The death of Mr Ackworth
In the reception room, where the half-alive people go to book a viewing of their corpses, the chair wobbles beneath my feet. It’s teasing me, daring me to try and stay upright and professional as I polish the plaque that father had engraved when he moved Mother, my siblings and me into the undertaker’s house. ‘BURIALS, CREMATIONS’. And underneath, in sentence script, ‘Special arrangements made on request – please ask’. It’s etched into steel and mounted on a wooden plinth, as you know – you used to polish it while I cut the grass and made sure the cars were valeted. I always thought it looked just right there, nailed firmly between the two deer heads which look down with great big reverent eyes onto the table holding all the information leaflets on the grieving pr
