurt his feelings, I forced myself to clap weakly. ‘Ha, yeah, that would be, er, interesting.’

‘It needs a bit extra work that one. Oh, guess what!’

‘What?’

‘No, you need to guess!’

I pretended to look like I was deep in thought, clearly taking too long to come up with a suitable suggestion for this slightly tedious game.

‘Ok, I’ll tell you. You won’t get it anyway. Peter Kay messaged me back!’ He did this funny jazz hands thing and had his mouth so wide open I could see the fillings on his bottom row of teeth.

‘That’s, er, nice. Do I know him?’

‘He’s a famous comedian, Grace. He did that whole thing about garlic bread…’

I was still lost.

‘Never mind. He’s just, like, a big deal on the circuit. And now I guess I am too!’ He paused, the smile faltering slightly at my lukewarm reaction.

‘So how do you know this Peter King?’

‘Kay. I follow him on Twitter.’

I knew he was expecting me to match his levels of excitement.

He paused then scrunched up his face, thinking. ‘Well, he didn’t exactly message me. He liked a tweet. That joke I told you last week, how thinking about burial plots is the last thing you need.’

Twitter had never been my thing. From the looks of his timeline it was just him spamming comedians with some of his material. Also, I knew for a fact that Raj used a younger – and much more handsome – Bollywood actor as his profile picture. He’d shown me one time, when he’d tried to explain about likes and retweets.

‘But hey, when I do go on tour I can now say as liked by Peter Kay!’ He spread his hands across the counter as if presenting a banner.

‘Isn’t that a lie though?’

‘Nah, a bit of celebrity endorsement will do wonders for my career. Trust me.’

‘But won’t this Peter Kay find out?’

Raj shook his head. ‘He’s a busy man, Grace. Far too busy to be worrying about the likes of me. Well, for the moment at least!’ He chuckled. ‘Anyway, what can I get for you? The usual?’ He had thankfully put his joke book away.

I didn’t mind that he found my job such an amusing source of entertainment. I was used to people’s extreme reactions when they found out what I did. Being a funeral arranger is either a serious conversation starter or an awkward conversation killer. It was also one reason why I wouldn’t play the dating game, despite Ms Norris’s kind encouragement. The one and only time that I’d reluctantly agreed to go for a coffee date, just to get my mum off my back, it had ended in complete disaster. It was bad enough that it wasn’t Henry sitting across the table from me. Instead it was a slightly anaemic man named Ian whose eyebrows were so well groomed I struggled to lower my eyes to the rest of his face. When I did, it wasn’t worth it.

I’d been dreading him asking me, ‘So, what do you do?’

Explaining that I work with death on a daily basis is hard for others to get their heads around. I’m sure other people don’t go on dates and discuss the last funeral they went to, but Ian felt he needed to tell me, in detail, all about his grandad, Ron, who’d died in July 2007. I could almost taste the egg vol-au-vents served at his wake. Not exactly pillow talk. I shuddered as Ian and his overpreened eyebrows swam in my head.

‘Yes, thanks, just these.’

I watched Raj place a pint of milk and a small granary loaf into the Bag for Life I always carried.

*

Back in my flat, my coat neatly hanging on the coat stand that Mum had bought me as a moving-in present – slightly excessive to have a whole stand for just me but it passed my practicability test so it stayed. I took my notebook out of my bag and sat down at my small kitchen table to see what I needed to tick off that weekend. It was one of those compact space-saver ones with sides that could flip up if I needed to create room for more people. I wasn’t even sure it worked but it was nice to have the option.

– Check smoke alarms and change battery if required

– Sanitise sponges

– Clean inside the microwave (I made my own all-purpose cleaner using a plant spray bottle, baking soda and water)

– Wash the skirting boards

See! I didn’t have time to be larking about and bungee jumping or whatever silly things Ms Norris expected me to do. I filled my free time adequately, and before I knew it Monday would roll around again. I was very good at keeping on top of clutter in my flat, something that I was extremely proud of. Last year, Linda, my not-so-secret secret Santa, had bought me a book on cleaning that apparently everyone was reading – for what reason I have no idea. I’d flicked through it so as not to offend her, and made some exclamations on the ‘useful tips’ inside, but Linda had never been to my house, so could hardly know that I didn’t need this. Linda’s book had ended up in the charity shop bag.

Before starting anything else, I had something I needed to do. I flipped open my laptop. As I waited for the page to load I thought back to the first time I’d done this, which in turn reminded me of the first time I saw a dead body. It was during my extensive training. The female corpse was lying under a white sheet in a sterile room, with glazed eyes and a gaping mouth. She looked so… well, dead. We weren’t told her name, just that the woman had died of lung cancer in her early eighties. Routine. I vowed then to find out as much about the people in my care as I could. That woman lying stiffly on the cold steel table had a name, an identity and a back story. This desire to discover more about my clients became the motivation behind my quest to provide the perfect funerals for them, and my secret weapon had arrived in the form of Facebook.

I had been working with the family of a nineteen-year-old, Mollie Stevenson, who’d died after being hit by a car whilst crossing the road. Like many nineteen-year-olds she had been obsessed with social media, and her family proudly told me that her Facebook account had been memorialised by one of her friends. Intrigued, I’d created a Facebook profile, never having had much need for one before, and had then searched for this memorial page after work one night. It was like being given an invitation into the private life of this bubbly, happy and sociable teenage girl.

Her whole world was available for anyone to see. There were recent statuses at pop concerts, nights out and pictures of hipster meals she’d tried; endless snaps and pouting selfies with the same group of friends; numerous check-ins at places around town where she liked to go. I made sure to stay as discreet as possible, only looking and never commenting, amazed at the picture I could build up of someone’s life, even once they were dead.

I suddenly had a wealth of information about Mollie and her habits, hobbies and likes, allowing me to get creative with ways we could incorporate this into her funeral. Her mum and dad were understandably inconsolable and, although eager to give her the best send-off, you could clearly see that they were too lost in the tunnel of grief, shock and pain to think of ways to honour their daughter.

Which is where I stepped in.

Over a couple of evenings after work, I trawled through her page, and those of her friends, and was able to imagine the life Mollie had led. Her family were delighted with my suggestions of ways we could make the funeral more personal for their wonderful daughter. Obviously, I never admitted where I’d learnt this information. When Frank asked, I’d told a white lie, saying that my own (fictional) nineteen-year-old cousin loved the same sort of things that Mollie did – the trendy milkshake bar she liked to hang out at, the hula-themed nightclub in town, Arianna Grande. I knew I was stretching the definition of honesty by doing this research, but I was sure it was the right thing to do. It was as if Mollie herself was helping to plan her own funeral.

All the subterfuge was worth it when Mollie’s parents came up to me after the packed-out service, thanking me for going the extra mile. I hadn’t felt a high like it. Guests wore bright floral leis, had ‘One Last Time’ playing as they entered, and drank freakshakes at the wake. We’d managed to turn the desperately sad occasion into a unique tribute to this young woman who’d been taken way too soon.

*

Thanks to Mollie, I had learned that most people lived their lives online, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for others to discover even after they’ve died. For every funeral after Mollie’s, I scheduled in time to do my own research into the lives of the people I was lucky enough to be taking care of. After all, you can’t take this day back and repeat it. We all only get one shot at a goodbye. I took it upon myself to make sure that, for my clients, it was the closest thing to perfect it could be.

Of course, this wasn’t without its obstacles. Some people’s Facebook accounts were set to ‘private’, although it was sometimes still possible to view the biographical information they’d listed, as well as their lists of friends – many of whom had public accounts, which made it possible to glean information second-hand. Another hiccup was that many people simply didn’t have Facebook accounts. For my older clients – those who hadn’t become ‘silver-surfers’ – it was a little trickier to track them down online and build up a picture of their full lives. However, they were often in the albums of their family members, mentioned in a status celebrating a birthday or anniversary, or snapped along with their grandchildren.

Aside from Facebook and the other social media sites, there were other online avenues to explore. Google searches yielded newspaper articles, profiles on business websites, features in local community forums. Everyone, it seems, has some kind of digital footprint, and anything I could find about my clients would help to inform how their funeral would play out. This is our last moment in the spotlight, after all, and it’s the personal touches that people remember, even years later. I’ve had families come to me because of the funerals I’d arranged for people they knew, telling me that the extra details had meant so much, and had made sure it was memorable for the right reasons.

I sometimes struggled with encouraging Frank to think outside the box – not that he knew where I was getting these bolts of creativity from. He was a traditionalist at heart. He was fine with families requesting mourners wear Hawaiian shirts, matching colours, or even a quirky memento of the deceased’s hobby, as long as it wasn’t too garish. But he wasn’t as quick to get on board with the extras, like the time we had a unicorn leading the funeral procession. This was something I’d organised for a young girl, Ava Harper, aged just seven, who I’d learned had been obsessed with them. Her recent birthday party had been unicorn-themed, and I managed to find a pure white horse whose owner dressed her up as a unicorn for regular visits to the children’s hospital. Casting her red-rimmed, exhausted eyes on the tastefully decorated horse, I saw her mother smile for the first time since meeting her.

Linda and Frank didn’t know that I used social media to create my personal goodbyes. It probably wasn’t against the rules, but I’d decided it wasn’t something I needed to shout about. It was another reason I tended to do my digging at home, in the evenings or weekends. I had three services coming up that I was struggling to find details for. I was soon lost in the timelines and news feeds of people I would never get to properly meet in real life.

It was only when my stomach rumbled that I checked my watch and realised I should probably think about starting dinner.

There was a game I liked to play, which was to open the cupboard with my eyes shut and pull out a tin, and whatever I landed on was my supper. When I’d told Ms Norris about the game a few months ago she’d burst into such a fit of laughter I was worried I’d have to call an ambulance. It wasn’t right, a woman her age having such a reaction like that. I worried about her health at the best of times. When she’d finally composed herself and realised that I wasn’t laughing along too, she’d tilted her head to one side and gently patted my hand and given me a strange, desperate sort of look. I busied about and made her another cup of tea. She’s not mentioned it again and neither have I.

But I still carried on playing my game.

Chapter 3

It was my birthday. I was grateful that so far that morning neither Linda nor Frank had made a fuss. Or even acknowledged it. I’d had a text from my mum telling me she’d give me my present when she saw me next. She was busy travelling around Latvia with a new boyfriend in his retro campervan, so I wasn’t holding my breath. I’d not heard from anyone else, but then I wasn’t sure who I expected to get in touch. The one person I foolishly still wanted to hear from had long forgotten about me.

The first birthday after Henry had left me was the worst. By the end of the day I felt wrung out from all the adrenalin that had coursed through me every time my emails pinged or my phone rang, imagining it was him ringing, him emailing. Of course he hadn’t sent me a card in the post, he hadn’t sent me anything at all, not even a text message. That evening I cried and cried. He was the only person I wanted to hear from on my special day, and I got nothing. These days I didn’t raise any hope of hearing from him, and the acceptance did make the hurt a little easier to bear.

‘Ah, Grace, there you are.’ Frank wandered out of the employee bathroom wiping his hands on his pale grey suit trousers, breaking my thoughts. ‘Team meeting in five, guys!’

He wasn’t going to sing Happy Birthday like last year, was he? I wasn’t sure I could stand that level of embarrassment.

Luckily, as we took our seats around his messy oval table, there wasn’t a cake or candles or streamers to be seen. I was safe.

‘Hope you’ve all had good weekends?’ he asked Linda and I.

‘Oh yes, excellent.’ Linda slurped her tea. She would only ever drink out of the colour-changing unicorn mug that wasn’t dishwasher-friendly. ‘Ladies’ night at the Swan.’ She gave a knowing smile. ‘You should come along one of these days, Grace. Us single gals need to stick together.’

I laughed awkwardly. Linda was at least ten years older than me and fancied herself as a bit of a man-eater since her bitter divorce four years ago.

‘Maybe…’

‘Grace?’ Frank asked. ‘Good weekend?’

‘Yep, just a quiet one for me…’ I coughed as my voice crackled, reminding me that this was the first time I’d spoken to anyone since Raj in his shop on Friday evening.

‘Good. Right then.’ Frank clapped his large hands together. ‘Let’s get down to business. Linda, an update from Coffin Club please?’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I think this was the best one yet! Over two hundred exhibitors from across the world; there was loads on offer. I felt so inspired. You should come along to the next one, Grace.’

‘Er, no, well, I –’

‘Grace wouldn’t go if you paid her, isn’t that right?’ Frank chuckled.

I preferred to stay out of anything to do with Coffin Club, the affectionate name given to the annual Funeral Expo held in London. I’d managed to think up excuses to avoid going every year, until Frank had given up asking me. Linda liked to make a weekend of it anyway; she would meet up with some of her industry friends and gossip about changes to the profession, returning with armfuls of freebies.

Frank, along with my mum, thought they knew why I’d left my life in London behind me. I’d told them the cost of living, pollution, and sheer volume of people wasn’t for me. No one knew the real reason I’d fled the capital, and that was how it was going to stay.

‘Something like that.’ I cleared my throat.

‘As usual, there was showcasing of the most innovative products. Did you know that you can now add QR codes to gravestones?!’

Linda was always like this after the expo, returning buoyed up by ideas and ways we could be more future-thinking as a business, until Frank would have to gently bring her back down to earth. The funeral industry didn’t do forward-thinking very well. The ideas she always seemed most fired up about were all high-concept, and usually came with a high price tag.

‘Sorry, you know I’m not so up on my technology-speak,’ Frank admitted with a self-conscious chuckle.

‘A QR code. You know, those funny little black and white squares, a bit like a barcode, that you can scan on your phone?’ Still blank. ‘Never mind, you’d know one if you saw it. Anyway, they’re encouraging funeral homes to install this software so the families can input their loved ones’ details and then anyone with a QR reader at a gravesite can just scan it and the whole history of the person comes up!’

‘Next you’ll be telling me they’re adding phone screens and Facebook pages to tombstones,’ Frank guffawed.

Linda leant forward excitedly. ‘Actually there’s a company in Slovenia, I think, who incorporate fourteen-inch touchscreens onto headstones. At the touch of a button they share information about the deceased’s life, with videos and photos. It even has the ability to play films!’

‘Can you imagine!’ Frank said, half choking on the words. ‘The cost would be extortionate.’

I spotted Linda’s shoulders sink.

‘It’s a bit unusual,’ I said, ‘but it would be fascinating. Imagine wandering amongst graves, being able to find out the stories of the names written in the stone. Stories that we’d never get to know without some serious digging around the genealogy department of the library. It would be a great way to keep their memories alive.’

‘Exactly. Surely we could add it to the maybe list?’

‘I’ve been in this business for nearly forty years and never heard of such a thing. But I guess times have changed. People want bells and whistles and eco, vegan, plastic-free funerals nowadays…’ Frank trailed off, looking miserable. ‘OK, let’s move on. Can we have an update on the recent services? Grace, if you could start first please?’

I flicked through my notepad, ignoring a slight huff from Linda that her idea had been rejected so quickly.

‘Sure, well the Davidson family burial was well attended and went without a hitch –’

‘Ah, let me stop you there. I actually have my own feedback somewhere.’ Frank flicked through his folder. ‘Ah, here.’ He picked up a torn white envelope. ‘It was addressed to me but really it should have gone to you.’ I felt the rush of heat on my cheeks as I read the heartfelt thank you card from Mrs Davidson for the funeral we’d arranged for her husband, Ernest. A keen fisherman and golfer who’d lost his long battle with throat cancer. ‘Another one singing your praises.’

‘You’re going to need to find another blank wall to fill soon, Grace,’ Linda said.

‘I hope that’s not a hint of jealousy, Linda?’ Frank let out a tinkle of a chuckle.

‘Of course not! I was just pointing out how well Grace is doing. I think it’s very sweet receiving a card and all,’ she said, crossing her arms in front of her ample chest, belittling the heartfelt words from Mrs Davidson. ‘But can we also remember that I’ve brought in yet another prepaid funeral plan sign-up?’

‘Yes! Terribly sorry for not mentioning that. A new monthly record, actually,’ Frank spluttered.

Linda sat back in her chair and smiled smugly. People like Ms Norris, who paid upfront, and got their big day all planned out and in order whilst they were still with us, made a huge difference to the company accounts.

I needed to up my game. Linda was right, the many incredible acknowledgements from families I’d helped were heartwarming, but they didn’t always bring any further business – unlike the prepaid sign-ups that she was renowned for. Linda had this can-do attitude that I’d never seen in anyone before. I wanted to stay positive and trust in the word-of-mouth recommendations from my personal funeral services, but that wasn’t something that could be as easily counted as numbers on a page.

‘The truth is we all need to think outside the box more, without any extra budget unfortunately. Instead of pie-in-the-sky technology fads we should focus on securing more prepaid sign-ups, getting more five-star reviews, and making the effort to push what we do out there into the community – as well as continuing to provide excellent customer service.’

Simple.

‘Another thing I wanted to mention is the Love of My Light service. I know it’s ages away, but I want us to get a little more creative with it this year.’

The Love of My Light service was a sort of remembrance event held in the church at the top of town in November. There was something soul-nourishing about standing amongst those who were there for one reason: to remember the person or people they had lost, to light a candle in their honour, and to support one another in whatever stage of grief they were.

‘Last year was great,’ Frank flashed a look to Linda; it had been her project for the past few years. ‘But I’d like us to get more community-focussed. I’m not saying we should use it as a marketing opportunity, but I think it makes sense to make sure the people of Ryebrook know what we’re able to offer. Great – I think that’s everything. Back to it, team!’

*

‘What do you think about tribute wreaths, dear, the ones that spell something out, like “Nan” or “Poppa”?’ Ms Norris asked, shuffling through the pamphlets spread in front of her. ‘I’ve never had my name in lights so maybe my name in petals is the next best thing? But, then again, perhaps they are a little on the garish side. I don’t want people to go away from the day discussing the lovely service that was ruined by an in-your-face flower arrangement.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Or, even worse, imagine if the florist made a mistake with the spelling! Grace?’

‘Sorry,’ I shook my head. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Please tell me it was some delicious daydream about an attractive man?’

‘Er, no.’

She let out a deep sigh followed by a wink. ‘Shame. Well you were certainly lost in some deep thought. You need to watch you don’t get wrinkles frowning away like that.’

I raised my eyebrows dramatically to iron out any creases. ‘Sorry, very rude of me. What were you saying about flowers?’

‘That can wait. Come on, tell me what’s on your mind. I’ve not seen you looking so perplexed before.’

I wafted a hand. ‘It’s just a work thing.’

‘Linda?’

‘No – listen, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh blimey, Grace, will you spit it out? A problem shared is a problem halved.’

I took a deep breath. Over the many months of Ms Norris’s weekly visits we had built up an odd friendship, one I felt that I could trust enough with what was going on in my head.

‘Well, I feel like I need to do something to attract more business. Linda is doing a really good job at bringing in more prepaid funeral plans, and I just feel like I’m letting the side down.’

‘Ah, and how is Lovely Linda managing to go about this?’

‘Cold calling mostly.’

She let out a sort of ‘pfft’ noise.

Linda had no fear of calling a very recent widower, or grieving parents, and making it seem like she was helping by reminding them they ought to be considering their own funeral plans. I was much happier in my comfort zone of funeral planning, and getting lost in the detail of personal preparations. I thought it best to leave the families to focus on their grief after the funeral, not to be pestering them to think about how they wanted their own big day to be.

I found it unbelievably tough to ask someone if they’d thought about their own death and, if so, what they wanted their funeral to be like. Of course, I knew how important it was to get things laid out and decisions made so you didn’t burden those left behind, but it’s still not something people actively choose to think about. Judging by Frank’s latest team meeting, I was going to have to get over this, and quickly, whether I liked it or not. My stomach churned at the thought of it.

Ms Norris scrunched up her neat nose, thinking. ‘Hmm. Well, you both have different skill sets so the key would be to maximise on yours. I read that once, in a Bella magazine article, I think. Anyway, what I’m saying is that you’re a people person. You’re excellent at planning and have a lovely bedside manner. So, do that.’

‘Sorry? Do what?’

‘Well, I imagine many people are fascinated by what you do, but don’t have a clue what that actually is. Why don’t you tap into that and use it as a way to break some of the negative stereotypes people must have, as well as encouraging people to get their funeral plans in place?’

I looked at her blankly.

‘What I’m thinking is for you to host a sort of Ask a Funeral Arranger event. You could make it a nice and relaxed evening with a friendly, informative Q and A, to show people how warm and lovely you are so they don’t feel like they’ll be getting the hard sell. In fact, you don’t need to sell anything. Just being you will be enough.’

I tried to hide the snort that escaped as she said that. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘We could pick some of your excellent bakes and serve them with tea and coffee – that would certainly bring the crowds in! I know no one can resist a slice of your apple flapjack.’

‘Your apple flapjack,’ I corrected her.

I appreciated her help, but there was no way I could stand up in a room full of strangers. The thought alone made me feel itchy and uncomfortable. My preferred position was behind the scenes; Linda was the one who took centre stage.

‘You don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m sure you would surprise yourself. Right, I’d best be getting on, but think about my idea. I’d make sure to come along so at least you would know one friendly face!’

‘Thank you.’

I led her to the front door and helped her with her coat. Her heart was in the right place, even if her suggestions were a little off the mark.

‘Oh, and Grace?’ I turned to see a wide smile on her cheeks. ‘Happy birthday.’

She patted a five-pound note into my hands and left.