“Look, if we follow your suggestion, we’ll be in deep shit. I mean, we can’t just break her arms: what if somebody sees them?”
We’d been wrestling with the issue for about forty minutes, and really, we were no closer to a solution. Two issues – Majorie Sweetman had reached PORM (premature-onset rigor mortis), long before we had settled her into her final viewing position – her arms were standing out like Christ, the Redeemer, directing the faithful above Rio! And we had run out of formaldehyde before completing her embalming. It was Easter Saturday; our suppliers were closed! Her funeral was scheduled for Tuesday.
“OK, let’s not panic, we agree her RM will start to reverse by midnight, tonight. Right?” There was a shuffling, general agreement among the two assistants, willing to accept the judgement of the mortician, happy also for a diversion from their admitted failure to maintain formaldehyde stocks.
Dr Jake Boode, Mortician, a rogue escapee from the grind of General Practice, seizing a perceived opportunity for early riches via the recently departed. He sat on the stainless benchtop; his Smartphone already in service.
A few grunts, a chuckle, the reflection bouncing from his screen, off the acres of stainless steel, lending a quite surreal lighting to his features. “Honey, ah, yep, that’ll do it, honey, we’re gunna need gallons of the stuff. It worked for Alexander the Great, it’ll work for us!” He continued, “the viscosity, combined with its antibacterial properties.”
The three of us worked the supermarkets. Easter presented a problematic barrier, but by seven that evening, we had assembled every jar and tube of Capilano, Bendigo, Manuka or raw branded supply in metro Sydney.
The honey was about 100 mls deep inside the coffin, at which point somebody noticed it starting to pool on the floor. Was this a thorny problem? Maybe more like a sticky problem! Jake got an identical coffin from the stockroom. We removed the satin lining carefully. Candles – from the chapel – we each grabbed a couple, lit them and waxed the timber generously.
One or two leaks were plugged with additional drippings. Midnight and she was finally malleable, dressed, made up and slipping into the 300 mils of honey smoothly. Jake pronounced, “we’re set to go”, and a long day, albeit with a few irritations, closed.
Tuesday’s service went well. We apologised for the mix up, re the family’s request for a ‘viewing’, explaining that “… best not too, in the circumstances …” allaying any further discussion. There was some mention of the sweetness permeating the chapel, again explained in terms of the new brand of candles we were using.
The assembled family and friends departed, tears comforted, condolences expressed. Marjorie was parked, waiting for cremation and the Parlour’s routines were re-established, almost!
At ‘firing’, my God, that honey. The oven-door simply erupted, spewing thin spirals of viscous liquid across the entire crematorium. It took gallons of formaldehyde and days of systematic elbow grease before we could risk using the burners again.