thought I sounded hesitant and unsure. ‘If a doctor can issue a death
certificate, then it doesn’t need a post-mortem; if he can’t, it’s referred to the Coroner who will ask a pathologist to perform one.’
I knew exactly what was coming next. ‘When can’t they issue a death certificate?’
‘If they don’t know the cause of death, or if the cause of death is unnatural – accident, or suicide, or industrial disease.’
‘And murder?’
I had quickly learnt from listening to Clive when he did these talks that they always wanted to know about murder. I said, as if I had been doing the job for fifty years, ‘If it might be
murder, it becomes a forensic post-mortem, which is slightly different.’
And so they got on to forensic post-mortems, as they always did. It was forty-five interminable minutes before I could get rid of them and, by then, I was ready to lie down on a trolley and be
put into the fridges with the rest of the deceased.
NINETEEN
A few weeks later and I was again sitting in the pub with Luke, Mum and Dad, plus Michael and Sarah. Around the table the banter was flowing backwards and forwards as it always
did, the beer doing its job and doing it well, but for once I wasn’t taking part. Dad noticed first and asked, ‘Something up, Michelle?’
I looked at him and smiled. ‘Bit under the weather.’
Mum, bless her, said immediately, ‘It’s not a hangover, is it? You haven’t been overdoing the wine, have you?’
With a tired grimace I said, ‘No, Mum, it’s not that. It’s probably the start of a cold, or something.’
She looked suspicious but didn’t say any more. Luke, who knew the real reason for my quiet, said, ‘There’s something going around, she’ll be OK soon,’ hugging me
round the shoulder and shaking me in an affectionate manner as he spoke.
And that was that, as far as the family were concerned, but it wasn’t like that for me. I had to live with what I had seen that day.
My parents are aware that I’m not a particularly maternal type. I don’t see the pleasure in green, dirty and damp nappies, in sick down my back and piles the size of superheated
plums hanging out of my rear end. Each to their own is what I say; for me it’s evenings of easy friendship and chat, undisturbed nights and late mornings that float my boat. Ankle-biters are
all very well in their place, but my life isn’t that place.
Yet that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to go home and cry when we had finished dealing with the sad death of little Lizzie Dawes.
When I had arrived at the mortuary that morning, I could tell at once that something was different. The atmosphere was quiet, almost like a church, and Clive and Graham sat in
the office with their coffee talking in subdued tones, without any of the usual cross-talk; even when one of the young girls who worked upstairs in the path lab – one that usually caused
Clive to look pained and mutter something about ‘bazookas’ – walked past the window, nothing was said. As Graham made my coffee, I asked, ‘What’s up?’
Clive said, ‘Just had a phone call from the Coroner’s office. There’s a little girl coming in. Only three years of age.’ He spoke in a low voice and I could see that,
despite all the years he’d done the job, he was seriously upset.
‘What happened?’ I asked fearfully.
‘She was staying with grandparents. She went out to play in the front garden with a ball first thing. Granddad went to the garage to get out the car and didn’t see her. He reversed
it over her.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Suddenly I, too, felt like crying.
Graham, a grandfather himself, said in a low voice, ‘Bloody terrible.’
Even though it seemed obvious what the cause of death was, the law requires a post-mortem. We don’t normally do children’s autopsies in Gloucestershire – they go to Bristol
where a paediatric pathologist does them, because the diseases and problems are so different from the ones in adults
certificate, then it doesn’t need a post-mortem; if he can’t, it’s referred to the Coroner who will ask a pathologist to perform one.’
I knew exactly what was coming next. ‘When can’t they issue a death certificate?’
‘If they don’t know the cause of death, or if the cause of death is unnatural – accident, or suicide, or industrial disease.’
‘And murder?’
I had quickly learnt from listening to Clive when he did these talks that they always wanted to know about murder. I said, as if I had been doing the job for fifty years, ‘If it might be
murder, it becomes a forensic post-mortem, which is slightly different.’
And so they got on to forensic post-mortems, as they always did. It was forty-five interminable minutes before I could get rid of them and, by then, I was ready to lie down on a trolley and be
put into the fridges with the rest of the deceased.
NINETEEN
A few weeks later and I was again sitting in the pub with Luke, Mum and Dad, plus Michael and Sarah. Around the table the banter was flowing backwards and forwards as it always
did, the beer doing its job and doing it well, but for once I wasn’t taking part. Dad noticed first and asked, ‘Something up, Michelle?’
I looked at him and smiled. ‘Bit under the weather.’
Mum, bless her, said immediately, ‘It’s not a hangover, is it? You haven’t been overdoing the wine, have you?’
With a tired grimace I said, ‘No, Mum, it’s not that. It’s probably the start of a cold, or something.’
She looked suspicious but didn’t say any more. Luke, who knew the real reason for my quiet, said, ‘There’s something going around, she’ll be OK soon,’ hugging me
round the shoulder and shaking me in an affectionate manner as he spoke.
And that was that, as far as the family were concerned, but it wasn’t like that for me. I had to live with what I had seen that day.
My parents are aware that I’m not a particularly maternal type. I don’t see the pleasure in green, dirty and damp nappies, in sick down my back and piles the size of superheated
plums hanging out of my rear end. Each to their own is what I say; for me it’s evenings of easy friendship and chat, undisturbed nights and late mornings that float my boat. Ankle-biters are
all very well in their place, but my life isn’t that place.
Yet that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to go home and cry when we had finished dealing with the sad death of little Lizzie Dawes.
When I had arrived at the mortuary that morning, I could tell at once that something was different. The atmosphere was quiet, almost like a church, and Clive and Graham sat in
the office with their coffee talking in subdued tones, without any of the usual cross-talk; even when one of the young girls who worked upstairs in the path lab – one that usually caused
Clive to look pained and mutter something about ‘bazookas’ – walked past the window, nothing was said. As Graham made my coffee, I asked, ‘What’s up?’
Clive said, ‘Just had a phone call from the Coroner’s office. There’s a little girl coming in. Only three years of age.’ He spoke in a low voice and I could see that,
despite all the years he’d done the job, he was seriously upset.
‘What happened?’ I asked fearfully.
‘She was staying with grandparents. She went out to play in the front garden with a ball first thing. Granddad went to the garage to get out the car and didn’t see her. He reversed
it over her.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Suddenly I, too, felt like crying.
Graham, a grandfather himself, said in a low voice, ‘Bloody terrible.’
Even though it seemed obvious what the cause of death was, the law requires a post-mortem. We don’t normally do children’s autopsies in Gloucestershire – they go to Bristol
where a paediatric pathologist does them, because the diseases and problems are so different from the ones in adults
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