The Undertaker's Cabinet Page 6

  "Ah right." Bobby held his empty shot glass up and clinked it against her pint. "Glad to be of service. Cheers!" He felt the words dribble from his mouth like a bad quality slow motion replay; fuzzy and indistinct.

  "Sounds like you've had a bad day," she said gently.

  "And the rest," Bobby replied instantly. He turned on the stool and looked at her closely. She was still as pretty as she'd been that day; even prettier now the wedding ring had gone. "Say, do you like cats?"

  "What? If this is some ridiculous line, you can forget it."

  "No, no." Bobby held his hands up. "Serious question. Do you like cats?"

  "Take 'em or leave 'em. Not fussed either way."

  Bobby nodded. "Would you like to have a drink with me then?" He held his hand out. "I'm Bobby Moreton."

  She took his hand and leaned in closer. "I know. I'm Esther and as for the drink? Not today. You've had too much already and you smell pretty bad. Besides," she tapped her finger on his wedding ring. "This doesn't really work for me." She walked toward her cousins.

  Bobby watched her go and almost fell off his stool.

  "You know her?" Tom had reappeared after his brief stint working.

  "Nope, not really but I remember her." He turned back to the bar. "I need to go home now. She thought I was drunk."

  "You are. So am I."

  Bobby stepped into the early evening air and wobbled. Esther was back in the bar and he was out here like a drunk loser. That wasn't much of a surprise, it was just bad timing again. Or was it good timing seeing her again? His head hurt just thinking about it. She didn't look like Lucy though. Was that a good thing? What did it matter anyway?

  Lucy would be disappointed with him. Not with the imminent closure of Moreton and Sons. If he was honest it had probably been on the cards for years, but with his drunkenness. His down in the dumps, full on, 'feel sorry for me' drunkenness. He looked down the street toward home before turning back to look the other way - past the shop and on up the hill toward Littleoak Cemetery. Perhaps Tom was right; perhaps he should go up there and see things for himself. Maybe see her gravestone for the first time in five years; since she was buried.

  He flicked the collar up on his suit and started walking toward his wife. "Are you ready for me Lucy?" he mumbled to himself, "because I intend to cry all over you again." He didn't even turn his head as he passed Moreton and Sons. Not even when the cat hissed at him and washed the remains of Nancy's eyelid from between its claws.

  *

  Littleoak Cemetery had been built about a mile out of town, at the top of Bowes Hill. It hadn't been built there for any superstitious reason but as a last resort. When the first bout of cholera rolled through town like a lunatics' carnival in 1878, Jerome Moreton filled the little graveyard in St Oswald's within three months. The town needed a new plot and Bowes Hill was just far enough away. Except when the wind blew in the right direction and then the smell of the dead fell on the town like a dismal, damp blanket.

  Bobby had stood by the gate too many times to count but had never gone in. Not since Lucy had lived there anyway. Not even on the day they buried her body beneath six feet of Littleoak earth could he walk across the damp turf to her grave. Locals seldom got buried in the earth anymore, choosing instead to be thrown off the bluff and into the ocean. He wished he could've gone along with Lucy's wishes and given her what she wanted but he couldn't. He couldn't bear to throw her into the wind like the dead, grey ash on a cigarette. No, she had to be buried in the earth with the rest of his family and now her ghost strolled about that big old creepy house chiding him for going against her wishes.

  Now, as he stood on the threshold and peered over the granite wall nearly five years later, his drunken mind realised it was not Lucy's ghost which haunted him but his own guilt which offered the torment.

  "I've got to dig you up, haven't I? I've got to dig you up and throw you into the sea; into the sea where you always wanted to go." Tom stepped across the threshold.

  The grass was longer than it should be and after a few steps his shoes and the bottom of his trousers were drenched. He didn't care, he just kept walking; he had to. One pause, one step a little slower than the others and the whole thing would come crashing down around him. Every single lichen covered cross, marble angel and rotting brown daffodil would be swallowed into the earth and leave him floundering.

  He reached the family plot. It was surrounded by a low iron rail, as if to separate the Moreton family from the other people of Littleoak. Was it to elevate them somehow? There were seventeen graves in all. Some unreadable and some crumbling away to dust with their names forgotten as if they were nothing more than minor characters in a bad film. He wasn't interested in them. He wasn't anymore interested in Jerome Moreton's grave than he was his mum or dad's. He had eyes for the newest grave only. The grave of Lucy Moreton.

  A bunch of lilies had been left by her headstone; no doubt by her parents. He hadn't seen them since that day either, even though they had been to the house and phoned him for most of the following year. He ran his fingers over the marble, following every single curve and line of her beautiful name until he came to the numbers. The numbers which told the day of her death. He collapsed to his knees, not caring that the damp earth soaked through the cotton trousers in an instant. It was almost as if the ground had been waiting for him to kneel in just that very place. It welcomed him. It needed him.

  Her grave was bordered with white marble and in the centre was a patchwork of flowers and weeds, of daisies and dandelions. It was a little unkempt but it was pretty, even in the gloom of an autumn evening. Bobby put his hand on a clump of daisies and closed his eyes.

  "I'm sorry my love. I couldn't face you after what I've done. I did it because I couldn't bear to be without you and then I never came." The world swam in a nauseating carousel. "I couldn't come, Lucy. And now I'm on the verge of leaving, did you know that? Moreton's is finished, kaput. My old man would be happy about that wouldn't he?" Bobby laughed. He'd never had the chance, or guts, to ask if his dad actually loved the shop. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. It wasn't important because at least he kept it afloat and it put clothes on all their backs.

  "Probably a good thing we never got chance to have kids then eh?" He paused and stared at the headstone. "They never found him you know? They never found the drunk who pushed you into the ditch like a rag doll. They gave up too soon. I told them you'd sent me a text about an early night but they just shrugged and said you were probably just running late. Six fucking hours late."

  Bobby looked up at the sky and howled like a rabid dog. "I hear hurricanes a blowing. I know the end is coming soon." He grabbed the clump of daisies and ripped them from the grave. "I'm going to take you where you wanted to go all along. I'm taking you to the ocean." He sank his hands into the soil and started hurling it aside. "It might take me a while but I haven't got work in the morning so I can stay out all night. Alright Luce?"

  "Bob? Bobby? What're you doing?"

  Bobby recognised Tom's voice immediately. "I'm taking her home, Tommy."

  "What're you talking about. Come on, I'll take you home."

  Bobby felt a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. "You don't understand. She never wanted to be here. She wanted to swim and I was too fucking selfish to let her. I'm a selfish bastard."

  "Bob, please. It's time to go home."

  The hand gripped his shoulder with more force this time. "If you don't take your hand off me I'll break it. How did you know I was here?"

  "When the town's undertaker goes on a drunken walkabout and nearly gets himself flattened by three cars, it makes the paper, or at least the gossips in Crabbe's."

  Bobby grunted in response. He was busy digging his wife up.

  "We can talk about it in the morning. Just let me take you home."

  "No can do."

  He heard Tom sigh then felt his body beside his own.

  "Good job I bought this then isn't it?"

  Bobby turned his he
ad and saw Tom tip a bottle of amber liquid into his mouth.

  "It better not be that cheap gut rot from the bar." He took the bottle from Tom and took a long drink. "Good man, you bought the Jameson's."

  "I thought we might need it. Come on, have a break from digging for five minutes."

  Bobby looked at the small hole he'd made in the soil.

  "Come on. Five minutes, then I'll help you."

  Bobby looked at his brother and then back at the hole again. "Okay, five minutes then I'm starting again." He slumped back against Lucy's grave stone. "I see a bad moon rising! I see..."

  "What?" Tom asked.

  "Trouble on the way. What's the deal with the classic rock in Crabbe's?"

  "Oh that. Ruby's a rock chick. Or at least she was."

  Bobby took a long drink and handed the bottle back to Tom. "I can't get Creedence Clearwater out of my head now."

  "There's worse things to have in your head."

  Bobby looked at his brother. His usual grin had been flattened by the darkness and he looked sombre. "Like what?"

  Tom took a quick sip. "All sorts," he said quietly. "Like Ruby's tits for one." He laughed, but to Bobby it sounded strained.

  "Dickhead."

  "What d'you reckon those two would make of us sitting up here, drinking whiskey and talking crap?" Tom pointed the bottle at the graves of John and Karen Moreton; their mum and dad.

  "Dad wouldn't mind as long as I was fit for work the next day. Mum might give us the cold shoulder for a few days though."

  "Oh those cold shoulders, those cold and icy shoulders were far worse than a good roasting." Tom paused, then added, "What about Lucy? What'd she say?"

  Bobby looked at Tom, unsure whether to throw the bottle at him or cry. "She wouldn't say anything. Not a word. She never said anything when I fucked up. Not even when I pretended to forget our anniversary. She just sat there and smiled as if it was just another day. Not even when I told her we should wait another year to have kids, just so the business was square. She just smiled through every single stupid mess I left for her to clean up."

  "And she wouldn't be mad about this either would she?"

  Bobby felt the cold marble stone on his back and shook his head.

  "She's up there with the rest of the angels, Bob. Floating about and pointing at you, telling them, that's my Bobby down there. He's still messing up and I'm still smiling." He paused and took the bottle. "You've got to leave her here now, Bob. It's nothing but a box of bones but you know that don't you?"

  Bobby closed his eyes. He knew what Tom had said was right but he didn't know what to say to the man who was the only person who understood what he had gone through. "Dickhead." He smiled at his stupid lump of a brother. "Won't Ruby be missing you?"

  "Of course she will but I'll just make it up to her tomorrow night. A double portion of Tommy Moreton."

  "You make me sick, now pass me the bottle. My little brother's just made sage-like sense and I'd rather forget it."

  Chapter 6

  The smell of Lucy's perfume weaved through his senses and into his semi-conscious mind. It smelled of the sky, of the clouds and the soft downy feathers on the wings of an angel. It was clean and it was fresh. Yet something about the scent was changing. Something had corrupted it and turned it into an acid that singed the hairs in his nostrils. He gulped down air trying to void his senses of the smell but it was too late. The smell was already inside him; burning through his lungs and coursing through his arteries and veins with a spiteful fire. It was consuming him.

  Bobby's eyes flew open as he gasped for air. "Lucy?" he murmured. His eyes focused and settled on the whitewashed ceiling above. He wasn't in bed, his back was telling him that. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and opened them again. The shop, that's where he was; lying on the floor in the showroom with a head full of angry wasps and a tongue formed from seasoned leather. The deep breath he'd taken was full of the pleasant morning scent of embalming chemicals and nothing more.

  He'd spent the night there, or what was left of the night, after they'd left the cemetery. It was a first for him and it would be a last too. So would drinking a bottle and a half of Jameson's in one go. He sat up and paused for a moment, waiting for a wave of nausea to push him back down. Christ, he felt rough. Outside he could hear the morning traffic passing outside the shop; the sound of footfall pounding the pavement and people going about their business. Didn't they know he had a hangover from hell?

  Muddy footprints marked the carpet indicating two sets of feet coming in and one going out. Bobby followed them and saw the shop keys where Tom had posted them back through the letterbox. Thanks little brother, you're not quite the idiot I gave you credit for.

  He stood up and felt the full force of earth's gravity bear down on him. For a moment he thought his legs might buckle under the strain. Bacon, that's what he needed. Something greasy and fried would definitely make him feel better. He plodded to the door and picked up the key. A groan and a deep breath later and he was back in the land of the living and in search of breakfast. He didn't know what time it was but judging by the fact he still felt slightly drunk, he knew it couldn't be too late. He followed Main Street up to the crossroads and paused. Straight ahead was Bowes Hill. Had he really gone up there last night to exhume Lucy? He turned left and walked toward Swann's Bakery. As well as freshly baked bread, they did a sideline in breakfast sandwiches. He could already smell the bread and it wouldn't be long before he was chewing his way through a pile of salty smoked bacon.

  Before he got there, he caught sight of himself in a window and pulled a face. Not only did he feel like shit, he looked like it too. His eyes re-focused as he looked closer. "Commercial Opportunities." Underneath there were three neatly arranged photographs with details beside each one. They were insignificant compared to the residential selection yet sadly poignant. He looked away, salivating at the smell coming from Swann's. After breakfast he was coming back and the agent better be ready to sell Littleoak's oldest business; Moreton and Sons.

  "Rough night," Bobby said to the assistant even though she hadn't said anything about his appearance.

  "I can see. You look like your brother does most mornings."

  Bobby took the sandwich from her and paid. "That is most certainly not a compliment, Lynda." He winked and turned away. Keeping the sandwich wrapped up until he was back at the shop would be difficult but he needed tea to go with it so it would have to wait just a few minutes more. Besides he didn't want to speak to Johnson the estate agent with ketchup and egg all over his already shoddy looking suit. He took one last look at his reflection and sighed before stepping inside.

  The shop looked a little disorganised and the display boards seemed to be arranged in a haphazard maze. It was impossible to see the desk from where he was. It wasn't until he started walking through that he realised the boards had been arranged in such a way as to guide him through every single property they had to offer. He glanced briefly at them as he passed. There were some in the town itself but most were from the outlying villages and settlements in the area. Most, he assumed, would be purchased by wealthy people with enough income to manage a holiday home without problem.

  Eventually he reached the other side. The desk was empty so he coughed loudly. After a few seconds without response he called out, "Hello?" His mouth was dry and his stomach was wavering between hunger and nausea. He didn't need to be kept waiting too long. He might have second thoughts, or more likely he might throw up.

  "Hello?" he called again.

  "Sorry, just one moment. I'll be right with you." A female voice called back to him from the office.

  Bobby couldn't help himself any longer and peeled back the foil on his sandwich and took a bite. The salty fizz of smoked bacon erupted in his mouth quickly followed by the smooth, creamy richness of egg yolk. He closed his eyes and chewed. Christ, it tasted better than anything he'd eaten for a long time. He couldn't stop an involuntary groan escaping from his partially opened mouth.


  "Hello?"

  Bobby opened his eyes immediately, his mouth still half full of bacon and egg. "Hello, sorry," he mumbled before his befuddled brain recognised who she was. "Esther?"

  "Hello again," she replied and smiled. "It looks like you've been in the wars."

  Bobby felt the sandwich starting to drop from his hand but he managed to steady it before it fell to the floor. Tomato sauce dripped onto his less than clean shirt. "Shit," he whispered and started trying to brush the sauce away, even though he knew it was futile.

  "We call that the Bacon Banjo where I come from."

  "What? Sorry, what?"

  "Trying to clean it off that way looks a bit like you're playing Duelling Banjos. Leave it and I'll fetch something." Esther disappeared back into the office leaving Bobby wondering whether to make a run for it.