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Working in the Funeral Trade

A Summer as a 15 Year-Old Undertaker - A True Story

By Jord TuryPublished 5 years ago 21 min read
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When I was fifteen I was offered my first job. It wasn't necessarily a job I had been seeking or studying towards, but it was an opportunity to earn some extra cash, and help me get off my arse each morning after I finished school. Exactly what every teenage kid needs when they're offered six weeks of immortality; a reason to wake up each morning.

It was around the time of the 2010 FIFA World Cup. That's when I was approached by Dad as he came to swing by the local to check in on me and my older brother. With two (technically illegal) pints under my belt, I was feeling practically invincible. England were on form, and the whole of our local pub were bouncing off the walls in a patriotic euphoria.

Things were going rather swimmingly for a standard Sunday afternoon. And with six weeks of freedom on my mind before having to enroll in college, I was feeling unstoppable—until the moment Dad asked me about my plans for the Summer. That's when I knew he had something on his mind.

"Fancy coming to work for me then, Jord?" he asked.

"Sorry—what?"

What about my six weeks of laziness? Surely I deserved that after five years of relatively easy school work? Surely a break wasn't too much to ask for, right? That's all I needed; a relaxing short-term Summer before heading back to the books. Even if that did mean having an approximate daily fund of about £3 to get me by.

I guess that's what sold it for me; the greedy little conscience in my head beckoning for me to accept. That, as well as the alcohol swimming in my head, disrupting my every single decision that day. That was enough for me to snatch up the job on the spot without really thinking about what I was getting myself into.

See, my Dad owned a local funeral directions in the city by the name of Beechwood, and back then he was pretty small time; with two offices in the conjoined cities twenty minutes apart, and an estimate workload of four to five funerals a week. There was no endless paperwork to fill out, or constant buzzing from a phone that couldn't be switched to silent. It was just my Dad, my older brother, and a couple of local lads who liked to drop by from time to time. That was all. Like I said—small time.

A pretty sweet gig to accept, of course. Although I had no actual experience in the field, I knew I was willing to learn and give it my all, and having my Dad as the boss, I knew I'd be alright somehow. Like everything I could've potentially messed up wouldn't have a major consequence other than a slap on the wrist, or a stern frown before forgetting it ever happened.

It was a step in the wrong direction in regards to my pipe dream career plans of becoming a famous filmmaker, but it was a job. A morbid job I'll admit. But a job, and a job that paid better than your box-standard newspaper boy position that most kids slumped themselves with back then.

So with the sip of a pint, I shook Dad's hand, and I accepted.

"I'll start on Monday."

WELCOME TO THE FAMILY BUSINESS

Going into the funeral trade I never quite knew what to expect other than from what others had told me. Although most people's rendition of the funeral trade was slightly over the top, and a whole lot more depressing than the actual reality of it. That's something I tried to ignore as I entered the office for the first time.

I had never seen a dead body before, but from a binge play through of horror films over the previous years, I had a vague image in my head of what one would probably look like. Droopy bloodshot eyes with pale skin and fangs, right? Yeah, no. Not like that at all I'm afraid.

See, our idea of the deceased is usually from what we see on TV or in films, and let me tell you—it's all wrong. Like 99.9 percent of the things I've seen since working in the funeral trade have been completely off the mark, to the point of almost seeming laughable. But back then on my first day, I fully expected a zombie-esque character to be staring down the barrel of a crooked nose as that coffin lid was pried up for the very first time.

It was something my Dad was slightly hesitant about at first, as if he was throwing me straight into the deep end without a life guard on hand to pull me back once my legs started to sink.

It was a rather intense moment I'll never quite forget; just standing on one end of the room facing a partially open coffin only ten feet from my own wobbly ankles. With a scent potent enough to slightly fill my nostrils from a distance, I didn't dare move any closer should I have suddenly thrown up on somebody's recently lost loved one. That would have been a great first day story to tell the future grandkids.

Standing there, about to face somebody who had recently lost their life, it all made me wonder; about life in general and how I ended up in that position. I knew my friends were out somewhere loitering in a park with a bag of sweets and a fizzy drink. But me? This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I pictured my perfect, relaxing Summer holiday.

Seeing my first body was a rather surreal experience. There's no other way to put it. And as I built up enough courage to step forth, and stand over this elderly gentleman, I couldn't help but just switch off. As if my mind had suddenly gone blank; like the worst case of writer's block imaginable.

I stared into his pale eyes, and thought of nothing; as if it didn't really hit me that this man was gone forever. Like I was just in a lucid dream that I'd wake up from soon enough. As if it all felt unreal enough to be fake. That's something I'll never forget, and on that first day I learnt the most important lesson at all.

You just need to switch off.

THE INITIAL DAYS ON THE JOB

A lot, if not all, assume that the funeral business is the most depressing trade on the planet. Let me assure you, it's not. In fact I spent some of my happiest days working at Beechwood, because like I said before, once you learn to switch off, everything just moulds down into a regular office job.

There's paperwork. There's driving. There's waiting. A LOT of waiting. So a standard job really. Once you look past the morbidity, of course.

Working in the funeral trade there's one thing you need to have, and that is patience. From giving a family member every minute of the day just so they can express themselves in the most difficult time imaginable, to standing by at the church doors waiting for your cue to enter or exit. Sometimes that can mean waiting for hours, and I really do mean hours. Standing up straight with your pressed tie and snug waistcoat beneath the sun or rain. Whatever the weather or conditions may be; professionalism is vital, and patience is key.

There's a lot of death that circles you every second of every day, but once you grow accustomed to it, and understand no hand is going to suddenly reach out and take a chunk out of your flesh, then you're on your way to becoming a casual undertaker.

A lot of people decide whether the funeral trade is for them or not within that initial fortnight, and it is not uncommon for people to drop out before that first pay check hits their accounts. That's nothing to be ashamed of, because it's a specialist job, and the fact is, not every single person can do it. And the issue is not that everybody can tell whether they'd be capable of doing it until actually trying it for themselves. Because quite frankly, nobody can tell how they'd react to seeing half the things you'd see in the trade until it's too late. That's when the majority call it quits and seek alternative careers.

You need to have that mindset that allows you to be able to sip a coffee whilst assembling a coffin, or dressing a body without feeling anything. You can't feel the emotional attachment to anything you do, and whilst you know it's upsetting, you simply can't think of it like that. And for when a relative comes by to ask questions, YOU are the cornerstone, and the main source of information, so breaking down on the spot in the most delicate moment is a simple strike out. Because they are looking to YOU for comfort. That's a difficult thing to do for sure, but switching off a certain part of your brain allows you to deliver your best without crumbling right there on the floor.

After my first month in the trade I had learnt to adjust to most situations my Dad threw at me.

I switched off, and I manned the smaller office from nine to five; mostly playing the waiting game, and on standby should Dad call with a funeral plan that I had to attend to.

Other than that I learnt to live with the dead for eight hours a day, with nobody to talk to but myself, and the cashier at the local garage on my lunch break. That was all the communication I had most days, and whilst the thought of it seems incredibly depressing, it was surprisingly relaxing. It was easy enough to just unwind, and get on with without the problem of having directors breathing down your neck, and micromanaging every single thing you did. That's what I enjoyed, and once I looked past the fact that I had to navigate between three or four bodies just to flick the kettle on, everything was simple enough to ignore.

So regardless of what my friends said about the job, I couldn't care less.

In my eyes, it was just a job. A job I saw myself being good at.

... Eventually.

THE FIRST TWILIGHT CALL

About six weeks into the job I was preparing myself for that first callout.

A callout was where a person had recently passed away, either at home, or at a nursing home, and would need collecting to be brought back to the office mortuary. This usually happened in the darkest of hours when most people slept, and the world was at its loneliest. It was a way for us to slip in and out without gathering too much attention from neighbours or nearby residents. With a few documents to sign, and some soft spoken words we'd have the chance to do what we had to do, and be gone before dawn.

Callouts were always the thing that worried me the most in those initial days, and whilst I had been around death for quite some time, the feeling of seeing somebody who had only just had their last breaths was a little terrifying to me. The warmth from their body still radiating from their bed clothes; positioned in their final resting place before passing on. Occasionally with eyes wide open, and almost lifelike; sorrowful and dreamy, as if still partially with us, and not completely gone. Yet they were. Minutes, maybe hours prior, and they'd have still been smiling. That'd an odd feeling knowing that as you take them away. But as I've said many times; you switch off, and you refuse to let it affect you.

With a phone on its highest volume by my bedside, I knew that at any point it could go off.

I learnt to live on standby, for when that phone buzzed in the dead of night, I knew I'd be called to action, and have less than twenty minutes to get myself ready.

It was a simple "We've got a callout, Jord" before hanging up, and allowing me the twenty minutes to prepare before pickup. And so I'd brush the sleep from my eyes and throw on the black suit and polished shoes. A quick brush of the teeth and glass of water, and I'd be out the door.

The birds tweeted every so often, and the crickets croaked for every flutter of wind that bristled past. The moon usually hung high and the sounds of faraway engine roars were scattered and timid.

I'd stand at the edge of my road, and wait for either my brother or Dad to pick me up. Looking like something taken directly out of a Mafia film I scuffed my feet at the street corner; dressed to the brim in jet black and polish. With eyes bolted on to every passing car—I was cautious of everything; worried I'd give the wrong person the wrong idea. As if I'd be mistaken for some part-time drug dealer looking for a pay day.

Luckily that never happened, and out of the hundreds of callouts I'd done over the years, I never actually saw a single person pass-by. And yet, it still managed to scare me every, single, time.

I was fifteen when I did my first callout. That's something I wouldn't wish upon anybody at that age, especially with the scenario I walked into on that night. Unlike anything I'd mentally prepared myself for beforehand it was a sight I knew I'd never forget.

On that night, beneath the darkest of skies in a warm July gloomy estate, I arrived to my first callout location.

It wasn't a nursing home, nor was it a fancy mansion. It was a tall council block of tiny flats; for those who had lost everything, and had been given a place to call their own in hopes of giving them a second chance.

Pulling up onto the gravel path, I was quick to notice the several hooded figures and gangs piling around the front entrance door; some sipping cans of lager, some smoking substances even I couldn't identify.

The situation was rather grim, and as I recall reaching for the handle on the passenger door, I remember looking to Dad for comfort; thinking only the worst. But with Dad in his switched off mindset, I knew he was already in work mode, and had everything else completely out of mind. He said nothing at all. That's something I'll never forget. And it was just like that. I was thrown into the deep end, and having to act as if I knew what I was doing when really I was lost beyond belief.

I climbed out of the car and snapped to Dad's ankles; following closely as he shoveled his way through the crowds of dark eyes watching our every movement.

Every set of eyes followed us as we worked our way to the door; all knowing exactly who we were, and what we were doing. Squinting and grumbling they had our names on their tongues, with the odd "that's the undertaker" being spread about like a trend.

Dad and I worked our way up to the highest floor to the apartment at the end of a narrow corridor. With a door partially open, and a police officer standing inside taking notes, I had no idea what I was about to step into.

I gulped and entered the central living room area; quickly noticing the large amounts of mess scattered over the floor. There was no body, nor signs of any fowl play to be seen; only piles of clothes and a TV still flickering on a pause menu from a Playstation game.

It was when the officer turned to my Dad after reviewing his notes and said, "We've taken him down. He's in the bedroom just behind the door."

That's when it hit me. That's when I knew exactly what the situation was, and the dots from the scene quickly connected together and formed the story.

The man who we were there to collect had sadly hung himself on the back of the bedroom door. And it was our duty to take him away. Through swarms of crying residents, and clashing cans toasting to this man's life we took him without saying a word.

With Dad holding him by the wrists, and myself on the bottom end gripping onto his ankles, we worked our way down the three flights of narrow stairs, and towards the stretcher sitting just outside the main entrance.

I remember sweating and trying to gain control of my breath, and a sudden fluster of emotions swimming through my head. Thinking to myself 'is this just a dream?' as I pushed my way through the building; trying to keep professionalism in mind and daydreaming at the very back.

A moment I'll never forget; loading this man onto the back of the estate car and driving off into the distance. With a crowd of silhouettes fading off into the distance, and the echoing siren of tears and screaming as we departed. That's a feeling I'll never forget, and for the first time in six weeks on the job, I felt myself switching back on.

As I looked at Dad stone-faced and in the zone in the rearview mirror, I remember thinking to myself, 'Can I really do this?'

Was it too much?

THE FUNERAL

The funeral trade would of course be nothing without the actual funeral. That's where ninety percent of the work would come in, and every employee in a funeral home would have their parts to play during the service.

Dad was the director of Beechwood, and so he would be the one to walk out in front of the hearse, and greet the immediate family. He'd escort the family to their seats, and assure the service went smoothly; timing the entrance and exit soundtracks, and keeping a close eye on his staff, ensuring nothing was out of place.

My brother would be one of the drivers; either taking control of the hearse or limousine, which would pickup and drop-off the immediate family before and after the service.

I, being only fifteen at the time, had only the responsibility of pallbearing, and transporting the flower tributes to and from the hearse before and after the service.

Carrying a lost one has and always will be an honourable thing, regardless of never actually knowing them in life. It gives you that connection, if only for a moment of two before departing and paying your respects.

I have seen many, many funeral services in my time, and not once has it ever been easy. Even if you do switch off, it's never quite simple enough just to get it over with, and then forget about it. Because there's always that thought lingering at the back of your mind. The thought of seeing mourning faces walk by, and look at you for comfort as you pass through those church doors. It's as if they're looking to you, and hoping you'd say something that would suddenly make it all better.

I've seen children lose parents. I've seen elderly men break down at the alter over the remains of their childhood sweetheart. I've seen all kinds of terrible things, and not once has it ever been easy.

Lifting the casket was always something I thought I'd mess up on, because like most people starting out in the trade, the sudden wonder of 'what if I drop it?' enters your mind, and plays tricks on you.

You suddenly become your own worst enemy when arriving at any funeral service. Just stepping out of your assigned seat in the hearse and diving straight into the stream of endless tears and melancholy faces watching your every move. You think to yourself, 'what if I get this wrong?' and don't give yourself any comfort until it's all over with.

Putting the casket up onto your shoulder was something I thought I'd never be able to do. I thought I wouldn't have the strength or co-ordination to do it whilst keeping that stern look on my face, and looking as if I knew what I was doing.

But over time, I learnt that no matter what, I had the support of every other pallbearer in the formation, and the chances of slipping or dropping the casket were next to impossible. Because should you have tripped, the remaining support from three or five other pallbearers would uphold the weight, and keep it steady enough for you to redeem your error and move back into place. So whatever the weather; snow, rain or uphill sludge—it never once fell, and it never would so long as we worked together as a team. That I eventually became sure of.

Over the months of working for Beechwood I had seen many funerals; some thirty minutes, some four or more hours. I'd seen or heard many different religions and beliefs, poetry and hymns, songs and memoirs; all of which told a new story every time.

I'd attended burials. I'd attended cremations. I'd even attended a burial for a severed leg. Yes, that's right—a severed leg.

The hymns were soon enough engraved in my mind, and although not believing in any certain religion, I knew the lyrics to most songs of praise before turning sixteen. So in a way, I never even had to read a bible or do much research, because working in the funeral trade you slowly become accustomed to everything in one way or another. That's something that always fascinated me.

The funeral service portion of the job was always an experience. There was always a new story, a new colourful casket, a family member to speak to, or a job to do regardless of the situation. You always had to stay on your guard, and keep your chin up, because when you stepped outside the office and straightened your tie, upholding the reputation of the trade was crucial. There were no excuses for sloppiness.

FINDING A NEW PATH

The Summer of working for Beechwood went by quicker than I ever anticipated. With so much seen, and even more done it was almost unbelievable at just how far I'd come since accepting the job down at the local.

By the time college started in September, I was ready to move on and pursue my lifelong dream in the media and creative arts. So as you can guess, working in the funeral trade was never exactly a stepping stone on course to achieving those ambitions. So shortly after college started, I left Beechwood, in hope of taking away the skills I had picked up there, and having the ability to use them in future situations.

I had the stories and knowledge to last a lifetime, and when somebody approached me and asked me something, I felt I could give them an answer, and be sure of it.

I picked up the occasional callout from time to time just for that extra bit of money, but before long I was let go, and with Beechwood becoming a much larger company that myself or my Dad could have ever imagined it'd become, there was just no room for me anymore.

I continued my studies, and Beechwood grew wider and wider in the background; always playing on my mind for each day I'd sit in that classroom.

I'd think about the people, the stories, and experience as a whole; contemplating whether or not I'd ever go back to it.

It was a job I knew my Dad wanted me to pick up, and potentially take over alongside my brother some day. After all it was a family business. That's something my Dad never wanted to change, and the thought of having his two sons take over his work one day would only bring him the closure he so desperately needed after decades of hard work.

Beechwood continued to explode, and before long Dad purchased a new building right next to the city crematorium. Work started to uproar and become too regular for a smaller staff to handle, and so new members were employed, and the reputation began to skyrocket; becoming the business Dad always dreamt of having.

So whilst I pursued a new career, I never for once regretted taking the side road just to see what it'd be like on the other side for a while. And to say I enjoyed it would probably be an understatement. Because quite frankly, I loved it for all the time I was there, and to say I've worked in the funeral trade can only give me an enormous sense of achievement unparallelled to anything else offered to me at that young age.

So I moved on, and after months of switching off, I chose to switch back on, and allow myself the choice to follow new routes and goals. Beechwood faded into the distance, as did I; both becoming the things we were destined for and beyond.

I'll never forget those Summer months.

(... Four years later I went back to work for Dad).

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About the Creator

Jord Tury

Just a regular guy living in the West Midlands, UK.

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