Mr Crow had a slight limp which I found myself replicating as I followed him. We walked past a room with two cream sofas, and a half-dead pot plant on a small coffee table, and down a long corridor that seemed to get increasingly darker the further we went. There were lots of closed doors with small plaques tacked on to them, saying intriguing things like; embalming room, coffin workshop, and Place of Rest. We turned right into another even darker corridor lit by lamps that looked like they belonged in the last century. The air was hot and humid and smelled of paraffin and mint imperials.
Finally, we came to a square waiting room lined with wood panelling. Mr Crow directed me to sit down on one of the mahogany chairs. It sounded as if I’d farted when I sat down.
‘I’ll be back presently,’ he said, with a quick nod of the head before he disappeared behind of the two doors in front of me.
I looked up at the large chandelier hanging low above my head. It clearly hadn’t been dusted in a long while as a grey spider’s web trailed from it onto the far wall. I followed the trail with my eyes to where it reached the top of the left door frame. The mahogany door had a plaque which read; Hell. I smiled. They sure had a sense of humour.
Despite the fact I was there for an interview, I felt calm, although I wish I’d had more time to make myself look presentable as the big hole in the toe of my trainer wasn’t the greatest look.
Mr Crow emerged from the door which read; Mrs and Mr Crow.
‘If you’d like to come this way,’ he said, standing by the door and gesturing for me to enter.
‘Josiah,’ screeched a female voice from behind the door, ‘stop acting like a prick and get the boy in here.’
I watched as Mr Crow’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed.
‘Shut up woman, will you,’ he shouted back to her.
‘You better come in before she loses her head,’ he said.
I did as I was told.
I entered the office of Mr and Mrs Crow. The room was quite small but I guessed it would be a lot bigger if it wasn’t for the stacks of paperwork overflowing from every surface. There was a large desk in front of me, covered in ledgers and piles of paper that looked like it had come from a historical movie set. There was a rotary dial phone in black, an ink well, a quill and a wooden blotter. There was a wooden chair behind the desk, and behind that, the wall was covered floor to ceiling with a mahogany filing cabinet. From the few open drawers, it looked like it contained index cards, rows upon rows of yellowing index cards arranged in alphabetical order. In the left corner, just in front of the cabinet, sat an old woman in a rocking chair. She looked like she’d died because her mouth was gaping open and her bottom set of false teeth were producing from her mouth. She was dressed all in black and her grey hair was arranged in a neat bun on the top of her head.
‘Is she okay?’ I asked, pointing at the lady. She reminded me of nanna the day she’d passed away.
‘Depends,’ said Mr Crow, sliding in behind the desk. He opened the ledger before him, picked up the quill, licked the nib before plunging it into the thick black ink.
‘Okay,’ said Mr Crow, sticking out his tongue as he wrote my name onto the ledger in beautiful cursive script.
He looked at me over the top of his glasses. ’17, eh?’ He nodded as if answering some internally asked question.
’51 Moon Lane,’ I said, in little more than a whisper, knowing that this information alone would make them not want to give me the job.
‘Mmmm,’ he said, looking at me over the top of his thick-framed glasses, ‘Moon Lane, eh?’
I jumped as the old lady, who looked like she’d been dead only a few minutes early, was now standing by my side.
She grabbed my arm and began feeling it.