A Terrible Kindness
Jo Browning Wroe
Part I
ABERFAN
1
OCTOBER 1966
Something dreadful happened in Wales yesterday, but it was William’s graduation and so he has been distracted. He left the Thames College of Embalming with outstanding and unprecedented results. Tonight is the annual social highlight for the Midlands Chapter of the Institute of Embalmers; the Ladies’ Night Dinner Dance in Nottingham. To celebrate William’s success, and equip him for his first social highlight, Uncle Robert has bought him a dinner suit and a bow tie. Aged nineteen, William is a little excited, but mostly terrified by the news from his uncle that their president, David Melling, is going to ensure that a fuss is made of him.
Fifty miles from home in Birmingham, William will spend his first night in a hotel; the Lace Market, along with Uncle Robert and his business partner, Howard. Sharing a table with them are the Strouds, an undertaking family from Solihull, and on William’s left, the only other person his age, Gloria Finch, also from an undertaking family, with whom William lodged during his year at college in Stepney. Glorious Gloria, whom William has loved from their first conversation a year ago, drinking cocoa in the Finches’ cosy galley kitchen, while her parents watched telly in the lounge. Tonight, she’s wearing a tight black dress with sequins, through which her whole body seems to be winking at William.
‘Swanky’ is how Robert described the event to William, and he wasn’t exaggerating. The bright, trussed figures of the women, with sparkling necks, wrists and fingers, are vivid against the men’s solid black and white – though Howard’s cufflinks are sparkly too. Howard loves an event; loves a fancy do. He helped to choose William’s dinner jacket and dicky bow, and stood behind him to demonstrate tying the tie, his broad cheek, brushing occasionally against William’s face, making them both giggle.
William takes in the ballroom’s high ceiling, the pink and white embellishments, looping and twisting in and out of the alcoves. Giant diamond teardrops and swooping strings of chandelier glass hang imperious and heavy over the tables. There may be more knives and forks on either side of William’s plate than in their entire cutlery drawer at home – he must work from the outside in. The knife is heavy, the white linen napkin that he unfolds and puts over his knees surprisingly stiff.
It’s been a while since William has seen such dressed-up tables and people. Not since he was a boy chorister in Cambridge and sang at Formal Hall, or one-off special occasions. He quickly pushes the memories away, but not before registering a difference. Even as a ten-year-old, William understood that those seated at high table hadn’t arrived, they’d always been there, and opulence was no treat. Tonight’s excitement is palpable, so too the satisfaction of these embalmers who have earned an evening of opulence, a reward for their dedication to exacting, important work; the work of their grandfathers, their fathers, and for some, their sons.
After the hard graft and study of the last year, William is happy to take his place in a world in which you do a difficult but honourable job to the very best of your ability, most of the time for little reward beyond your own sense of satisfaction. But every now and then, you get to pat each other on the back and go swanky.
The fish soup is salty, but delicious eaten with the dainty roll he’s daubed with curls of ridged butter. William is using the perfectly round spoon, tipping the bowl away from him when he gets to the bottom. He notices that Gloria is watching him, beaming her warmth through her lively green eyes.
‘I’m glad you came,’ he says quietly.
‘I’m glad you asked me.’ She grins, and holds his gaze long enough to let William feel he can gently rest his leg against hers under the table.
The roast pork, crackling and apple sauce move from William’s plate, to his mouth, to his stomach easily, and it makes him happy to see Uncle Robert’s bright-eyed enjoyment of the evening. But during pudding, he notices David Melling at the top table patting his breast pocket and removing a piece of paper, which he unfolds and looks at over his glasses. The jam roly-poly expands in William’s mouth. The weighty cutlery slides in his palms.
Gloria glances at the top table then back at William and slips him a wink. ‘Get ready for the fuss,’ she whispers, leaning so close he feels her breath on his ear and smells her perfume. They joked earlier about quite what that would mean. Gloria thought they might sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, and William, desperate to appear nonchalant and funny, said he hoped they’d stand him on a very high pedestal and bow down.
Howard takes a cigarette from the bowl on the table and lights it, as does Gloria. William, who still considers his lungs the most precious part of his body’s architecture, even though he hasn’t sung for five years, has never considered putting one to his mouth. Yet there’s something appealing about the bluish wreaths of smoke winding through the banquet hall – a communal breathing out and relaxing. As coffee is poured from skinny silver pots, people lean back in their seats. William wants it over and done with. He sees Uncle Robert look to the top table and then at William, giving him a small nod.
2
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’ve enjoyed tonight’s feast.’ David Melling smiles. ‘And don’t you polish up well!’ He brandishes a piece of paper. ‘I have my dance card here, ladies, though you may have to form a queue, so please be patient.’