New Animal Ella Baxter (best books to read non fiction txt) 📖

me. ‘We would usually give a case like this to one of our older staff members, but Susan has called in sick and Maria is on her honeymoon, and I never got the hang of the make-up part. I’ve always used freelancers.’ She swings her leg off the desk. ‘How do you think you’ll go with it?’

‘I’ve worked on children before,’ I say. ‘I know what to expect—please don’t worry.’

She nods, looking relieved. ‘I really appreciate this.’

‘All good,’ I say. ‘It’s part of the job.’

‘And what do you think of the coffee? Any thoughts?’ she asks, tapping her nail against her cup.

‘Cafe quality for sure,’ I say. ‘Money well spent.’

‘Did you hear that, Barbara?’ Shell leans back in her chair and calls towards the foyer: ‘Cafe quality!’

Outside I can see the clouds gathering overhead, blanketing the sky through the long window that frames the walkway to the prep room. Shell follows me, walking over the carpet in her sockettes as she’s kicked off her shoes somewhere and now can’t find them.

‘You’ll be working alone today, so I’ve already set her up for you. I know this isn’t ideal, and please just say if we’re throwing you in the deep end.’

‘Not at all. Happy to help.’

‘It’s good to have you on board. Yell out if you need anything. This is our only service today, so there’s no rush.’

At the door to the prep room, she wishes me luck, before pivoting gracefully on the spot and heading back to the front of the building. I watch her as she walks away, her suit grey against the speckled blue of the carpet, and I feel an overwhelming reverence for everyone drawn to this industry. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to escort the deceased through their final transitions. There is an Ancient Greek word, psychopomp. It means a guide for the souls to the place of the dead, and the role of the guide is to stay with them until they are comfortable before leaving. In every funeral parlour in this country, people like Shell wait to accompany our loved ones to another place. It’s possible to find great beauty in this job. I knew it when I started and I know it even more so now. It is an honour to work with the dead.

I enter the prep room and slip the waiting apron over my head. I glance around, noting the small covered shape on the bench, as I open both doors to the supply cupboard to survey the materials on offer. I gather up some tubes of colour and tubs of brushes and place them on a trolley, then wheel it over to the bench.

It feels like a lifetime since I’ve been with someone this still. I slowly uncover her, and there she is, perfectly laid out like a tiny Buddha on the steel bench. Her face is no bigger than the palm of my hand, and she has the lightest line of a monobrow, like a feathered trail across her forehead. I can even see the minuscule web of capillaries that rests just under the surface of her skin, like a topographic map of estuaries and lakes. She is a compact landscape, a three-dimensional map of one corner of this universe. I look at her file, which has some handwritten notes from Shell at the bottom. She left her body on entry, and who could blame her for feeling a little frightened of this plane, this existence?

I brush the tips of my fingers across the crown of her head, touching the loose swirl of hair above her forehead. How would she like to be right now? A body will tell you; you can feel where they want to go, what position they will hold comfortably.

She wants to be wrapped.

I look around the room for any of her things from home, artefacts that the parents have gathered together during the saddest hunt of their lives. There’s a bag on a chair near the door, and I find a square of yellow fleece inside. I don’t want to look at what else has been packed just yet; the careful folding of this blanket is enough for now.

I pick her up, and find that she is both light and heavy; a harmony of contradictions. I keep my body close to hers as I arrange the cloth in a diamond on the bench, before placing her back down onto it. I fold one wing in, then pull the bottom corner up over her feet all the way up to her shoulder, then fold the other wing, until only her tiny face is visible. This is what her body wants.

I think of the photo Jack had of my mother swaddling me, and I feel an immeasurable heartache for this mother. The woman who carried her for months, and who would have waved away alcohol and soft cheeses. The one who felt this growing baby through their shared wall. The woman who was unable to sleep because of all the hormones that danced through her, as she was being pulverised by energetic kicking. She would have looked in the mirror each morning and noticed her skin expanding to the point of translucence. And then the birth, that strong pull down inside her, a rapid series of seismic shifts. I imagine the mother frozen, feeling excitement and fear before launching into action. Rushing to hospital, and scrawling her way through irritating forms. Watching as wires were wrapped around her circumference, their length a measure of how much she had stretched. And her partner might be looking ready to vomit, and the grandmother would take a few quick photos, and the excitement would be extreme, because they all were on the cusp of meeting the newest human of that very moment in time.

And the mother would push, bearing down on her core, and she would feel the small being shift lower and lower. She would feel herself turn inside out with effort, and