Life, death and funeral directors

Okay you’re not supposed to laugh when organising a funeral are you? Or are you? I don’t think the corpse (my lovely Uncle) would mind, he thought I was a bit of funny odd bod anyway. He said I always made him laugh which he liked.

But a real laugh when organising a funeral! A side splitting laugh! Well, doesn’t seem right somehow does it!

I must explain. Things were funny from the moment my Aunt gave me the name and number of her chosen funeral director and asked me to organise it. I didn’t mind arranging everything, I love my Aunt and I was pleased to be able to help her in what isn’t the easiest of life’s experiences.

The name that she’d written on the piece of paper read Arthur Daley, funeral director. Now many people will remember the TV series that went out all through the 1980's and well into the mid 90's. It was about a funny mid-level professional criminal of rather mature years who shared the same name.

Arthur Daley was a con man eternally involved in dodgy dealings. So a funeral director with this name wasn’t the best omen. Before I even dialled the number I had visions of him making the coffins himself out of paper mache to save money.

The phone rang and a rather squeaky voice cooed on the end of the line. “Hello Arthur Daley Company Limited, How can I help you?”

“I’m ringing about Bill McNab. I believe you’re going to organise his funeral.” (My Aunt told me that she’d warned them I’d be ringing to organise things).

“Who?”

“A Mr Bill McNab. He was at the Clancy Nursing Home. He died this morning.”

“What’s your name and what’s your relationship with the deceased?” (the voice was a bit abrasive)

Now I thought this was an unfortunate way to phrase this question. I mean I could have been the man’s lover for all she knew. “I’m Hilary Coombes. I’m his niece.”

“Hickery Coobes?”

“No. Hilary Coombes.”

“and it’s a Mr Bill McNab you said.”

“Yes.”

“Right, hold on a moment.”

The music. You know that incessant irritating music that companies insist on inflicting when they put you on hold. I can’t now remember it’s title but I do remember thinking how inappropriate the depressing blues sound was for a funeral director.

What seemed like a lifetime later the lady on the other end returned.

“Hello Hickery.” [as I said before she had a squeaky little voice, although it was pleasant (ish)]

“Hello.” (I gave up on the name correction in exasperation)

“I’m afraid we don’t have a Peter McCrab here.” [Peter! where on earth did Peter from from?]

“No it’s not Peter McCrab, it’s Bill McNab.”

“Oh sorry Hickery. Just one moment. I’ll check again.” Cue music.

Now everything I’m telling you is perfectly true and depending upon one’s personality and relationship with the deceased this could have made a person angry or very upset indeed.

I’m afraid at this point I began to find the whole thing farcical. Since school days funny incidents can have me reaching for a handkerchief to gag inappropriate laughter. By this time of my life I’ll never change. So it was fast becoming ‘handkerchief’ time.

“Hello Hickery, yes Bill McNab is here.”

“It’s Hilary.”

“Yes. Oh sorry. Anyway he’s here.”

Relief! What would I have done had she said he wasn’t? Visions of the wrong undertaker whisking away the body from the nursing home where he died was already taking shape in my mind.

I’ve now made an appointment to take my Aunt to the funeral parlour early next week to discuss arrangements and my imagination is already working overtime and wondering what sort of gaffs are going to take place. Nothing too terrible I hope for I really cannot be held responsible for having to pull out the gagging handkerchief if things move along the same lines as the initial telephone conversation. Heaven forbid!