Free Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

then, but my mother, she wore her fingers to the bone making wreaths. And they were wreaths in them days. Hearts and flowers, coronets, family crests, look I still have them in my catalogue.’ She picked it up and showed us the faded pages. ‘But nobody wants ‘em.’
    She took another biscuit.
    ‘Crosses,’ she said bitterly, ‘that’s all I do, crosses. A woman with my training it’s not right.’
    ‘Couldn’t you do weddings as well?’ I asked her.
    ‘Weddings,’ she spat, ‘what would I want with weddings?’
    ‘You’d get a bit of variety,’ I suggested.
    ‘And what do you think they want at weddings?’ she challenged me.
    I didn’t know, I’d never been. Her eyes gleamed down at me.
    ‘Crosses,’ she said, refilling her mug.
    The weekend we all trouped down to Morecambe for the Society spree, the woman was there as well.
    ‘On contract work,’ she told us.
    Apparently there had been an epidemic at a nearby boarding school. A lot of the pupils were no more, and naturally their parents wanted wreaths.
    ‘The school wants two tennis racquets in their colours, as a tribute. I’m using mimosa and roses, it’s very difficult, but it’s a challenge.’
    ‘Well, the money won’t go amiss, will it?’ said my mother.
    ‘It’ll pay for my bathroom that’s what. A woman of my training without a bathroom, it’s shocking.’
    I asked if I could help, and she said I could, so we went down to the greenhouse together.
    ‘Put these on.’ She gave me a pair of gloves with no fingers. ‘And start sorting them roses.’
    Her own hands were red, and speckled with mimosa dust.
    ‘What d’y think your mother would like?’ she asked me, by way of conversation.
    ‘Oh something very grand I think. I think she’d like the Bible open at Revelation.’
    ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said the woman.
    The woman and I got on very well. Years later, when I was needing a Saturday job, she helped me out. She had gone into partnership with an undertaker, so they could offer the whole package at special rates.
    ‘It’s a cut-throat business,’ she told me.
    They got a lot of work between them, and usually needed an extra hand. I went along to help with the laying out and make up. At first I was very clumsy. I used too much rouge, and smeared it down the cheekbones.
    ‘Show some respect,’ said the woman, ‘the dead have their pride.’ We always had a check list with the burial instructions, and soon this became my particular task. I went round making sure that the dead had everything they wanted. Some just asked for a prayer book or their Bible, or their wedding ring, but some were positively Egyptian. We did photograph albums, best dresses, favourite novels, and once someone’s own novel. It was about a week in a telephone box with a pair of pyjamas called Adolf Hitler. The heroine was a piece of string with a knot in it.
    ‘Some folk,’ said the woman, when she read it.
    But we put it in anyway. It reminded me of Rossetti who flung his new poems into the grave of his wife, and had to ask permission from the home secretary to get them out again six years later. I liked my work. I learned a lot about wood and flowers, and I enjoyed polishing the handles as a final touch.
    ‘Always the best,’ declared the woman.
    One year, the Society had a special conference in our town. My mother campaigned for weeks to make sure we got a good turn-out. May and Alice went posting invitations through letter boxes and Miss Jewsbury was billed to play the oboe. It was an open meeting to inform and encourage new members. The only place we could find to host the meeting was the Rechabite Hall on the corner of Infant Street.
    ‘Do you think that’s all right?’ asked May anxiously.
    ‘We won’t look too deep,’ replied my mother.
    ‘But are they holy?’ insisted Mrs White.
    ‘That’s for the Lord to decide,’ my mother said, very firm.Mrs White blushed, and later we saw she’d taken her name off the volunteer list