patted a five-pound note into my hands and left.
Most of my morning had been spent on the phone to the crematorium, trying to stay calm as they explained that staff shortages had meant a host of unexpected delays. They also, like everyone else, tried to blame the recent snow flurries for interfering with their schedule. I downed my second cup of strong coffee, more than my daily quota, just to get me through the nerves of passing on this bad news to the families desperate to lay their loved ones to rest. Each phone call only brought frustration that I couldn’t do more. I also still had to work out a way to get some prepaid funeral plans under my belt. It had been a week since our last staff meeting and I had brought in precisely zero, to Linda’s three. I’d be taking Ms Norris up on her Ask a Funeral Arranger idea at this rate.
My stomach grumbled so I decided to take a break and have some lunch. I was tucking into a tuna salad when there was a ring on the doorbell. I stopped chewing and peered at the intercom. Frank had positioned it too high, so all I could see was the dark blonde head of a tall man bobbing around the entrance. I double-checked the calendar on my desk; we didn’t have anything in the diary. Swallowing too quickly, a piece of romaine lettuce lodged in my throat as I pressed the buzzer.
‘I’ll be right there,’ I rasped, taking my finger from the button to cough louder.
I hurriedly flicked through the diary again. Usually, family visits were arranged so we could make sure they went undisturbed and – crucially – ensure that we wouldn’t be talking with our mouths full of lunch. I scanned Linda’s messy desk and saw a Post-it note stuck to the bottom of her laptop screen. Callum Anderson visit, 27th @1pm. That must be the man bobbing up and down on the doorstep. Cursing Linda and her haphazard organisation style, I stood up and straightened my skirt.
‘Good afternoon, so sorry to keep you –’ The apology froze in my mouth. The man in front of me was wrapped in a light grey shearling jacket and was very handsome. I wasn’t good at dealing with handsome.
‘I think I’m a little early. Callum Anderson? I spoke to, er, Linda, I think?’
His deep voice was strained. His bloodshot light blue eyes, behind tortoiseshell glasses, refused to meet mine, and he was wringing his hands together so vigorously I thought he’d pull the skin off.
‘Hello, yes, please come in, Callum. I’m Grace, Grace Salmon,’ I offered a hand that he took with a strong, firm grip.
His clean, navy trainers were planted outside, as if by stepping over the doormat it would all become real. He teetered cautiously for a few seconds longer, unsure of me and this whole terrifying process he was about to embark on.
‘Salmon?’ His jaw was tense but his lips curled ever so slightly.
‘Yes, like the fish.’ Growing up, I had hated my surname. But here, in this job, it brought light relief to those who needed to make that first step into my world, and their unknown future. If I could provoke a hint of a smile with my ridiculous name then that more than made up for the years of teasing at school. ‘Would you like to come through? I’ve just made coffee, if you want one?’
I held the door open wider. He nodded then moved one foot over the step and into the neutrally decorated room.
‘Er, yeah, coffee would be great.’ He cleared his throat, glancing at the framed picture of a woodland in spring on the wall opposite.
Inoffensive, Linda had claimed as she’d roughly banged a nail into the wall when she went through the last redesign in here. It was marginally better than the daffodils in a watering can that had been there previously.
‘Black, no sugar. Thank you.’
After he was seated, I went to get the necessary paperwork and made us both a drink, knowing neither would get touched but that at least it would be something to hold onto. As the coffee machine whirred to life I scanned Linda’s desk again, hoping for something other than just Callum’s name to inform me who he was here for. Usually the initial telephone call covered the details we needed, so I wouldn’t have to go over old ground, asking people to repeat fresh, painful information that burned their tongue. But there was nothing in amongst Linda’s doodled drawings, half-finished crossword puzzles and scribbled shopping lists.
I returned to the room, bracing myself to ask Callum for the details of why he was here, again. He was hurriedly tapping out a message on his phone.
‘Here you go.’ I placed the mug on a coaster in front of him. He put his phone on the table and sat up straight. ‘So, Callum, will anyone else be joining you?’
‘My sister, Mel – er, she should be here actually. She’s always running late. I thought today, of all days, she’d be on time…’
He cleared his throat again.
‘OK. Would you like us to wait for her?’
He shook his head. ‘Let’s just get on with it.’
I opened a fresh file and pressed down on a pen. ‘I’m very sorry but my colleague didn’t pass on the information you would have given her when you made this appointment. Are you OK to tell me who we are here for?’
Callum clenched his jaw and absentmindedly played with his silver wedding band.
‘My wife. Abbie.’
‘And when did Abbie die?’
‘Sunday night. The twenty-fifth. Two days ago.’ He shook his head as if it had felt like a lifetime, not just forty-eight hours. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face as if forcing himself to wake up and focus. ‘She died in a car accident out by Rowberry Way.’
Immediately I knew. The crash had been the talk of the Post Office. I’d overheard the girl behind the counter complaining to her colleagues that she’d had to take the long route in, as police had blocked the road to retrieve a car from a ditch. It was the Arctic cold weather, she said, and black ice on the road, combined with rows of hazardously placed oak trees lining the winding country lane. It was a death trap waiting to happen.
People take that corner too fast all the time, someone said. There should be speed cameras or better lighting, someone else loudly agreed. Probably a teenage boy racer trying to impress a girl, an old lady said, to a collective murmur of agreement, as if a death sentence served him right for his stupidity. I’d bitten my lip, waiting for them to hurry up, wondering if I would be dealing with the arrangements. Now I was sitting opposite the man whose life had changed because of that night.
‘I just need to get some details from you, if that’s OK?’
He nodded.
‘What’s Abbie’s full name?’
‘Abigail Sarah Anderson. But everyone calls her Abbie.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Nineteenth of March. She’d only just turned thirty-three, last week.’
A shiver trailed up my spine.
We shared the same birthday.
‘Thanks.’ I tried to brush the surprise of this huge coincidence away, and turned back to the matter at hand. ‘Now I know this must all feel unreal, but do you have any thoughts at this stage of what sort of service you might like?’
He fixed his blank, bloodshot eyes on mine as if I’d just asked him if he could solve an algebra equation using morse code. He shook his head.
‘The two options are cremation or burial. If you have an idea of which Abbie would have wanted, then we can focus on that?’
He paused for a second before nodding his head assertively. ‘Cremation.’
‘OK. Now, there are a few things you’ll need to think about, such as the type of coffin you would like. In this brochure, you can see