A Dog's Life(16)
That brief meeting took place on the afternoon of 27 March 1986, in a waiting room in the Westminster Council House. I remember how the Arab tried to contain his happiness by adopting a serious expression whenever our eyes met. I was touched, and slightly amused, by the way in which he manoeuvred the change from obvious delight to awkward sympathy. I desperately wanted to tell him not to bother; that the offer of the rather foul-smelling cigarette had been enough. My name was called first, and before I left I muttered words I thought he might know: ‘Thanks,’ I said, and, ‘Congratulations’.
‘Not quite the youngest this week,’ the woman who took the death certificate from me remarked. ‘There was one yesterday who was only forty-six.’ She was stating a matter of fact. I watched her as she read the slip of paper. ‘It isn’t for me to ask you why,’ she observed, writing ‘cirrhosis of the liver’ alongside David’s name in the large ledger on the table between us. ‘Guilt,’ I ventured, without explanation. ‘I think it was guilt.’ I sat in silence until she finished. When I rose to leave, she advised me to enjoy the rest of my life. Her tone was almost brusque. ‘Yes,’ I heard myself answer.
As soon as I got home, I took Circe for a brief walk and then telephoned the undertaker nearest to the hospital in which David had died. ‘It’s Easter in a few days’ time,’ said the man I talked to. ‘We’re pretty heavily booked.’ Could he have my number? He would see what he could do. He rang back the following morning. ‘You’re in luck, Mr Bailey,’ the fruity voice announced. ‘There’s been a last-minute cancellation.’ I nearly laughed, but managed to say something absurd, like ‘Good’ instead.
The owner of the fruity voice had a rubicund face to match. ‘I’m a failed actor,’ he informed me. I had noticed a copy of the Stage on his desk. ‘You need to be a bit of a thespian in this job.’ I accepted his invitation to ‘take a pew’. ‘Shall we run through your requirements?’ We began with the most basic. Was it to be a burial or a cremation? On hearing it was the latter, he recommended Mortlake for its ‘atmosphere’. I replied that Mortlake was perfectly suitable. What kind of coffin did I prefer – plain wood, or walnut perhaps, or even mahogany? ‘Plain wood,’ I answered. ‘Very practical, Mr Bailey. Very sensible. It’s going to be burnt, after all.’ He cleared his throat and inquired if my ‘late companion’ was religious. He was a lapsed Catholic, I told him. ‘We have plenty of those,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘In that case, will you be requiring a clergyman or priest?’ We were virtually soulmates by now. ‘Good God, no,’ I said. ‘Very sensible, yet again. You’ve saved yourself a hundred and twenty pounds.’
A secular service presented no problems, he assured me. ‘I’m afraid it’s restricted to thirty minutes maximum,’ he added. He suggested that a rehearsal might be in order, given that I intended to read some Jane Austen, play a couple of tapes of Mozart arias, and have a friend address the mourners. I’d already revealed that I’d once been an actor. ‘Timing’s of the essence, Mr Bailey.’
Mr Bailey heeded his advice, and rehearsed the readings from Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion with only Circe to hear them. The funeral director made sure that the first act trio from Così fan tutte and ‘Porgi amor’ from Figaro came in and out on cue, and the publisher who praised David did so with feeling and wit and brevity. My red-faced adviser had proposed that everyone should depart in advance of the coffin’s disappearance. ‘Such an upsetting moment. Sliding away behind those curtains. Much too final.’
After the service, which had been a celebratory affair, my unlikely soulmate took me aside and confessed that the publisher’s speech had moved him deeply. ‘I have to tell you, Mr Bailey, that I too am gay,’ he said in a near-whisper, and then wagged an admonitory finger: ‘Not a word to the staff.’ He was ashamed to be dishonest – but, well, there it was. His guarded confession was the more poignant because I was certain that the people who worked with him were fully aware that he was homosexual. I found, and still find, his innocence beguiling, and his unnecessary discretion both comic and sad.
‘The ashes are in my office, safe and sound,’ he phoned to say. ‘Come along when you’re ready.’ It was weeks, months, before I was ready. He was as cheerful as ever on the day I called to collect the urn that contained them. He poured me a sherry. ‘Do you remember the joke I made, Mr Bailey?’ He’d made so many jokes, I wasn’t certain which particular one he had in mind. ‘The cancellation joke,’ he reminded me. He proceeded to quote himself, in a fruitier voice than his customarily fruity one: ‘“You’re in luck, Mr Bailey. There’s been a last-minute cancellation”.’ Of course I remembered it. ‘I was testing you,’ he confided. ‘I try it on all my clients. You hesitated, and I knew you wanted to laugh. If you’d reacted differently, I’d have treated you more solemnly.’ I said I was glad he hadn’t; that his jokes, his performance, had been a comfort. I couldn’t imagine him being solemn. ‘It’s well within my range, solemnity,’ he intoned.