Mrs Finch inhales noisily as he sits next to her. ‘If it wasn’t too early, I’d think you’d been doing your homework in the pub, William.’

‘No!’ he exclaims. ‘I was at Ray’s.’ Before he can do anything about it, a burp rips from his mouth. He looks at his hosts earnestly, feeling his face flush. ‘Mrs Finch, Mr Finch, please don’t think I’d ever take your hospitality for granted. Ray’s not from an undertaking family and he’s struggling with the work. He asked me to help him, and I thought I ought to. He offered me a beer.’

He finally steals a glance at Gloria. Her lips are clamped together, her eyes sparkling.

‘Apology accepted, William,’ says Mr Finch, ‘but be here on time for meals in the future, unless you’ve told us otherwise in advance.’

Mrs Finch pats his hand. ‘It sounds as if you were trying to do the right thing.’

‘What’s this chap’s name again?’ Mr Finch says, before blowing on his apple pie.

‘Ray Price,’ William says, lifting a fork of cold sausage and potato to his mouth. ‘I’m not sure he’s going to make it,’ he says as another burp explodes from his mouth.

It’s too much for Gloria; her full-throated laugh fills the room.

‘Sorry,’ William says again. Gloria flings her head back. Her abandon is irresistible and soon they are all laughing.

36

William wonders if he will always be reminded of uncooked chicken at this moment; the slack, loose skin, the absence of urgent blood that you expect when flesh is sliced open. It’s their first post mortem case. A fifty-nine-year-old man.

Three weeks into their training, they’ve watched several embalmings, helped suture, and raised veins and arteries. A post mortem case is a completely different matter. The body has already been opened by medics examining the internal organs to determine the cause of death. Their rough and ready suturing has to be undone, the sternum reopened, the organs taken out again. Once the body and the organs have been treated, the sternum is put back and the skin stitched together – this time neatly. It takes hours.

Arthur has a different suturing style to Uncle Robert – he holds the needle at a different angle and his movement is less fluid – but the result is the same; a perpendicular ridge down the torso. As he stitches, Arthur’s tall frame hunches in concentration over the body. The careful needlework will never be seen by the family – it will sit beneath the gown, or suit, or whatever clothes have been chosen – but still, Arthur takes his time. It matters. Somebody loved this man and even if there’s no one left to mourn him, he’s still a person, and embalmers have to believe that people matter. If they didn’t, why would they do their job every day?