A Terrible Kindness(8)
‘Thank you, Betty,’ Jimmy says eventually. ‘Any job in here is extremely harrowing. Especially if you know any of them.’
‘I know all of them,’ she replies immediately, ‘and their parents. If this had happened twenty years ago, it would have been my two on these tables.’ Her voice drops. ‘I want to do something for those poor parents.’
‘William?’ Jimmy nods at him. ‘Let Betty help you prepare them for identification.’
Betty puts her bag in the corner next to the coffins, then reaches into it for some yellow rubber gloves.
‘I’ve come prepared.’ She stands opposite William and looks at him with a brave, business-like smile. ‘So, love, tell me what to do.’
Betty is nothing like his mother; she’s older, smaller, there is no flow or elegance to her movements, but he recognises a quality in her. She is terrified, traumatised, but she is also courageous and determined.
‘This’ll be hard,’ he says, taking a light hold of the grey wool, wondering how long he should give it before removing the blanket. He finds her direct gaze easy to meet. ‘First there’s the slurry, and then we’re working on the last ones to be recovered. They’re in a bad way.’ Betty’s red lips are a firm, straight line, her eyes on him unwavering. She nods once and swallows, and William notices a pulse at her throat. He needs to show her he knows what he’s doing, give her confidence in him. ‘We’ll take off the clothes. I’ll check the state of the body. Then we’ll clean it. Together.’ Betty’s eyes shine suddenly; two sapphires. ‘I’ll show you how.’ She nods again, blinking at him. ‘Right then,’ William says.
He pulls back the blanket in one swift yet gentle move, letting it fall off the end of the table. Betty’s compact body starts, but William doesn’t show he noticed. Together, they look. Together they smell blood and tar and the beginning of something putrid.
In the strained, yellowy light from borrowed lamps, Betty groans and rests her hand on the undamaged side of the girl’s face. ‘All right, Helen,’ she whispers, ‘Betty’s here.’
The room is still and silent; William knows the other embalmers are watching. Betty straightens, breathes deeply, so the movement of the cross at her throat catches the light. ‘Now, sweetheart,’ she says, louder, matter of fact, her rubber fingers resting on the girl’s arm, ‘your mam and dad are coming to see you, so me and this lovely young man are going to get you ready. It’s all over now, sweetheart.’
When Betty’s oval face, at once resolute and bewildered, finally turns back to William, he has to fight to keep his own expression impassive, so potent is the rush of intimacy she has brought into the room.
‘You cut the clothes’ – he hands her the scissors – ‘I’ll get them off.’
With steady hands, Betty snips through the cotton skirt’s waistband and then diagonally across the shirt. Soon, only streaks of yellow shine through the black tar that covers her gloved hands. In a fraction of the time it has been taking him, William drops the fabric onto the pile at the foot of the table. He worries that the left foot will detach itself from the body when they come to clean it.
He takes the freshest bucket of water brought by the volunteers and dunks the sponge in it. ‘At least now we’ve got hot water.’ With firm, long strokes he goes to work on the left arm, wiping, pulling at the sludge, soaking and squeezing the sponge again and again. Betty watches.
‘You work on the arms, I’ll do the legs.’ He hands her a sponge and she immediately plunges it into the water. William has never seen anyone concentrate so hard on anything as Betty does on that slender limb. After her initial words to Helen, she is now silent, focusing on nothing but the inches of flesh beneath the grimy rectangle of sponge.
He suddenly feels the need to fill the silence. ‘What was she like?’ William says as he positions himself near the damaged leg.
She pauses, looks up at him. ‘I’d best not.’ She starts to rub again.
‘Of course, sorry,’ says William, embarrassed at himself, cradling the shattered foot as he starts to clean the shin.
The cold swill of air and the sudden blare of a lorry make him look up. It’s the navy blue coat and the tall figure of the Salvation Army man who served him, striding in with a black box in both hands.
‘Thought you might like a bit of background something,’ he says. ‘Batteries are fresh in and I’ve got more if they run out.’
‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Jimmy stops work and points to a window ledge at William’s back. ‘Could you put it there and tune it in to something? That would be grand.’
‘You’re welcome.’ The man walks to the window, holding the radio out slightly before him. ‘There we are.’
His deep voice and roly-poly vowels remind William again of Tom Jones and, as the radio static fills the air, knobs are twisted and voices swoop in and out of clarity, William half hopes to hear ‘What’s New Pussycat?’, or ‘It’s Not Unusual’.
‘I’m guessing music would be the thing,’ the man says, peering at the dial.
Orchestral music snaps into focus, purer and louder than William would have expected from a small transistor.
‘Marvellous, thank you,’ says Jimmy.