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‘How brave you are.’

‘Not really,’ Fleur said. ‘I don’t have a family to care for – not yet, anyway. I love my work and I want to do it to the very best of my ability . . . and I think I’m every bit as good as any other funeral director in Adelaide, to be honest.’

Helen leaned forward. ‘No, Fleur, you’re better,’ she said, looking surprised by her own admission. ‘You’re not stuffy or frightening. When my uncle died, I was young. He lived with us, and I think I was more upset by the careless attitude shown to his body when they were collecting him than his actual death. And their sombre faces only made the atmosphere worse.’ She held up a hand before Fleur could respond. ‘Not Appleby’s, of course. When my father passed, yours was kind but he was nonetheless grave. You’ve helped me this morning to breathe again.’

Fleur nodded. ‘I do think a woman’s touch can make a difference . . . especially to widows and grieving mothers.’

‘I believe you. I like the idea that my Arthur will be taken care of by you.’

There was a soft knock in the distance.

‘Ah, that might be your family coming to offer comfort,’ Fleur said. ‘May I let them in?’

Helen sighed and nodded. ‘May we have a little more time with Arthur?’

‘As long as you need.’ Fleur smiled gently. ‘And Helen, when you’re ready to face work, don’t go to the hospital. Please come and see me. I think I could use someone with nursing experience.’

She rose to let the murmuring family members in, smiling softly in welcome and pointing them towards the back of the house, and departed as quietly as she’d entered.

16

Once she had returned to the mortuary, Fleur immediately got to work preparing Arthur Bedford. The family wanted him buried as soon as possible, and Helen’s mother had just rung to say they had spoken to the church and organised a service for the day after tomorrow.

Fleur checked his pyjama pocket to make sure nothing valuable was left behind and found a fresh flower tucked inside. She felt the precious love of that moment, wondering if Helen had done this . . . or perhaps it was her daughter who’d placed that flower before she left for school, trying to comprehend that her father was dead in his bed.

Shaking off the thought, Fleur immediately set to the business of getting Arthur readied. That was how she thought of him now; he was no longer Mr Bedford, but her new friend and companion for the next couple of hours. She busied herself elevating his head and hands to minimise the lividity that was already beginning to show itself. She did not want to be fighting against the eruption of dark red and purple on his face or hands that the accumulation of blood after death brought. She cast a glance at the clock; it was now seven hours since his death. Fleur took the precaution of lowering his legs, using the clever table her father had designed and had made just for this reason. Its levers meant she could effortlessly ensure that gravity would drain away the various fluids from the man’s visible features without requiring any strength.

Fleur turned slightly to where a pen and her mortuary book sat. She had already recorded the name and details of her ‘guest’, and now she would make quick notes about his preparation in case they were ever needed. She could not recall a time when they had been called upon, but her father was meticulous and had insisted that when the day occurred that someone did need a question answered, Appleby’s would be ready to supply that answer to the best of its ability.

‘Take notes about everything that you do or you observe. It’s professional . . . good practice,’ he’d told her many times from when she was old enough to be in the mortuary, when she had asked him about his big book – which would soon become her big book, she supposed.

There were many similar volumes filed on their shelves, all identical in appearance. She smiled, never failing to be impressed by her father’s diligence. She felt determined to follow his footsteps, but perhaps taking a parallel path that looked to new ways without losing those old, important practices that had built their reputation.

Helen had placed a heavy penny over each of Arthur’s eyes; it was a death ritual that went back centuries to when pebbles were placed over the eyes, back even to the ancient Egyptians – masters of the death ritual – who would paint eyes on the stones. Fleur had noted that Helen, from an Irish family, followed the old ways, including opening the window to let her husband’s spirit out to roam free, shutting curtains, stopping clocks, covering mirrors and insisting he be carried out feet first from the house. None of these practices were new to Fleur and she had observed Helen’s wishes good naturedly, smiling at the memory of Helen claiming to have heard a dog barking just moments before her husband passed.

‘It was the omen,’ she’d told Fleur, who chose not to mention that there were plenty of dogs in this neighbourhood and it was highly likely that barking occurred most nights. ‘That dog foretold my Arthur’s passing,’ Helen had assured her family as Fleur waited in the shadowy hallway.

Fleur now removed the coppers gently, surprisingly still warmed from Arthur’s eyelids. She clutched them in her palm and spoke a short blessing over his life, asking that his spirit would find its way home safely. It was curious that they were both 1933 pennies, but Fleur had become accustomed to the detail that people observed for even the simplest of acts while in shock at the death of someone close. Perhaps 1933 had been a special year for their family or a milestone for the couple, like a wedding anniversary. She rather enjoyed wondering about these aspects of the person she was preparing; the diversion of thought somehow helped her to focus on the mostly mechanical tasks even more intently. It also prevented her from regarding the person as a corpse, when every inch of them was still someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s lover.

The weight of the coppers felt reassuring, their engraving still unworn. One side clearly depicted the King, the other the Commonwealth of Australia. Fleur neatly placed the pennies, one on top of the other, on the page of her book next to the wilted flower; she would return them to Helen Bedford with a kind note, along with Arthur’s pyjamas and dressing-gown, knowing it would reinforce the thoughtful service of Appleby’s. However, there was a likelihood that Helen would not want her pennies returned. They were, after all, a tithe, attached to the notion of paying ‘a penny for the ferryman’ so Arthur’s soul could move safely over the infernal rivers in Hades.

One of the lads arrived to help undress Arthur. ‘Gently, Robbie,’ Fleur said, as she always did.

He grinned and nodded. Out of respect, she averted her gaze as Robbie removed the robe and pyjamas and, when she turned back from her book after recording the presence of the two pennies and the flower – a daisy, she had noted – Arthur was naked but his modesty had been protected by a wide piece of linen across his hips. She and her father had set up this practice from many years ago, not because a woman was present in the mortuary, but to show respect for the person lying on their table.

‘Thank you, Robbie. Can you and Albert be back in about’— Fleur frowned as she checked her wristwatch—‘an hour and a half?’

‘Easy,’ he said.

‘The coffin’s ready?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve put on the handles. You just have to do your bits inside, Miss.’

‘That’s good. Do you want to do the packing?’

He looked hesitant. ‘I’ve only done it twice with your father.’

‘That’s all right. I’m here, I know exactly what to do.’ She nodded her encouragement. ‘Let me clean him first. Ten minutes?’