One Large Coffin to Go. H. Mel Malton

but then he was the one who was so all-fired serious about customs issues.

      “Hey, it’s just a little bag of ash, and I’ve got a photocopy of his death certificate and his cremation form from the funeral parlour. It should be fine. You can just say you’re returning the ashes to his birthplace for interment. It’s done all the time.”

      “It is? Golly. And do you have relatives over there in Eastbourne who might be interested in being involved, or do I just hike up there to Beachy Head by myself and cast him to the winds?” Hike. I’d said the word hike, and suddenly had a lovely picture of a solemn walk along a blustery clifftop, the wind whipping the waves into stiff peaks, the salt air on my lips and my hair blowing out behind me like a scene from The French Lieutenant’s Woman. This might take care of my hiking yen quite nicely, with the minimum of fuss.

      “Dad was an only child, but Grandma had a sister who still lives in the area, my great aunt Edith.”

      “Are you in touch with her?”

      “No, I only met her once, when she came over for Mom’s funeral in ’97. She was pretty frail and had never even met Mom, although they wrote lots of letters back and forth. I think they started that after my grandmother died. Mom used to say that Edith was lonely all by herself over there. Dad was surprised she made the trip for Mom’s sake, though.”

      “Did you let her know when your dad died?”

      “We sent a letter, but she didn’t respond, but then she’s really old, and her connection was really with my mom. She still might be alive, anyhow. I’ll find out and get you her address. So you’ll do it, Polly?”

      “I suppose so,” I said. “There’s a little free time in the conference schedule, so as long as this place isn’t too far from Canterbury, I could probably swing it.”

      “Yesss,” he said and did that clenched-fist, pumping-arm thing people do when they’ve won something. He really seemed hugely pleased, like I’d just given him the best present in the world. There was a curious gleam in his eyes, as if he’d been expecting me to say no and couldn’t believe that I’d agreed. It felt great to make him happy so easily. God knows I hadn’t been excelling in that department recently. With a conscious air of ceremony, he handed over the cremated remains of Edward Millbank Becker, tightly wrapped in plastic and nestled in a little blue velvet bag, complete with travelling papers. It weighed more than I expected, a couple of pounds, actually, but I suppose the bony bits of an adult male human, even after a spell in a fiery furnace and a session in a big crusher-thing, would still add up, bulkwise. I handled the package gingerly, the way I’d handle a baby if someone suddenly handed me one without warning. Ashes to ashes. It occurred to me that I had just added enormously to my status as a courier of metaphor—I would be crossing the Pond as a representative of three stages of humanhood, a beginning, a middle and an end.

      At the time, it struck me as enormously significant.

      Seven

      The rule of thumb for expecting moms is wear whatever makes you feel good—and comfortable. Beyond that, it’s best to wear separates such as a skirt or pants with a top to accommodate frequent trips to the bathroom. Layer your clothing to cope with sudden temperature changes, from the arctic blast of an airconditioned airport to the stifling heat of a crowded bus.

      -From Big Bertha’s Total Baby Guide

      The night before I left for the U.K., Susan and George threw a little going-away party for me. I’d never had one before, although when I toured theatre I’d travelled around North America pretty extensively. My only parting from Aunt Susan of any previous celebratory significance was the day I left Laingford for a Toronto art school, back in the eighties. Then, my hair was dyed electric green, and we both knew I needed to be elsewhere, however remarkably well we got on. We had both expressed frank relief at the thought of a separation. This time it was different; there was a bewildering air of regret in the room, as if the people seeing me off expected never to see me again.