Croucher withheld a
whimper of joy. It was the most expensive coffin in the shop.
Lenny slid over the side and lay back
in the pink satin padding.
'It feels real fine!' he said. 'Dis
is really worth dying for.' He squirmed to make himself more comfortable.
'Now let's try the lid on,' said Mr
Croucher.
Carefully he lowered the lid over
Lenny's little white face.
Shamus raised his voice.
' How's dat
feel, Lenny ?'
'Very nice,' came the muffled reply.
" 3
'Right,' said Shamus addressing Mr
Croucher. ' We'll have this one.'
Ruben rubbed his hands with
professional pleasure, the dry skin crackling like parchment. Forty years he
had sold coffins, but never as quickly as this. His father, the late Hercules
Croucher, o.b.e ., had founded a fine parlour at
Shoreditch. King Edward the Seventh and his ten mistresses were on the throne
when the young Ruben was given a black suit for his tenth birthday, that and a
scale model replica of the famous Geinsweil Coffin. It awakened in him some
deep-rooted instinct; he buried it. Other boys felt girls and played conkers,
but little Ruben watched local workmen digging, digging, digging.
'Now sir,' Ruben said, 'if you will
step into the office we'll conclude the financial side.'
'You stay there a while,' said Shamus
rapping on Lenny's coffin.
In a small room at the back Mr
Croucher slid behind an order book and perched on a fountain pen. His black
tail coat hung from his shoulders like tired wings. Neatly he took down details
in his book. All was silent save the scritch-scratch of his Waverley nib on
ruled foolscap.
A great pot of steaming hot Irish
stew was heading for the shop at seven miles an hour. It was carried lovingly
in the hands of Mrs Ruben Croucher, ex-shot-put champion of Ireland. She walked
with a brisk bouncing athletic step, a step forty years younger than her
husband's. It had been a most successful marriage. He couldn't do it, and she
didn't want to. They had one child. He didn't take after either of them. He did
it all the time and walked with a stick. Into the shop bounded the ex-shot-put
champion.
' Coooooooeeeee !
Are you in there, darling ?'
The lid of Lenny's coffin rose up.
'Hello, little darlin',' said Lenny cheerfully.
An Irish stew struck him between the
eyes. Mrs Croucher ran screaming from the shop.
'There's your receipt, sir,' said Mr
Croucher after carefully counting and recounting thirty-eight carefully forged
pound notes.
'We'll take the coffin back on our
cart,' said Shamus, standing up.
The culinary arts of the world are
varied and a blessing to the sensitive innards of the gourmet, but never in his
tour of the globe had Mr Croucher seen a man in a coffin, unconscious and
covered in Irish stew.
That night Ruben lay abed cooing
through his shrunken gums. A thirty-eight-pound coffin sale. 'Bless us and thank thee, oh Lord, for the merciful benefits thou bestowest on
us.' He crossed himself on his home-made prayer, turned slowly on to his good
side and fell into a deep peaceful thirty-eight-pound dream. At three o'clock
in the morning he died in his sleep. The cost of his funeral came to exactly
thirty-eight pounds. His puzzled wife was now in the county jail for passing
forged currency. Without her restraining hand her onanistic son now walked with
two sticks and a stoop.
Autumn, season of
mists and mellow fruitfulness.
'That's a lot of rot,' said Milligan,
examining his fingers for frost bite. He scraped the jigsaw of leaves into
little funeral pyres. He stooped to light one and warm his hands. The shrill
elastic whistle of a robin came clear through the misty morning.
'Awww, shut
up, yer idiot!' Milligan was in no mood for nature.
His wages were two weeks overdue and
his wife was three.
'I say, Paddy.'
Milligan looked up. Webster was
outside the Customs tent beckoning him.
'Me name's not Paddy,' he replied
defiantly. He hated Englishmen who called Irishmen 'Paddy'.
' Would you
like a cup of tea Paddy ?'
'Paddy' Milligan dropped his
whimper of joy. It was the most expensive coffin in the shop.
Lenny slid over the side and lay back
in the pink satin padding.
'It feels real fine!' he said. 'Dis
is really worth dying for.' He squirmed to make himself more comfortable.
'Now let's try the lid on,' said Mr
Croucher.
Carefully he lowered the lid over
Lenny's little white face.
Shamus raised his voice.
' How's dat
feel, Lenny ?'
'Very nice,' came the muffled reply.
" 3
'Right,' said Shamus addressing Mr
Croucher. ' We'll have this one.'
Ruben rubbed his hands with
professional pleasure, the dry skin crackling like parchment. Forty years he
had sold coffins, but never as quickly as this. His father, the late Hercules
Croucher, o.b.e ., had founded a fine parlour at
Shoreditch. King Edward the Seventh and his ten mistresses were on the throne
when the young Ruben was given a black suit for his tenth birthday, that and a
scale model replica of the famous Geinsweil Coffin. It awakened in him some
deep-rooted instinct; he buried it. Other boys felt girls and played conkers,
but little Ruben watched local workmen digging, digging, digging.
'Now sir,' Ruben said, 'if you will
step into the office we'll conclude the financial side.'
'You stay there a while,' said Shamus
rapping on Lenny's coffin.
In a small room at the back Mr
Croucher slid behind an order book and perched on a fountain pen. His black
tail coat hung from his shoulders like tired wings. Neatly he took down details
in his book. All was silent save the scritch-scratch of his Waverley nib on
ruled foolscap.
A great pot of steaming hot Irish
stew was heading for the shop at seven miles an hour. It was carried lovingly
in the hands of Mrs Ruben Croucher, ex-shot-put champion of Ireland. She walked
with a brisk bouncing athletic step, a step forty years younger than her
husband's. It had been a most successful marriage. He couldn't do it, and she
didn't want to. They had one child. He didn't take after either of them. He did
it all the time and walked with a stick. Into the shop bounded the ex-shot-put
champion.
' Coooooooeeeee !
Are you in there, darling ?'
The lid of Lenny's coffin rose up.
'Hello, little darlin',' said Lenny cheerfully.
An Irish stew struck him between the
eyes. Mrs Croucher ran screaming from the shop.
'There's your receipt, sir,' said Mr
Croucher after carefully counting and recounting thirty-eight carefully forged
pound notes.
'We'll take the coffin back on our
cart,' said Shamus, standing up.
The culinary arts of the world are
varied and a blessing to the sensitive innards of the gourmet, but never in his
tour of the globe had Mr Croucher seen a man in a coffin, unconscious and
covered in Irish stew.
That night Ruben lay abed cooing
through his shrunken gums. A thirty-eight-pound coffin sale. 'Bless us and thank thee, oh Lord, for the merciful benefits thou bestowest on
us.' He crossed himself on his home-made prayer, turned slowly on to his good
side and fell into a deep peaceful thirty-eight-pound dream. At three o'clock
in the morning he died in his sleep. The cost of his funeral came to exactly
thirty-eight pounds. His puzzled wife was now in the county jail for passing
forged currency. Without her restraining hand her onanistic son now walked with
two sticks and a stoop.
Autumn, season of
mists and mellow fruitfulness.
'That's a lot of rot,' said Milligan,
examining his fingers for frost bite. He scraped the jigsaw of leaves into
little funeral pyres. He stooped to light one and warm his hands. The shrill
elastic whistle of a robin came clear through the misty morning.
'Awww, shut
up, yer idiot!' Milligan was in no mood for nature.
His wages were two weeks overdue and
his wife was three.
'I say, Paddy.'
Milligan looked up. Webster was
outside the Customs tent beckoning him.
'Me name's not Paddy,' he replied
defiantly. He hated Englishmen who called Irishmen 'Paddy'.
' Would you
like a cup of tea Paddy ?'
'Paddy' Milligan dropped his
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