Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

has to write a death certificate before he can be moved.’

‘Ah,’ said John, looking at me as though I could sort out the problem myself.

‘You’re early anyway. You’re not supposed to be here until two,’ I said.

‘We had a cancellation,’ John replied.

‘A cancellation?’ I couldn’t get my head around that.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, Dr Patterson arrived. He let himself in the gate, avoiding the men with the coffin, and strode purposefully up to the back door.

‘I’m Doctor Patterson; I’m here to view the corpse.’ He waved his doctor’s bag at me as proof of identity.

I showed him through to the parlour, where he took one look at my father, and pronounced him dead.

‘He’s dead all right,’ he said, as though it might come as a surprise to me. He lifted an arm and let it drop, it landed on the camp bed with a thud. ‘Do you see?’

I nodded. ‘I had an inkling.’

As if to prove that he knew what he was talking about, he produced a small mirror from his bag, held it in front of my father’s lips, checked it for mist, then cleaned it on his tie, and put it back. He checked for a pulse, then pulled out a book of death certificates.

‘How did he die?’ he asked.

‘He fell off his chair, drunk,’ I replied, thinking that I seemed to be doing his job for him.

‘He was a serious drinker then? I thought so, I could smell it on him, then there’s the skin, the state of his body, it all points to that diagnosis.’

‘He was an alcoholic,’ I said.

‘Such a shame. A grandfather should set an example,’ he said, shaking his head.

I wondered how he knew I’d recently had a baby, maybe he had spotted the Moses basket.

‘Deceased passed due to alcohol poisoning,’ he said aloud as he wrote on the pad. I didn’t know if that information was for my benefit or his.

He noted my father’s name, place of birth and then asked for his date of birth. When I told him, he stopped writing. ‘That would make him forty-eight,’ he said.

‘Correct,’ I replied.

‘My God,’ said the doctor. I thought he was at least seventy.

I went to the kitchen, opened the much-used drawer of the tallboy, dug out my father’s birth certificate and took it back to Dr Patterson.

He copied the details, announced that I owed him fifteen shillings, and issued me with my father’s death certificate. I got fifteen, one-shilling pieces from the petty cash tin, and dropped the coins into his greedy palms. I was fed up with him. He’d been in the house less than ten minutes, and he wanted fifteen bob to write down the details that I’d given him for free, on a scrap of paper. I was in the wrong job, that was for certain. I began to wish I’d told him he’d died of an arsenic enema.

Once I was in receipt of his receipt, I showed him out, and allowed the funeral directors in. I let John see my father’s newly-written death certificate, and the two porters removed the lid of the coffin and carefully laid my father inside. As they replaced the wooden cover and screwed down the brass fittings, it suddenly hit me that he was gone forever, and I sat on the empty foldaway bed, and sobbed my heart out as his remains were carried away.

Chapter 63

June 1938

At twelve-thirty, Frank came in, just as I was about to risk picking Martha up.

‘I forgot to pack lunch this morning and I’m starving,’ he said, trying to avoid my eye.

I said nothing, and stretched out a finger to stroke the tiny palm of her hand. She gripped it instantly. I got ready for more tears but the only ones that came were mine. Martha was awake, and she was allowing me to interact.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ I whispered, scared of making too much noise in case it set her off.

Frank put the kettle on and set about making a cheese and onion sandwich.

After a minute or so, I thought I’d try her other hand. She gripped that finger too. I was ecstatic.

‘She’s got hold of both my fingers,’ I told Frank, forgetting that I wasn’t speaking to him.

‘All babies do that, they’re born making fists, it’s like they want to punch you for forcing them out.’

I didn’t care. She was gripping my fingers and she wasn’t crying. It wouldn’t bother me if they were born wearing boxing gloves.

I eased my fingers out of her tiny fists and pondered whether to attempt to pick her up while she was in such a good mood. I checked the time on the huge, round wall clock. She wasn’t due to be fed for half an hour, so I backed out, and stepped away from her basket, Miriam would be back by then, and I’d have help if the screaming started.

I sat on my chair by the stove, picked up an old magazine that I’d read every word of three times, and began to flick through it.

‘I’m off the beer, Alice.’

I continued to flick through the pages.

‘I mean it. As God is my witness, I’m done with drinking.’

‘Have you been collared by the Temperance Society or something?’ I asked. I didn’t believe a word of it.

‘I swear, Alice. I saw your father carted away this morning, and it made me think about last night in the front room. I just keep thinking, dead man’s shoes.’

‘Dead man’s foul-smelling armchair, dead man’s whisky bottle, dead man’s daughter to yell at. You should have been thinking about that.’

‘No, the phrase, dead man’s shoes. It means stepping into a position of authority. A promotion, when someone leaves, or dies, you take their place.’

Alarm bells rang louder than the ones in the tower at a local church wedding.

Frank poured tea into two large mugs, added sugar and milk and brought one of them over to me.

I nodded my thanks and stood over the Moses basket, smiling down at Martha.

‘I’ve got responsibilities now, Alice.’

‘You