To Be Continued Read online

  ‘I won’t say a word, Gerry.’

  ‘Cheers, pal. Mate of yours was he, the deceased?’

  ‘Colleague. We worked together. Kind of. I didn’t really know him.’

  ‘Funny that, eh? All these funerals, and maist folk probably dinnae ken the person that’s deid. I mean, really ken them. Sometimes no even the faimly. That’s what I think.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. How long have you been an undertaker, Gerry?’

  ‘Just since last week. I was a delivery driver before. I mean, before before. Suppose I still am.’

  ‘What did you deliver – before before?’

  ‘Och, this and that.’ He seems not to want to elaborate. ‘Braw singing, eh?’

  The singing is undeniably lusty. Loud and celestial, as if from the mouths of a gang of seraphim who also happen to be ardent football fans. And one voice is belting the words out more vigorously and clearly than the rest: the unmistakable bellow of Ollie Buckthorn.

  ‘There let the way appear, steps unto heav’n;

  Douglas, my man, where the hell have you been?

  Angels to beckon me, nearer, my God, to Thee.’

  Surely I can’t really hear Ollie singing these words? Either my imagination is up to its old tricks or it is warning me, in a subtle way, of the volume of Ollie’s greeting should he emerge from the church and find me hovering near the hearse.

  ‘I’ll just wait over there by the gravestones,’ I say, ‘and pay my respects when Mr Grigson comes out.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The deceased.’

  ‘Oh aye. Your colleague. Well, he’ll no be lang. My colleagues will fetch your colleague oot and then we’re aff tae another cemetery wi him. This one’s full.’

  ‘A full hoose,’ I say, eliciting a laugh from Gerry. I retreat to the shelters of the dead until such time as the mortal remains of Ronald Grigson shall be brought forth.

  SPEAR CARRIERS

  It is peaceful among the lairs. The city traffic is far away, the wind has dropped and the sun is shining. The church doors are opened, and out into this gentle world, for the last time, comes Ronald. I watch the undertakers guide his coffin on a little trolley, the wheels of which, being on the small side, get stuck when they hit the gravel, so they have to carry him the rest of the way. They stow him in the hearse, fold away the trolley, then adopt the classic pose of their profession, solid, respectful, hands clasped in front of their crotches like footballers defending a free kick, all evidence of cigarette-smoking eliminated. Even Gerry gets it right. Part of the training, probably.

  The Grigson family is in the vestibule, receiving the embraces, handshakes and mumbled sympathies of the congregation as it files past them. I don’t know the Grigsons, and they don’t know me. This is not the time to approach from behind, tap the widow on the shoulder and say how sorry I am, especially as I’m not that sorry. What, then, am I waiting for? I am waiting for the Erstwhile Colleagues.

  The line-up continues, and while it does I read the names, dates and religious hopes and aspirations of various Victorian worthies, their wives and innumerable children, many of whom, even in this salubrious quarter of Edinburgh, died young. I am suddenly tired, as if all the spent lives whose mortal remains are deposited in this place have risen in a ghostly battalion, invaded my body and then just as rapidly left it again. I am unbalanced, totter, sit down on a flat, tabular memorial – a rougher, older-looking stone than most of the others, its inscription made illegible by moss and weather. The stone is warm from the sun and welcoming, not hard. If I lie down for a nap, will anybody object? Perhaps, but I can also nap while sitting upright. I pull down the shutters of my eyelids. The insides of them are orange with the sunlight. Ah! Ronald Grigson is at peace, and so am I.

  My brief sojourn from the travails of the world is brought to an end by a hefty slap between the shoulder blades and a jovial, Dublin-toned cry: ‘Hello, you old wanker!’ I have been located, as I knew I would be, by Ollie Buckthorn – hence my desire to move away from the immediate vicinity of the main action. I raise the eye-shutters. Here’s Ollie, looming over me like two traffic wardens pressed into one, with Roy Wilkinson and Grant McKinley bracketing him like a pair of black-and-white bollards.

  ‘Tempting fate, sitting on that,’ Ollie says, lighting a cigarette. ‘Either you’ll get piles or the ground will open up and swallow you.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk, smoking in a graveyard.’

  ‘A dangerous occupation, right enough,’ Ollie says, inhaling deeply, ‘but that’s me all over, a risk-taker. It’s why I still work on a newspaper, while some timid souls, who shall be nameless in this hallowed sanctuary, took flight at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘You couldn’t take flight even if you wanted to.’

  ‘Ah, you’re too cruel. But I’m glad to see the banter has not entirely deserted you since you deserted us.’

  There is a comforting familiarity to this sparring, yet I also recall how wearing it could become. I rise to my feet, exchanging handshakes. Grant lights up too. The four of us surround that unreadable stone slab, and it is almost like old times – the old old times before smoking was banned inside the Spear building – the old building – when we used to stare down at a dummy double-page spread and wonder how best to make it work. Then Ollie speaks again.

  ‘So what the hell kept you? The show is over.’

  ‘The bus was held up.’

  ‘Your arse. Who was it, Dick Turpin?’

  ‘Roadworks. What did I miss?’

  ‘A legend,’ Roy says, ‘if half of what we heard in there was true. Here, recognise this character?’

  He extracts a folded order of service from an inside pocket and hands it to me. A Celebration of the Life of Ronald Grigson is printed on the front, with his dates, and there’s a photograph, but it takes me a few seconds to match this snap to the Ronald Grigson I knew. For this is not the dour, tight-fisted pessimist of the Spear, but a laughing, windswept, T-shirt-clad athlete at the tiller of a sailboat. Nor is it a picture of long-forgotten youth. Once I have acclimatised to the sunny features beaming out at me, it becomes clear that the photo must have been taken within the last few years.

  I shake my head, and further demonstrate my disbelief by expelling a puff of air through the lips.

  ‘That’s who’s in the box,’ Roy says. ‘And what I want to know is, who the hell was the man we used to see in the office?’

  ‘And he was some man, that Grigsy,’ Grant says. ‘If he wasnae climbing mountains he was sailing across the Atlantic or cycling round Britain and hardly a day went by when he wasnae raising money for good causes. He sang in a choir, he was a great pianist, he loved amateur dramatics. We thought we’d come to the wrang funeral.’

  ‘We tried to get out,’ Ollie says, ‘but we were stuck in the middle of a pew, and the pews are about a mile long in there, I’m telling you, so we stayed. Then we found it really was Ronald they were on about – or Grigsy, as my Honourable Friend here refers to him. We learned a lot, didn’t we, lads?’

  ‘We did indeed,’ says Roy. ‘It was as if when he got home he changed into his superhero outfit. Especially at the weekend.’

  ‘Never oot of it on a weekend,’ says Grant, ‘except when he put on a kilt for a spot of Scottish country dancing. Apparently he was in high demand on the Burns Supper circuit, tae. Naebody could surpass his rendition of “Holy Willie’s Prayer”, according tae his brother, Donald. It was Donald who gave the eulogy.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ I remark. ‘Calling your sons Donald and Ronald?’

  ‘The father was a bit of a wag, so Donald informed us,’ Ollie says. ‘He thought it would be a great wheeze to have rhyming offspring. There are two sisters as well, Phyllis and Dilys.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘He’s no,’ Grant says. ‘And that’s where Ronald got his sense of humour from – his father.’

  ‘Now, I know what you’re thinking,’ Ollie says
. ‘You’re thinking, but Ronald didn’t have a sense of humour. Well, not at work maybe, but it was a different story when he was off duty. It seems he came out of his mother’s womb cracking one-liners so hilarious the midwife nearly burst her sides. He was the juvenile jokesmith, the class clown, the undergraduate gagster. The grey man we knew at the Spear was not the man who entertained his family and friends for six decades.’

  ‘Just shows you, eh?’ Roy says. ‘You’ve no idea what happens to some folk when they get home and out of their dungarees. Speaking of which, how are you yourself, Douglas?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Retirement suiting you?’

  ‘He’s no retired,’ Grant says. ‘He’s resting.’

  ‘You’ll be getting under Sonya’s feet,’ Ollie says. ‘Not a bad place to be, if my recollection of Sonya in a short skirt is accurate.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ Roy says. ‘Out of order, Ollie.’

  ‘Not at all. She’s a lovely girl from any angle. Is she well, Douglas?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Oops!’ Ollie says, and points at his mouth. ‘Extract foot from here.’

  ‘She’s fine. We’re fine.’

  ‘Has she dumped you?’

  ‘We’ve not been seeing so much of each other, that’s all.’

  ‘She’s dumped you.’

  ‘She’s busy with work and I’ve been sorting out my father. He’s had to go into residential care.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Roy says. ‘I remember you saying he wasn’t very well.’

  ‘That’s a hard one,’ Grant says.

  ‘You do look a bit haggard,’ Ollie says. ‘You sure you’re all right? You’ve probably been out in the fresh air too much, overdoing the gardening. Isn’t that how you retirees fill your days?’

  ‘That must be it, Ollie,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the sympathy. How’s the paper?’

  ‘Dying on its fundament, same as ever,’ Roy says. ‘Circulation still diving, pages still getting fewer yet at the same time more full of crap – you know the score. Not that that makes our lives any easier. The trouble with folk like you getting redundancy is the rest of us Spear carriers have to work twice as hard to keep the show on the road.’

  (Spear carriers: a term by use of which, for many years, the paper’s staff have disparaged or applauded – depending on their mood – their own endeavours.)

  ‘And for no extra pay,’ Grant says. ‘And you can bet your life when they replace Grigsy it will be with someone they can pay a third of his wage tae.’

  ‘If they replace him,’ Ollie says. ‘Aha! Looks like there’s some movement.’

  The line-up is over, and now the crowd, which has been milling about making low, funereal small talk, falls silent, rippling back off the gravel apron as two more black cars roll into view from the tree-lined lane and creep up behind the hearse. The minister – an austere, white-haired, long-limbed gent like a silver birch in winter – herds an assortment of Grigsons over to the cars to take their seats within. Then the cortège moves off, tyres spitting stones, and perhaps it is this sound that sparks the next thing: somebody starts to clap. In seconds the entire assembly is joining in. I glimpse a gloved hand waving from one of the limousines as it swings by. Have I missed the presence of royalty? No, surely not, for Grant and Roy, staunch republicans both, are clapping too. Only Ollie – how I love Ollie right at this moment – seems not to be swept up in this mood of the moment.

  ‘What the fuck was that about?’ he says loudly as the applause peters out. A man ten yards away turns to glare, then, seeing the size of the speaker, changes his mind.

  ‘A nice touch,’ Roy says. ‘See the man on his way.’

  ‘He’s dead!’ Ollie says. ‘He’s off to the great news desk in the sky. He hasn’t won an award. He wasn’t Nelson Mandela.’

  ‘Folk want tae show their appreciation,’ Grant says. ‘No tae him, tae his family.’

  ‘I’m surprised they didn’t start throwing fucking roses,’ Ollie says. ‘Some people watch too much television, that’s what I think.’

  ‘Easy, Ollie,’ Roy says.

  ‘Don’t easy-Ollie me. What do you think, Douglas?’

  ‘I think we should go for a drink.’

  ‘Isn’t there a purvey?’ Grant asks. ‘What does it say in the programme, Roy?’

  ‘The Braidstone Hotel,’ Roy answers. He reads out, ‘ “The family warmly invites you to continue celebrating Ronald’s life at the Braidstone Hotel, where they will join you after the private interment.” ’

  ‘Well, that rules you out, Dougie,’ Ollie says, ‘because you missed the first bit of celebrating. No tea and fancy cakes for you. Where is the Braidstone Hotel anyway?’

  ‘It’s miles up the hill,’ Roy says. ‘Almost at Fairmilehead. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘That’s too far,’ Grant says. ‘We’ll have to watch our time.’

  ‘Going to work, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, Douglas, work,’ Ollie says. ‘That stuff most of us waste most of our lives on. You’re well out of it.’

  ‘We’ve left the bairns unattended so God knows what shape the paper will go out in if we don’t do a few hours,’ Grant says.

  ‘My Learned Friend refers to the fact that the office is overrun with interns,’ Ollie says. ‘They can do top-ten listicles and Google so-called scientific research into what makes people fancy other people, but anything much beyond that is outside their comfort zone.’

  ‘That’s where we live,’ Roy says. ‘Outside their comfort zone, like wild animals in primeval forests.’

  ‘I propose,’ Grant says, ‘that we repair to a more convenient hostelry to toast our departed brother.’

  ‘I hate to miss a funeral tea,’ Ollie says. ‘I love the wee sandwiches and the wee waitresses going about manhandling those enormous brown teapots. Oh-oh, look sharp, here comes the Glorious Leader.’

  John Liffield, editor of the Spear, is picking his way through the gravestones, a dark-haired man with a beak-like nose and sallow skin. Tall and angular, he moves in a jerky, mechanical way that no doubt has contributed to his reputation for being something of a robot. He is the paper’s sixth editor in eight years. Having been in post for nearly two of these, Liffield is almost a veteran by modern standards. (The Spear has had only twenty editors in its two-hundred-year existence.)

  ‘All right, guys? Thought that was very moving. Thanks for coming along and representing the paper.’

  ‘Oh, is that what we were doing?’ Ollie says. ‘I thought we were saying farewell to a colleague. Seeing the man on his way. Wasn’t that moving, that spontaneous round of applause?’ The rank hypocrisy of Ollie Buckthorn never fails to enthral me.

  ‘Very,’ says Liffield. ‘A moving ceremony all round. Hello, Douglas, didn’t see you in there. Mind you, it was packed. Nice of you to come.’ His voice is like scraping metal and with every utterance he seems to be trying to wrap up and move on.

  ‘He nearly missed it, eh, Dougie?’ Ollie says. ‘His bus was held up by highwaymen.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Liffield says, exhibiting his capacity for not listening to people. Then, catching himself, he adds, ‘I mean, glad you made it.’

  ‘I didn’t really.’

  ‘Absolutely. You’re looking well.’

  ‘He’s looking terrible,’ says Ollie. ‘Give him his job back.’

  ‘Oh now, you know I can’t.’

  ‘We miss his cheery laugh,’ Roy says.

  ‘Almost as much as we miss Ronald’s,’ Ollie says. ‘Good old Grigsy. Help us out here, John. Bring back the one you can. Give us Dougie again.’

  ‘Wish I could,’ Liffield says, ‘but it’s out of my hands.’ He keeps glancing round, like a hunted man. ‘Guys, I’m going to have to go. Senior-management meeting this afternoon. Various bigwigs up from London. I’d offer you a lift in the cab but …’

  He leaves the sentence hanging, not because he hasn’t thought of an excuse but
because he doesn’t think he needs to give one. Ollie helps him out.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I fill a taxi on my own. We were thinking we’d go to what my Learned Friend Mr McKinley refers to as the purvey – just for half an hour or so, to show face. You go ahead.’

  ‘The what?’ It is apparent that Liffield, a Friend from the South, is not familiar with the term. ‘Oh, the reception? Gotcha. Good plan. I’ve never been to the Braidstone Hotel, actually.’

  ‘You’ve missed yourself, then,’ Ollie says. ‘It’s lovely. Has an old-world charm to it. Friendly staff, good food. Ronald would have appreciated the choice of venue.’

  ‘Sounds nice. Don’t stay too long, will you?’ Liffield looks worried. Perhaps he thinks they might never come back to work again. Or perhaps he suspects the London bigwigs are going to sack him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Roy assures him. ‘We’ve got things under control. We put in a couple of hours this morning. It was very thoughtful of Ronald, having his funeral at this time of day, before the back shift starts.’

  ‘Mair or less,’ Grant adds.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then,’ Liffield says, gearing up to depart.

  ‘Cheerio,’ Ollie says. ‘Cab waiting for you, is it?’

  For answer, Liffield plucks a slim black phone from his jacket, glances at it, says, ‘It’s approaching,’ and then takes off across the gravel, crunch, crunch, crunch, like a man made of Meccano.

  I am after him in a second. ‘Before you go, John!’ I call, loudly enough so he can’t pretend he hasn’t heard. ‘A word?’

  He brakes. ‘I really need to connect with this taxi,’ he says. ‘Walk with me.’

  I walk with him, quickening my pace to keep up with his long, robotic strides. Mourners are dispersing in all directions, although the main current is towards the tree-lined lane, where we are also heading.

  ‘Do you remember, when I was getting ready to leave, we talked about some possible freelance work?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m sorry nothing much came of that.’