A Trick I Learned From Dead Men Read Online Free
She could have her pick of men so I’m not taking anything for granted. I haven’t asked her out yet. I don’t want to frighten her off. Nice and easy. Tiptoe through the tulips.
What d’you call that? Derek is referring to Mrs Whitmarsh. I have finished Mrs Whitmarsh and reckoned her to look good for someone who is dead.
She looks grey, says Derek. She looks ill, son. Get some colour on her before the resus team arrive.
Despite Derek’s superiority I do not take this lying down.
I was going for a natural look, I say.
Well, you’ve overdone it. She looks terrible, he says. Dear God. No one wants to see their relative looking dead, Lee. They want to see the face they loved back when, OK? An approximation of the good old days, Christmas morning after a nip of sherry. That’s the look you’re after, he says. Are you with me?
Yes, I say.
Derek smooths back his hair, fastens his waistcoat, turns on the tap to wash his hands. No good them going out looking worse than when they came in, he says. Get some sherry down her, glad tidings to all men, get some peace on earth. And get a move on.
Of all Derek’s foibles, having the last word, to my mind, is the most grating.
*
I LIKE TO walk the long way. Blow the cobwebs. I forget about them afterwards, I don’t take my work home. I like the wind pushing down Bursthill Lane from Cinder Hill, blows their old selves off me. Wind takes them, the deceased clients, off they go. I get the taste of the woods in my mouth and my legs know where to roam.
Welcome to Our Historic Village, it says on the sign.
OK, cheers!
There is a bird by the public footpath who whistles like a human, every day the same, like he’s doing someone’s windows with a bucket of suds. No sight of him, but still. I know he’s there.
Buonasera, I say. He stops whistling for a moment.
I look for Crow. He waits on the telegraph wire by the postbox. He tilts his shiny eye.
Late again, Lee. You’ll be late for your own funeral.
Such wit from a carrion bird.
You got nothing to crow about, I say.
That round goes to me, I reckon. Laters, Mr Corvid.
*
I ALWAYS SLAM the door when I come in. I could just say, Hello, but only one of them would hear and neither would reply. I could say, I’m home! But what would it achieve?
First thing I see is the dirty dish stack, frying pan on top, upturned like a sombrero. Buenos dias.
The best view in the house is from the sink. I wash the dishes, watch the sun drop into the woods, pyrotechnics. The house makes a giant shadow of itself on the lane. I hang the tea towel on the cupboard door.
Lester has a beard. A result of his TV marathon. He has watched TV non-stop since she died. If you measured his beard you could p’raps even get the date she passed. Possible Les has broken a round-the-clock TV-watching record and none of us know it.
Reality TV is Lester’s reality. He won’t watch a quiz, game show or drama. The only good news is no news, he says.
What d’you want for dinner, baked potato or omelette?
No answer. Lately he doesn’t reply. Gets on my nerves. Deaf is a political party in this house. Lester is tired of news since receiving the worst news he could have imagined . His plan now is to receive no news whatsoever, not even TV or radio. Easy to knock it, but. Seems to work for him. Just the job, as he would have once said.
I do omelette. I add peas and mushroom. Les has his with the reality people. Ned and me have ours with each other. Ned stirs his tea on and on, ting-a-ling. Jesus. Does your head.
I sign him.
Stop tinging fuck!
He burps. I love my family but. Ned will push you to the edge and pick his nose while you fall off. He has always got away with murder, it’s his middle name, whereas mine seems to be
You couldn’t do those dishes could you, Lee?
Legend has it Ned learned to lip-read overnight. He started signing aged three and a half. Made his own signs, redesigned it like he owned it. He’s got shapes no one’s heard of. He
What d’you call that? Derek is referring to Mrs Whitmarsh. I have finished Mrs Whitmarsh and reckoned her to look good for someone who is dead.
She looks grey, says Derek. She looks ill, son. Get some colour on her before the resus team arrive.
Despite Derek’s superiority I do not take this lying down.
I was going for a natural look, I say.
Well, you’ve overdone it. She looks terrible, he says. Dear God. No one wants to see their relative looking dead, Lee. They want to see the face they loved back when, OK? An approximation of the good old days, Christmas morning after a nip of sherry. That’s the look you’re after, he says. Are you with me?
Yes, I say.
Derek smooths back his hair, fastens his waistcoat, turns on the tap to wash his hands. No good them going out looking worse than when they came in, he says. Get some sherry down her, glad tidings to all men, get some peace on earth. And get a move on.
Of all Derek’s foibles, having the last word, to my mind, is the most grating.
*
I LIKE TO walk the long way. Blow the cobwebs. I forget about them afterwards, I don’t take my work home. I like the wind pushing down Bursthill Lane from Cinder Hill, blows their old selves off me. Wind takes them, the deceased clients, off they go. I get the taste of the woods in my mouth and my legs know where to roam.
Welcome to Our Historic Village, it says on the sign.
OK, cheers!
There is a bird by the public footpath who whistles like a human, every day the same, like he’s doing someone’s windows with a bucket of suds. No sight of him, but still. I know he’s there.
Buonasera, I say. He stops whistling for a moment.
I look for Crow. He waits on the telegraph wire by the postbox. He tilts his shiny eye.
Late again, Lee. You’ll be late for your own funeral.
Such wit from a carrion bird.
You got nothing to crow about, I say.
That round goes to me, I reckon. Laters, Mr Corvid.
*
I ALWAYS SLAM the door when I come in. I could just say, Hello, but only one of them would hear and neither would reply. I could say, I’m home! But what would it achieve?
First thing I see is the dirty dish stack, frying pan on top, upturned like a sombrero. Buenos dias.
The best view in the house is from the sink. I wash the dishes, watch the sun drop into the woods, pyrotechnics. The house makes a giant shadow of itself on the lane. I hang the tea towel on the cupboard door.
Lester has a beard. A result of his TV marathon. He has watched TV non-stop since she died. If you measured his beard you could p’raps even get the date she passed. Possible Les has broken a round-the-clock TV-watching record and none of us know it.
Reality TV is Lester’s reality. He won’t watch a quiz, game show or drama. The only good news is no news, he says.
What d’you want for dinner, baked potato or omelette?
No answer. Lately he doesn’t reply. Gets on my nerves. Deaf is a political party in this house. Lester is tired of news since receiving the worst news he could have imagined . His plan now is to receive no news whatsoever, not even TV or radio. Easy to knock it, but. Seems to work for him. Just the job, as he would have once said.
I do omelette. I add peas and mushroom. Les has his with the reality people. Ned and me have ours with each other. Ned stirs his tea on and on, ting-a-ling. Jesus. Does your head.
I sign him.
Stop tinging fuck!
He burps. I love my family but. Ned will push you to the edge and pick his nose while you fall off. He has always got away with murder, it’s his middle name, whereas mine seems to be
You couldn’t do those dishes could you, Lee?
Legend has it Ned learned to lip-read overnight. He started signing aged three and a half. Made his own signs, redesigned it like he owned it. He’s got shapes no one’s heard of. He
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