THE DEATH OF FREDDIE KNIGHT
Another excerpt from ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS - this concerns the death of Freddie, one of the residents at Russets Retirement Home. If you enjoy it buy the book - all the royalties are donated to our local Radiotherapy Unit Appeal and the Prospect Hospice.
In the afternoon I visit the funeral parlour where Freddie's body has
been taken. Over the years this has been the temporary resting place
for several of our residents. Most recently, of course, Dingo.
I come to a halt in the doorway, overcome by memories and regrets.
'Miss Churchill? May I help you?' It's Mr Harris, who runs things
here with his younger brother and his twenty year old son, Simon. I
often wonder if Simon really wanted to be here, surrounded by dead
bodies, or if he chose the easiest path and might one day rebel and
run off to join the Army or run a bar in Thailand or even to drive
coaches for Saga Holidays.
'I've brought clothes for Mr Knight,' I tell Mr Harris. I open the
small suitcase and lift out one of Freddie's silky floral dresses.
The turquoise and cream, his favourite, has been burnt. None of us at
Russets could bear to see it again.
Mr Harris's eyes widen but he makes no comment.
'And these are the shoes he liked. Underwear, of course. Silk
stockings, he preferred them to tights.' Last, I unwrapped Freddie's
best wig, long, curly and blonde.
'Er - you don't think a nice suit would be more appropriate? Perhaps
a white shirt? Striped tie?'
'This is what Freddie was, and his instructions, before he died, were
very specific. I hope you don't have any objections, Mr Harris.'
'Of course not, Miss Churchill, we're always happy to follow our
clients' wishes.'
'In that case - do you have anyone who's skilled with make-up - or
would I have to arrange that myself?'
'No, no, we can do it. My brother deals with that aspect.'
I have a sudden mental picture of Edgar Harris, a heavy balding man
in his fifties, bending over Freddie's corpse and daubing his face
with thick white foundation, over bright rouge and lipstick, making
him look like a clown.
'Freddie had excellent taste, Mr Harris. His make-up was always low
key, discreet. Perhaps I should find someone -'
'It's entirely up to you, Miss Churchill, but I think you'll find
most people would find the task a little - disturbing.'
I'd been thinking of Georgie, with a restraining hand from myself,
but perhaps that might not be a good idea.
'Leave it with me for today, Mr Harris. I'll come back to you
tomorrow.'
Back at Russets, Georgie was taking a break before starting the
evening meal. Four large balls of pastry, wrapped in clingfilm, stood
on one of the worktops, dusted with flour.
She got up and poured me a coffee.
'How did it go?'
'All right. Mr Harris was a bit startled when I showed him Freddie's
clothes.'
She laughed. 'He would be - especially if he knew Freddie used to be
a bank manager!'
'The
thing is - I'm not happy to let them do his make-up. I - well, I was
wondering if you'd
be willing to - to -'
Georgie
choked, spraying coffee over the table. 'Me!
You're joking, of course. Freddie's dead, Charlie. He's a corpse!'
'I know,' I said unhappily. 'But he wanted to look just as he did in
life. I can't bear to have him buried looking like the guy from the
Rocky Horror Picture Show!'
'Who's going to see? I suppose the odd maggot might consider it a bit
OTT, but really, Charlie -'
'Stop it!'
The stress of this day, Freddie's solicitor, his ex-wife, the funeral
parlour - and now Georgie talking about maggots - it's all too much.
I'm blubbing like a baby, letting out a long howl, and then Georgie's
up and clasping me to her apron.
'All right, all right! I'll do it. But I warn you, I'll probably have
nightmares afterwards!'
I rush to the phone and make the appointment before she can change
her mind.
