MILDRED AND THE DEAD FOLK

When a husband disappears without trace, it can be quite perturbing.

Mildred Dinghall didn’t like her job.

It was messy, it was unpleasant, It frequently turned her stomach, but it was money in her purse.

She was one of the forgotten people who tidy up police mortuaries when the chief cutter has done his work. It wasn’t that there was a bad case every day, and sometimes a week or more would pass without a single splodge of unpleasant mess that needed her attention, but sometimes two slabs were in use at the same time, and that meant double the work and that dreadful feeling she got in his stomach when she went to it, even though she was fully protected against everything the corpses could throw at her. Not that they were in any position to throw a single thing, it’ was just something that played in her mind.

It was the smell that got to her when the deceased visitor had been deceased for quite a long time, and what was even worse than that was the possibility that one day she might meet Roger’s old bones.

Roger had been her husband, and probably still was, until he vanished off the face of the Earth years ago. She was even beyond the stage of working out exactly how many years but just, like a haggard robot, went about her daily rounds almost mindlessly.

She waas no longer the cheerie nurse she had been.

Someone had said he must have been kidnapped by aliens who frequently flew over the village after the pubs shut, and it was true that he had often called at their local until dark. Others had the feeling he must have met a ravishing blonde in a short skirt and seduced her before going off to wherever it was she lived and settling down with her. The first explanation seemed most likely to Mildred. She couldn’t really see a ravishing blonde having even a fraction of a second for her Roger.

It wasn’t that there was much wrong with him because in all honesty there wasn’t. He was clever, there was no doubt about that, and he had always attributed his severe squint to close attendance to a library of books during his studies. He had become a librarian himself, a position he’d dreamed of achieving since he’d been at Junior school and used the children’s library every single week.

Then he was gone.

Off to work one morning, July it was, and hot, but he dressed as if it was winter because that was the done thing. His uniform, he said, a suit, warm and woollen, a dated hat that was halfway to becoming a bowler, and brogues, were all part of the librarian’s image.

She still looked out for him, though, and as the weeks then months and finally years passed she became increasingly dowdy, increasingly convinced that he was living a life of luxury somewhere in Alpha Centaura. Either than or his mind had tripped and he’d accidentally wandered onto a ship sailing the seven seas to… where?

She liked to think the Caribbean, and he’d come for her one day and take her to where there were islands dotted with palm trees and dusky maidens dancing semi-naked until the dawn.

Not that he would take her anywhere like that. She also knew that. He wasn’t the sort to enjoy that sort of thing, desert islands, nearly naked young women, strong liquor, even though he had been fond of the local pub and there was a dusky maiden behind the bar. Well, there was now, she didn’t know about when he’d been a regular there, he’d never taken her with him.

What if he’d died somewhere? Lost in a forest. Rarely trodden, lost and forgotten by mankind, but with loft loam for the lost and confused to walk on? And fallen into a crevasse of some kind and never been able to climb out? Or set upon by vicious crooks who robbed him for the small change in his pocket? Then, if his last mortal remains were discovered by a man walking his dog or a mother with her children going for an adventure in the forest, they’d end up on a slab where she worked, and she’d smell his death, smell his slightly tobacco stained decomposing flesh.

So when one of those came in she had to peep. It wasn’t pleasant, but it had to be done, to put her own mind at rest. The time passed and she became increasing convinced that’s how she’d be reunited with him. Even that wouldn’t be too bad because it would mean she could get on with her life again rather than remain in this years-long limbo.

And if that’s how she met him again it would be a closure and she would be able to finally move on.

Mr Battery was eyeing her almost every day. He was senior to her, though by no means a trained pathologist with letters after his name. But he did make eyes at her, and if Roger was definitely dead she would take heed of some of the things he said. Not that he was the sort of man to be suggestive. No talk of bedrooms or stuff like that, just casual comments about the weather and how nice it was when the sun was out. And she quite liked Mr Battery. When he was out of his scrubs there was a lovely crease down his trousers, proper, like trousers ought to be.

It had come to the point when she really began to hope that someone would discover the mouldering remains of poor old Roger and take him to the path lab where his situation could be examined and someone could pronounce how he had died.

She thought it would be nice if he’d tripped and fallen and died with a huge bruise on his head that had done for him. That way there would be no crime involved and she could put it down to an act of God. She didn’t fancy the idea that criminals had done him in. It was unbecoming for a top librarian.

It’s why she had taken the job in the first place. They’d been looking for a school leaver, someone who was blasé about blood and gore and horrible smells, but out of kindness she had been offered the job. After all, as a trained nurse she could cope with flesh. Roger had been respected, a woollen suit and all, and when she’d asked about decent work there had been a vacancy because the young woman who had been doing the job couldn’t tolerate the conditions and left in a huff when she was told it was all part of life. No, she’d said, it was death, and had stormed out.

It would be good if the next lump of smouldering flesh that was wheeled in turned out to be Roger. She’d loved him once, though not quite as intensely as she might have, as the girls in love stories loved the men in their lives. Theirs had been a good marriage, but the personal side of it might have been a bit more heart-throbbing. Roger had always been a very good man. He even went to church most Sundays, and it was there that he learned about sin. And she rather suspected that Mr Battery leaned a bit closer to the affectionate, and it might be fun to find out.

“There’s someone for you, Mildred,” called a voice from the door just as she was taking off her rubber gloves and getting ready to leave for the day. Work was done … there hadn’t been much, so she didn’t have the stench of rotting flesh in her nose.

“Coming, Mr Battery,” she called.

She knew from the woollen suit sitting in a wheel chair being pushed by an attendant just behind him who it was.

“Roger!” she exclaimed, “What … where … why…?”

“Mrs Dinghall?” asked the white-coated attendant, “You are Mrs Dighall, wife to Roger Dinghall?” he asked.

What could she do?

One, nod her head, two, burst into tears and three, be comforted by Mr Battery who put one arm round her shoulders.

Roger, and it was nothing, said nothing.

“We believe he wanted to go home and as you had some nursing experience we believe you’d like to look after him… he can’t do much for himself, not since the accident…”

“Who are you?” asked Roger in a crumbling sort of voice, looking directly at Mildred. “Where’s Mildred?” he added in a slur.

Not dead then, she thought, sadly, and held Mr Battery’s hand, squeezing his fingers like a woman should.

© Peter Rogerson, 04.07.22

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