'When someone dies alone I go into their house and make hardest of phone calls'
It’s a sunny Monday morning, but the house is in yellow tinged half darkness, a result of the blinds being partly closed and also discoloured by years of grime. The build up of mess and hoarding only serves to make it darker.
The landline answer phone flashes red, the only light in the room. I hit play and listen to a string of increasingly concerned messages, including one from the police making a welfare check, too late obviously. As the messages continue to play I look around for clues; address books, a wallet, a diary, not an easy task in this chaotic scene.
The concerned voices of friends and neighbours continue to follow me around the otherwise pin drop silent house, ending on a beep as I open the door and enter the room where, judging by the blood stains, he’d clearly died. He’s long gone though, to the coroner’s office, the police having broken down the door when their call went unanswered. Just the evidence of his death, and life, remain; I’m here to find the latter.
I’m a council funeral officer. When someone dies in my district without family or money, I am charged with arranging their funeral under Section 46 of the Public Health Act. My first steps are to perform a house search.
I spot a laptop on a table that is in some semblance of order. Even in scenarios of extreme mess and hoarding, some human organisational truths remain, people keep their important things in one place. A kitchen cupboard, a bedroom drawer, and in this case, on the dining room table. Amongst the rubbish there’s an island of essentials; the laptop, some post, bills, a wallet, and a filofax. I flip the address pages to L, the first letter of the second name of the deceased, and there it is, the dream result; the phone number of someone who shares their name.
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Evie pays her last respects (DAILY MIRROR)Now to make the oddest and hardest of phone calls. I’m not sure what I’m going to say, I try not to overthink it or I’ll choke. A friendly but reticent man answers. When you’re kicking off a call with “hello, is that…” people tend to think you’re selling double glazing. I quickly run my council title into my salutation and name so that he knows that I’m not, although it would probably be preferable.
There’s no getting away from it so I get straight to the point. I inform him that I am standing in his relative’s home, that I obtained his number from an address book, and that I am sorry to tell him, in such a surreal circumstance, but his relative has died.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then a pause as the news lands. He exhales and then says “you did that really well, breaking that news, you do this a lot I take it?” I tell him of my huge relief at him saying that. The police get training in this, we don’t, so I always worry about adding to the trauma.
Our chat then turns to my role. His curiosity is piqued, as I so often find when people realise my job exists. They go from not having heard of it, and never having thought about the need for it, to suddenly having their brain flooded with all the scenarios in which it would be necessary - homeless people, unidentified people, those who have shunned society, those who have been shunned by society, those who simply outlived everyone - and then they always, always, ask for stories.
When someone dies alone, someone has to put their affairs in order (Getty Images/iStockphoto)“You must see it all” he says, as we discuss the difficult circumstances of their family situation. An upbringing that discouraged showing weakness, which almost certainly led to his relative not seeking medical or indeed any help and dying what looked like an appalling death. Being a neutral party you’re a safe space for the telling of any complicated or painful backstories.
It’s time to conclude this conversation, and so I ask him if he is willing or able to take on the funeral planning. Thankfully he is. Were he not, my duty would remain, and I would carry on in my work. Informing the deceased’s utilities, card providers, freezing his bank accounts, knocking on the neighbour’s doors, seeking out friends, evidence of hobbies, musical taste, anything that will allow me to close down the life and put together a decent eulogy and a fitting service.
I do some tasks instantly upon referral, irrespective. I’ve already told my Council Tax and Elections colleagues, it’s just easier to do that internally. Then upon spotting a brown wheelie on the day of the search, I drop Bins a line to cancel the garden waste subscription and get it collected.
I also still carry out my other public health duty, because it’s been a week already and the perishable food needs to go before pests descend. I get my black bags and clear half eaten food from the sideboard, empty the fridge and freezer, switch them off at the wall, and then take the bins out one last time. This task gets incrementally tougher depending on the situation. How much time has elapsed since death can sometimes combine with how things were already.
The deceased in one case had switched a freezer off at the wall. It was full of meat. Blood flowed out like the lift scene from The Shining and I will never forget how, as I scooped the contents into a black sack, the meat was hot and alive with the movement of maggots. This is why I always have a bag in my boot full of plastic gloves, shoe covers and haz-suits, and a Febreze Extra Strength. Other brands are available.
Ashes to Admin by Evie King (DAILY MIRROR)As I sign off I warn the relative not to go into that room until it has been professionally cleaned, or at least to brace himself for the worst if he plans to clean it up himself. As he signs off he says, “you know, there’s a book in your job”. I agree that there probably is. I don’t want to tell him I’ve already written it and that it’s available now from all good book shops, seems crass. But it’s not crass to let you know, and it’ll probably be out by the time you read this - Ashes to Admin: The Caseload of a Council Funeral Officer.
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It contains some of the stories of the many lives I have encountered postmortem, from a silent recluse who surprised everyone, a 99 year old who outlived everyone (she also wanted her poems published but never made it, so I put one in the book to grant that wish) all the way through to an unidentified woman whose story I never got to hear but which became a part of everyone else’s story as the community came out for her in force.
Along with the stories there also inevitably comes the natural ruminations - both funny and sad - on life and death that arise from working so closely with the recently deceased. Thoughts and feelings that unite us all, so it’s hopefully warming and uplifting too.
As Stewart Lee said of it, “I laughed, I cried, and I realised I have wasted my life” He hasn’t though, none of us have, every life is unique and I am grateful to have been able to recount these almost lost stories in my book.
- Ashes to Admin by Evie King, published by Mirror Books £9.99, is on sale March 2nd.
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