I straightened my tie with a practised tug, pulling the knot snug against my throat before shrugging into my charcoal-grey suit jacket. The weight of the fabric settled against my shoulders with familiar gravity. Then came the overcoat – black, thick, a bulwark against the creeping chill of a winter’s night. I turned the collar up, fortifying myself against what awaited beyond the glass pane of my office window.
Outside, darkness pressed in, the world cloaked in a dreary, rain-slicked gloom. Raindrops clung to the window like glass beads, some surrendering to gravity, streaking downward in hesitant rivulets, their paths rudely interrupted by erratic gusts of wind. The scene beyond was a distorted symphony of light and movement – vehicle headlights, traffic signals, the illuminated signs of shops and buildings opposite – all fractured and refracted through the wet pane, as if viewed through a kaleidoscope left broken and imperfect.
The howl of the wind rose in concert with the city’s ceaseless clamour: the monotonous drone of traffic, the intermittent wail of a distant siren, the slosh of tyres slicing through puddles. Within the office, the cacophony was no less grating – the shrill insistence of telephones, the low hum of conversation, the clucking and cawing of colleagues who seemed determined to fill every available space with their incessant chatter. A weariness settled in my chest; the prospect of solitude was all I craved. The sanctuary of my car, though not completely soundproof, promised a reprieve – a cocoon where I could shed the brittle mask of composure I wore in such bustling surroundings. I longed for the moment my senses would coalesce into relief, each one easing back into its rightful place, like a bird shifting and settling atop its eggs for warmth.
Bracing myself, I stepped out into the night, the cold biting at my face like an old adversary, the wind’s fury almost personal in its assault. Rain stung my skin, slipping beneath my collar despite my precautions. By the time I reached my car, I was more than ready for its embrace. Sinking into the seat, I exhaled the sigh of the overburdened, the weary, the longing. As the engine hummed to life and the heater stirred sluggishly into action, I willed the warmth to thaw more than just my numbed fingers – I willed it to silence the child within me, the one who still yearned for summer’s careless warmth, for the undemanding safety of a mother’s embrace. How easily exhaustion could strip away the veneer of adulthood, leaving behind a soul grasping at old comforts.
The drive, though veiled in mist and rain, was uneventful. The address was easy enough to find; I only overshot it by a few yards before realising my error, reversing cautiously to the correct house. Its windows glowed with Christmas lights, their colours casting a festive shimmer against the wet night. Tinsel curled lazily across the panes, and behind the seasonal adornments, the soft orange glow of lamplight beckoned with the promise of warmth and familiarity. It was not uncommon, this persistence of Christmas cheer in homes recently touched by bereavement. Sometimes it was for the sake of children, a desperate attempt to maintain normality in the face of loss. Other times, it was merely inertia – an unwillingness to dismantle the remnants of happier times while grief still held its dominion.
Gripping my briefcase, I hunched against the cold and made my way to the door, my knock measured, neither hurried nor hesitant. There was a delicate art to these encounters – one must appear calm, professional, reassuring, yet never falsely cheerful. Given the weather, feigned joviality was mercifully unnecessary.
The door opened to a smile – genuine, warm, a lifeline in the weary depths of my working day. As I stepped inside, the hush of the house enveloped me, a stark contrast to the relentless noise of the outside world. The lounge was softly lit, the air thick with a mix of old furniture, tea, and something faintly floral. I was welcomed as though I were an old friend, and for a moment, I felt an undeserved comfort. It was always humbling, this realisation that those steeped in sorrow could still summon kindness and grace, even when their own world had been upended.
I settled into a well-worn armchair, my overcoat whisked away, and was soon nursing a cup of tea – two sugars, plenty of milk, exactly as I liked it. My client, an elderly gentleman, had lost his wife. He sat surrounded by his family, his grief evident but tempered by a dry humour that refused to be extinguished. We spoke easily, the conversation flowing in gentle currents, touching on the past, on fond memories, on the small absurdities that tether us to life even in the face of death. Only after this dance of words did I reach for my pen and papers, easing into the necessary formalities with as much grace as I could muster.
By the time the arrangements were finalised, a second cup of tea was placed in my hands, made with the same careful attention as the first. The conversation meandered once more, and in its course, my client spoke of his allotment, his pride in his hens. It was a fondness I understood, a nostalgia-stirring familiarity.
So, I told them a story.
Of an old allotment, long ago. Of Stan, my brother’s girlfriend’s father, who had taken me under his wing, allowing me to feed his chickens, to gather eggs, to turn the soil with an eager but clumsy enthusiasm. It had been a summer ritual, a cherished routine, until the day it all ended. Vandalism had struck – glass shattered, water barrels overturned, plants uprooted, chickens set loose, some lost to traffic. Stan’s fury had been absolute, and in his grief, his suspicion had turned towards me. I was cast out, banished from the place I had come to love, accused of a crime I had not committed. The injustice of it had burned within me for years, and even as time moved on, even as life changed, a part of me always wondered if Stan had ever regretted his anger, if he had ever doubted my guilt.
My client listened with quiet understanding, nodding as he recounted his own experiences of senseless destruction – pigeon fanciers who had suffered similar fates, allotments always seeming to bear the brunt of such cruelty. We talked of hens, of eggs, of the peculiar joys of tending to something so simple yet rewarding. I mentioned hatchlings.
And then, with perfect deadpan delivery, he said, “Why would I have hatchlings? I don’t have a cock.”
I choked.
Tea sprayed from my mouth in great, undignified arcs, a hot cascade that my client’s daughter scrambled to mop from my shirt and jacket as I coughed and spluttered, struggling between mortification and helpless laughter. The room erupted in warm, knowing chuckles, my earlier fatigue momentarily forgotten in the wake of this absurd, perfectly-timed moment.
As I left that evening, the echoes of their laughter still trailing me, I found myself lost in thought. The burdens of the day felt lighter, the cold less biting. It was strange, how grief and humour could coexist, how even in the depths of sorrow, a well-placed jest could slice through the gloom like a shaft of unexpected sunlight.
Bless them.
And bless the folly of slow-witted undertakers.
We do not choose when grief knocks, only how we answer.
Wording 