Graham Swift - Last Orders

I watched Jack clear off the meat trays, picking up the little sprigs of imitation greenery, then wash down the display counter, smoothly, without pausing, like he could do it all with his eyes closed, but carefully and deliberately, taking his time, it being a hot day. And I thought, He's early, and it's a while since I've seen him do that himself, it's usually that lad, the one he said couldn't tell chuck from chine and couldn't keep a price in his head. Unless he's gone and paid him off too. And that red and white awning's looking tattier, it won't last the year out.

It's an old habit at the end of the day, to watch the other shops shutting up. A shop is meant to be looked at, that's why it's built round a window. You can eye the goods and watch the shopkeeper, like a fish in a tank, except that doesn't apply in the case of an undertaker's. A coffin shop's the one shop no one wants to peer into. They're laid out according, no pun intended. Curtains, screens. No one wants to see an FD going about his business.

So I stood where I've often stood of a quiet evening, behind the lace curtain which runs the width of the window, above the half-partition of dark panelling. It's a habit that comes with the trade too. Secrecy, seeing and not being seen.

Trev had the half day off, Dick was on a pick-up from Maidstone, and the rest of the crew had slipped off, the hearses parked round the back, all waxed and polished for tomorrow. So I was alone on the premises. Excepting Mr Connolly, that is, who was waiting for his wife to come and view him.

I watched Jack step outside to wind up the awning, a few twists of the handle, then go back inside, then reappear to lock up and pull down the grilles. And all that must cost a bit too, though I've never had the bother of it myself, because I haven't heard of an undertaker's being broken into lately. Not favoured in that respect either. Though I dare say there's more in my cash safe than there is in Jack's.

I thought, Now he'll turn right, pat his pockets, look at his watch, wave at Des there in the dry-cleaner's, and head for the Coach, where I might well join him in an hour or so, if Vera Connolly isn't late. Thirsty weather. But I saw him walk instead to the kerb and look across, as if he could see me behind the lace curtain, as if I'd beckoned. Then he waited for the traffic and crossed over, so I stepped back inside quickly. Then I heard him rattle the door.

He said, 'Evening, Vie. You coming to the Coach?' And that was strange, because either he'd see me at the Coach or he wouldn't, I could find my own way there. He knew if I turned up it was usually later, since I seldom finished the day like he did, five thirty on the button.

I said, 'I was thinking of it,'

He said, 'Thirsty weather. Beautiful day.'

I said, 'Beautiful day. You come to tell me that?'

He said, 'First of June, Vie. Know what day it is?'

I looked at him. He looked around.

He said, 'You all on your tod?'

I nodded. I said, 'Why don't you sit down?' He glances at me, uncertain, as if it isn't plain as pie he's come for a purpose, but he sits down, where my clients sit, where the bereaved sit and discuss their requirements. Then he says, 'Moment's come, Vie. First of June. I'm going to sell up the shop.'

He says it like he's confessing to a crime. Like he's come to arrange his own funeral.

I say, 'Well then I'll definitely come and have that drink, as there's something to celebrate. You buying?' And he looks at me, narrow-eyed for a moment, as if he wasn't asking to be made fun of, and maybe I'm not so different from all the rest of them. Scoffers.

He says, 'I'm telling you, Vie. I aint telling no one else. Not yet.'

I say, 'My privilege. Mum's the word.'

But I think, But what's the big secret, and what's the big shame? That he's going to quit when he's sixty-eight, which is not before time by most people's reckoning. That he said he'd go on till he dropped, but he hasn't dropped, though he's gone on. That he's going to do what even Vincey said he ought to do years ago: cut his losses before they cut him. Maybe that's the nub of it, that Vincey told him. And there's Amy who nigh on gave up on him. Though he hasn't even guessed that, or how.

I think, Pride's a queer thing. It puffs a small man up but that's nothing to a big man who's afraid of looking small.

He says, 'What's a butcher's shop, anyway?'

And I think, You tell me. Jack, since your whole face is saying it's everything, and it hurts to be admitting otherwise. You wouldn't think it was such a tragedy, taking your nose from the grindstone. I think, Cheer up, Jack. In my book butchers used to be jolly bastards, big fellers with big arms and big grins, like you once used to be. I'm supposed to be Mister Sad. It's retirement, not defeat. And it's only the nature of the trade that keeps me hanging on here, same age as you, lingering in the office, when I could be handing over to the boys. Because it's the age when most people start to have need of an undertaker, the age of widows in the making, and I know Mrs Connolly will appreciate it.

He says, 'There's more to life than bacon, aint there?' as if he's not sure what that is. 'And it's only fair to Amy.'

I say, 'You told her?'

He lifts up his eyes, taken aback. He says, 'Hold on, Vie, I only made me mind up five minutes ago, swabbing down the trays.'

I thought, Well that's more like the Jack Dodds I know. So I was witness, without knowing it, to the great Decision. There must be something that makes you look where you look when you look.

He says, 'So I thought I better tell someone fast, I better tell Vie fast, otherwise I'll go back on myself before I can tell Amy.'

That's more like the Jack I know.

I say, 'That puts me on the spot though, doesn't it? If you don't tell her.'

He says, 'I'll tell her,' indignant, but his face drops again, as though he hasn't worked out how he's going to cross that bridge, as if there's nothing harder in the world than telling good news.

There's an old dock in my office that ticks steady. It's a comfort.

He says, 'Boys okay, Vie?'

I think, Boys, they're both over forty. But it's what I call them: boys.

I say, 'I'm keeping them busy.'

He looks round at the deserted office and then at me, as though to say, 'Looks like they're keeping you busy, Vie.' But I know what that glint in his eye means, I've seen it before. It means, It's easy for you, Vie, isn't it, to give up, let go. With Dick and Trev. So it's still there anyway. It would be easy for me.

It means Vince.

Well you've scuppered your chances there, Jack. Not even help-me-outs there.

He says, 'You know what today is? First of June.'

I shake my head.

He says, 'June's birthday. June's fiftieth birthday. First of June 1939. You know where Amy is right now?'

I say, 'Seeing June.'

He nods, then looks at his hands. 'She didn't say nothing but I knew what she was thinking. That I could make an exception. Fifty years is either special or it aint. A chance to do what I aint ever done before. She said, "I'm going to see June. It's my normal day but today's special, isn't it?" She said, "I've bought her a present, a bracelet," She didn't have to say nothing else, just look. She don't give up. So I said, "I'll see, I'll see." Cost me a load, Vie, just to say that.'

I think, A load of what?

'I said I could shut the shop early, maybe, and see you there. She said, "You sure you know where it is?" I didn't say nothing definite, but it was like a promise. But when the time came - half an hour ago - I knew I couldn't do it, I couldn't change, not like that. Fifty years. June don't know how old she is, does she? June don't know what a bracelet's for. So then I thought, But I can change another way. She won't see me turning up at that hospital but I can have something to tell her. Something to compensate.'