WHEN A BODY MEETS A BODY

Candida Crewe joins the

National Association of Funeral Directors for its annual junket

MARY Ellement, funeral director, was presented at dinner with a birthday cock- tail by a colleague from Yorkshire. The glass was decorated with a red cherry and a purple umbrella. There was a lurid pink mixture within.

'They call it a Bosom Caress,' he in- formed her, adding, 'Same colour as embalming fluid, isn't it?' She took a laughing sip. Others at the table, fellow members of Mary's trade, laughed too.

They were entitled to relish such humour for this was the 81st annual conference of the National Association of Funeral Direc- tors. (They bristle nowadays if called undertakers. 'It's a bit like referring to a doctor as a quack,' they say. 'The term inadequately describes our job, for no longer do we merely supply coffins.' Today they offer 'the full service'.) Three hundred or so of them were gathered at a hotel in the Borders, not only to attend meetings and exchange ideas, but also to let their hair down en masse. Away from the pressures of work they were keen to relax. 'It's our safety valve,' said one, 'to keep us sane, temporarily release us from tragedy.'

I had joined these funeral folk earlier that afternoon on the third day of their conference.

In the foyer of the Peebles Hydro I was introduced to Mary, who skipped up to me in white shorts, waving a squash racket.

Although 40, she looked ten years youn- ger. Her vitality and sporting clothes gave no hint that she ran her own much re- spected parlour in Pinner. I later learnt that she had been to the same Swiss finishing school as the Princess of Wales and had done 'a spot of modelling' at Lucie Clayton. She had gone into the family business on her father's suggestion.

`And I just stuck with it. I'd be good on What's Your Line?' she laughed. 'As a teenager I'd helped out in the chapel of rest a bit, and a failed marriage gave me an independence which enabled me to learn and run the business. At first I kept my personality back and tried to be sombre. But later I decided to be my bubbly self after all. And people felt more relaxed. They like to have a woman put her arm round them, have a little giggle. I can take a lot of feeling from them, understand their emptiness. My sympathy isn't false, I cry inside.'

True to her bubbly self she invited me to the president's drinks party that evening. There I met my host Steve Gauld. A large kilted Scotsman with a small moustache, he welcomed me with a warmth and friendliness that I soon found to be 'charac- teristic of the funeral fraternity. Within minutes I was asking a Yorkshireman questions as to the precise nature of their job. Patiently, enthusiastically, he enlight- ened me about everything from the admi- nistrative duties involved to the nitty-gritty of embalming (or the 'practical' as some called it).

`All good funeral directors embalm,' he said. 'It's part of our six month diploma. They're three objectives — presentation, preservation and hygiene. It's technical, but because it's creative it's very reward- ing.' Creative? 'You can learn all sorts of things — to make use of rigor mortis to set the features, to style the hair as it was and to wax up the face of an accident case so it can be viewed by the family without too much distress. Do that kind of thing well and you can make your name in this business.'

Dinner was announced as he was ex- plaining the gruesome function of the trocar. Being a special Scottish evening, there were no ordinary funeral meats. We were to have haggis in the huge dining- room. Much was made of hailing its appearance. The chef, holding the intestine-filled balloon high on a platter, even made a wee speech — 'I bet you've seen a lot of this sort of thing in your profession,' he said chirpily. I ate little. It was comforting to be sitting opposite Denise Truelove from East Grinstead. She looked very brown, had streaked blond hair, wore pearl pink nail varnish and was of a chatty disposition.

'I met my husband Simon in the Sutton Tennis Club. 1 knew what he was without asking because his name is famous in the area. Of course, it tickles me pink that he's a funeral director 'cos we're from quite different worlds, really. I've been part of the seedy glamour world in London — a croupier at Playboy, in fact — but I've never met such outrageous people as in the funeral business.

`He asked me for a date. I thought why not? He'll never be out of work.' She stopped to laugh when Simon accused her affectionately of being 'a scheming bitch'.

Dinner over, the band played 'Abide With Me' (which prompted all-round laughter) before we went next door to the ballroom. A lot of drinking led to wild dancing competitions and might have ex- plained the haphazard rendering of the Hokey Cokey.

Mary kindly introduced me to many of the funeral set. 'We're all normal, really,' Stan Kemp, president of the London Asso- ciation, assured me in a Cockney accent. `We might be professional on the surface but we're human underneath. We're all still upset by child cases. It's the policy of some never to charge for their funerals. At the end of the day, I'm proud of what 1 do.'

Stan's firm has virtual monopoly of the East End and it was with pride he told me he had arranged Mrs Kray's funeral. `There was masses of security and £8,000 worth of flowers. We had trouble with the press. The boxer, Terry Jones, went up to one reporter saying "I'll deal with him." It's situations like these it's hard to keep a straight face. But we must.' That night some of the funeral folk danced till dawn. I went to bed relatively early to be bright for the next morning's sessions.

The first educational session on the fourth day was called 'Aids in perspective'. A leading funeral director pranced on to the stage in 'full protective gear' to intro- duce the latest health and safety code of practice. In the second session, the speaker on the subject of costing a funeral encour- aged them to ignore criticism in the media about their prices.

At about seven the funeral directors and their wives emerged from their rooms for the farewell dinner. Gold sequins were fashionable among many of the latter. Others loved ruched peach. Not a little black dress in sight. Mary had opted for a mini puff-ball dress of pink lame and silver butterfly shoes — 'very Sugar Plum Fairy'.

All 300 of us were announced, and seated at long tables according to the ten district associations. I was with the York- shire set. There were five courses. Be- tween the flabby crab pate and the metallic lemon sorbet we were, unaccountably, urged to sing Daisy Daisy. Over the `tournedos Isle of Arran' I brought up the subject of decaying bodies. No one flin- ched.

Opposite me sat Amada Bint. At 26 she is new to the trade, in it with her husband. She wore large white and red spectacles and looked more like a beautician. Tuck- ing into the beef she told me, 'We've still got Helen Smith deep frozen in Leeds. That's since 1977. I think her dad wants to keep the issue alive.'