The Orphans by Fiona McIntosh

Author:Fiona McIntosh [McIntosh, Fiona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia

16

Once she had returned to the mortuary, Fleur immediately got to work preparing Arthur Bedford. The family wanted him buried as soon as possible, and Helen’s mother had just rung to say they had spoken to the church and organised a service for the day after tomorrow.

Fleur checked his pyjama pocket to make sure nothing valuable was left behind and found a fresh flower tucked inside. She felt the precious love of that moment, wondering if Helen had done this . . . or perhaps it was her daughter who’d placed that flower before she left for school, trying to comprehend that her father was dead in his bed.

Shaking off the thought, Fleur immediately set to the business of getting Arthur readied. That was how she thought of him now; he was no longer Mr Bedford, but her new friend and companion for the next couple of hours. She busied herself elevating his head and hands to minimise the lividity that was already beginning to show itself. She did not want to be fighting against the eruption of dark red and purple on his face or hands that the accumulation of blood after death brought. She cast a glance at the clock; it was now seven hours since his death. Fleur took the precaution of lowering his legs, using the clever table her father had designed and had made just for this reason. Its levers meant she could effortlessly ensure that gravity would drain away the various fluids from the man’s visible features without requiring any strength.

Fleur turned slightly to where a pen and her mortuary book sat. She had already recorded the name and details of her ‘guest’, and now she would make quick notes about his preparation in case they were ever needed. She could not recall a time when they had been called upon, but her father was meticulous and had insisted that when the day occurred that someone did need a question answered, Appleby’s would be ready to supply that answer to the best of its ability.

‘Take notes about everything that you do or you observe. It’s professional . . . good practice,’ he’d told her many times from when she was old enough to be in the mortuary, when she had asked him about his big book – which would soon become her big book, she supposed.

There were many similar volumes filed on their shelves, all identical in appearance. She smiled, never failing to be impressed by her father’s diligence. She felt determined to follow his footsteps, but perhaps taking a parallel path that looked to new ways without losing those old, important practices that had built their reputation.

Helen had placed a heavy penny over each of Arthur’s eyes; it was a death ritual that went back centuries to when pebbles were placed over the eyes, back even to the ancient Egyptians – masters of the death ritual – who would paint eyes on the stones. Fleur had noted that Helen, from an Irish family,

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