The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (2 page)

9:40 a.m.

T
hough the address was only a hop across town, I traversed a Georgian wonderland to get to the Wrights' house, which was tucked away behind the landscaped lawns, wrought-iron railings, and manicured hedges of Wellington Road. There weren't as many pained expressions on this side of town as there were in Crumlin, and there was a wealth of stylish people with fine pedigrees and polished dreams, carrying their takeaway lattes under well-seasoned plane trees, gently swaying in an autumn that had only started undressing.

The same setting at nighttime wasn't so pretty. From Thursday through Sunday between nine at night and six in the morning, the city center took on the milieu of an open-air mental hospital. Every second or third shopfront on Grafton Street framed at least one splurge of vomit, and it was the same for the Georgian doorways on Leeson Street and Harcourt Street and around the walls of Trinity College. There were drunk people everywhere—laughing, singing, shouting, fighting—and thieves alive in the shadows. Even the buskers had to watch their money.

But by Monday morning, the madness receded, the only evidence being the last few standing revelers and the crusted vomit sneered at by the mocking light of day; the only witnesses, the slumbering homeless being woken from their cardboard beds by the nagging seagulls and choking fumes from the idling buses and gridlocked traffic.

I pressed the intercom button and waited in the lane. It was October and the wind still had a warmth to its breeze. I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to the sound of the leaves and dust swirling around me. It was so comforting that I considered curling up on the ground and falling asleep.

“Hello?” came a female voice over the intercom. I opened my eyes and moved closer to the buzzer, any notions of sleep fast disappearing.

“Mrs. Wright, it's Paddy Buckley from Gallagher's.”

The door in the wall vibrated.

I pushed it open and walked across a little stone garden to be met at the sliding doors by a woman dressed in a dark green cashmere skirt and jacket, and a crimson silk blouse. She had her hair up in a loose bun and wore reading glasses over baby-blue eyes. I gauged her age to be early fifties. In a certain light, she might even pass for late forties. She offered her hand.

“Hi,” she said in a soft English accent, “I'm Lucy.”

I took her hand in mine. “Paddy.”

“Come in, Paddy,” she said, while moving back from the door. I stepped over the threshold and watched her slide the door closed.

“Let me take your coat.”

I took it off and handed it to her. She had a gracious quality about her, particularly apparent when she moved. She hung the coat up and led me into the kitchen where I sat down at the table. She leaned on the back of a chair briefly, with the hint of a smile.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

I let a little smile settle in around my eyes.

“A cup of tea would be lovely,” I said, and opened my briefcase, taking out an arrangement form and pen. Lucy put the kettle on and sat down in the chair next to me, not opposite or at the end of the table, but right beside me. The atmosphere in the house was a relaxed one. The kitchen had a bohemian character, and the fixtures, cupboards, and tiles were of another time, a forgotten era of quality and craftsmanship. There were framed oil paintings and curious mementos littering the room, and a wooden antique clock above the doorway. The farmhouse table we sat at was bathed in sunlight and pretty shadows from the philodendrons growing on the sill beside the sink. Whether she was aware of it or not, Lucy had a soothing effect. She made me feel comfortable in a way that had me wondering if the warm breeze had followed me in.

“You're not in a rush, are you?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I said. Expressing the company's sadness for the loss a family had experienced was something I normally didn't do. If it had been a child who had died, I would have, because of the intensity of the loss and grief. But with someone who'd run the full course of life, it was different. To extend sympathy to a family you didn't know when you were charging them for your services could be perceived through a cynical lens as feigned or insincere, though, of course, I
was
sympathetic to their loss: This was evident in my thoughtful manner and dealings with them.

Lucy considered me for the first time.

“You have kind eyes, Paddy,” she said, making me melt more into my seat. “They cancel out the roguishness in your smile.”

“Not completely,” I said, letting it surface briefly. I could quite happily listen to her talk in that accent all day long.

“You'll have to tell me how a funeral works over here. I've buried both my parents in London, but I understand things work a little differently in Dublin.”

“They do. Tell me, was Michael Catholic or Church of Ireland?”

“Catholic.”

“Are you thinking of using St. Mary's on Haddington Road?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. The funeral is usually made up of two parts: the removal the evening before and the funeral itself the following morning. Would you like to bring Michael home from the hospital, or do you think you'd prefer to remove him to the church from one of our funeral homes?”

“Oh,” said Lucy, as she took her glasses off, resting the end of one of the temples between her teeth while looking off to her left, unaware of me studying her. She was utterly feminine and, in any man's book, beautiful. Her gaze lent the mundane and ordinary an intimate quality, imbued by a subtly seductive charisma.

“Let's bring him back here,” she said, looking directly at me.

“Perfect. This is Monday. We could bring him back to the house here in a few hours and then, if you like, we could go to the church tomorrow evening, say at about half past five?”

Lucy nodded.

“The prayers at the church last between fifteen and twenty minutes. When they've finished, everyone will walk up to the top pew and sympathize with you, and then we'll bring you home afterwards. Then on Wednesday morning, I could have a car pick you up here at half past nine or so and bring you around to the church for the funeral Mass at ten o'clock. Are you happy with ten o'clock Mass?”

“Perfectly happy.”

“And then to the cemetery or crematorium, and the car will bring you home after that. That's pretty much how it will happen.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, as she got up and moved to the counter to prepare the tea. “That all sounds pretty straightforward.” She brought the teapot and cups to the table along with the milk and sugar. She poured two cups out and settled back into her seat.

“Shall I tell you about Michael?”

“Please,” I said. Usually, when the bereaved talk about their loved one unprompted, they unwittingly give out most of the details needed, such as the deceased's age, place and time of death, and whether or not the family have a grave. I don't normally write anything down while they talk. I remember the relevant information and write it down afterwards.

“God, I don't know where to start, really. First of all, this is a release for Michael, I can tell you that. He's been in such dreadful pain for so long now that, in a strange way, I'm happy his suffering is over. He's been in that hospital for three years. Up until seven years ago, he was as strong as an ox, so young, so free-spirited. But then he had a stroke, his first one, the first of five. Just when he'd recover from one, he'd be hit by another, paralyzing him even further. He's only seventy-two but looks more like he's lived a hard ninety years. And, of course, the cancer finished him. He got it only last year. When I heard that, I thought: Why is he being put through this? It'll kill him. And it did, along with the strokes. Each one made him worse. He lost the power of speech on his third stroke. He hasn't spoken in years. There's only twelve years between us, Paddy, but for the last five, it was more like nursing my father than my husband . . .”

I was surprised. In a business where I learned people's ages every day, I'd become so good at guessing them that I was seldom off by more than a year or two. Sixty years old and looking this good? It was clear that Lucy Wright had been favored by nature, having had her aging process seemingly arrested at the age of fifty. She was much too beautiful to ever have been touched by a plastic surgeon; even her hands looked like those of a younger woman. It was so remarkable I felt compelled to say something but, given my position and circumstances, I said nothing.

“The last few years, Paddy, have been so difficult. To watch him deteriorate like that, unable to converse with him, wondering if he's able to hear the words I whisper in his ear . . .” She stopped momentarily, bringing her hand to her mouth in an effort to calm herself. I pulled out my spare handkerchief and handed it to her. She took it and rested it against her eyes for a moment.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice trembling for the first time since we'd sat down. She cried silently for a moment.

There are a few cardinal rules in the undertaking game. One of them is to let the bereaved be bereaved. They're supposed to be upset. Another is that the undertaker never gets upset, but remains professional at all times. Being an undertaker is like being a rock: a rock of sense in a time of confusion, a rock of dependability in a time of abandonment, a rock of sympathy, of understanding, of accommodation. But at all times detached. The undertaker is never party to the grieving process; we are there to enable the family, to facilitate them in grieving. If we become involved emotionally, then we're of no use to the family.

I knew all this; by now it was second nature to me. I'd never crossed the line before. But for the first time in all my years making arrangements, I felt like reaching out and taking Lucy's hand and telling her that I understood what she was feeling, that to cry was okay. But I didn't. I kept my hands to myself.

She pulled my handkerchief away from her eyes.

“You must go through an awful lot of hankies,” she said, and followed it with a laugh, a natural laugh that kept on going. I laughed along with her. It was a welcome release from the pain and stress of the situation, and we were both comfortable enough in each other's company to not want to stop it. When it came to its own end, Lucy let out a sigh.

“That's the first time I've laughed in such a long time.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“I don't know how you do your job, Paddy,” she said. “Have you ever lost someone?”

I nodded.

“My wife, two years ago.” Instinctively, Lucy reached over and put her hand over mine. I opened my hand and tightened it around hers while we both looked into the pools of each other's sorrow for a minute, saying nothing.

“Does it get easier?”

“Sometimes,” I whispered. I let the moment last another few seconds before letting go of her hand.

“But we're here to talk about Michael,” I said, bringing it back to the business at hand. “Tell me, would you like to put a death notice in the paper?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, as she put her glasses back on. “I have this prepared here. You might have to change it a little to put it into the proper format.”

She handed it to me and I looked it over. She'd put in everything relevant: the date of death, where he was from, who he was, and the fact that he was married to Lucy and had one daughter. Save for the name and date being in the wrong place, it was perfect. Also on the piece of paper was the mobile number of the doctor Michael had been under, Dr. Brady, and the number of the grave in Glasnevin Cemetery.

“It's perfect, just a little restructuring to do and putting the funeral arrangements along with it. Which paper would you like me to put it in?”

“The Irish Times.”

“Okay,” I said, now making a note of all these details. “How many are in that grave in Glasnevin?”

“Two, I think. Just his parents.”

“Plenty of room. Would you like any flowers, Lucy, maybe something for the top of the coffin?”

“Yes, I would. Could I have a bunch of white lilies with some green?”

“Of course. What would you like on the card? ‘In loving memory,' or maybe something more personal?”

“Oh, let's see, definitely something more personal . . .” She removed her glasses again and looked off out the window. A moment passed and then her emotion found its way to the surface again. She brought the hankie to her face and let it absorb the tears before taking it away, her lip quivering.

“I could have danced all night,” she managed to say.

I nodded as I watched her continue to battle her tears. I put my hand around hers and squeezed it tightly until she nodded that she was okay. I wrote the card inscription down on the sheet and decided to leave the questions for a moment.

Even though her face was tearstained and upset, Lucy remained as beautiful and graceful as when I'd first come in. She reached to the back of her head and pulled out the two pins that were holding her hair up. She gently shook her head, letting her hair loosen and fall to just below her shoulders.

“I've not been myself at all over the last three or four weeks. I've been forgetting everything: to feed the cat, what day of the week it is, and even more important things like paying credit-card bills and turning the immersion off. There's nothing we're forgetting, is there?”

“Did you think about how you wanted Michael dressed?”

“No, I didn't,” she said, and got up from her chair. “Come upstairs with me and we'll find something.”

I followed her upstairs. Because her husband had been living in the hospital for the last few years, the smell and look of the bedroom were entirely her own. It had been a while since I'd been in a beautiful woman's bedroom. The thin white linen curtains were drawn, infusing the room with an incandescent light that pervaded every last particle of dust. As I stood behind Lucy and breathed in the air of the room, I became a little intoxicated by the sheer womanliness of it all.