THE BODY SNATCHER
I now devoted myself wholeheartedly to my commercial flying ambitions. To stay on side with the authorities I took several jobs in protected industries. For the briefest moment I became a wharfie on the Sydney docks. I recall off-loading bags of CSR sugar from panniers. There were six bags to a pannier and I was part of a gang of four. The two older hands lingered back until the two younger hands lifted the first two bags. Then huffing and puffing, doubtless to gain sympathy because of their age, they lifted the next two, which meant we two youths lumbered two bags to the fossils one.
It took me about 20 minutes to figure out their strategy, and at the next pannier I manoeuvred into the last position. An old character with a chewed off ear lobe and a nose that had collided with a wall appeared to enjoy fighting more than fornication, and to prove his preference, shouted what’s the idea? I pointed out that my wages and his were on a par and it seemed fair I should work no harder than he.
A fellow pupil befriended me. He was the son and heir of the vast Wood Coffill Funeral establishment. Soon I was driving a mourning car and occasionally picking up a body. My mother began calling me The Ghoul, yet, in her maternal moments she softened it to the more respectable - The Body Snatcher.
One Thursday I reported for mourning car duty and was told to see the manager – my flying mate. He needed someone with knowledge of ships and because of my Merchant Navy experience asked if I would help the assistant to the assistant mortician. Seeing my hesitation he hastened to assure me the rate paid was triple that of driving a mourning car, and with a grin he added that this should get me three or four hours solo flying. Immediately we were bosom pals again. I turned as the door opened and saw the dead ringer of Dr. Frankenstein’s senior grave robber dragging his twisted frame across the floor. Without thinking I addressed him as Igor. I humbly apologised when my friend presented me to Hilton.
We followed a sailor to the captain’s day cabin. As the assistant to the assistant of the assistant Mortician I had the privilege of carrying a collapsible stretcher and a canvas sheet with draw tapes and lifting loops. There lay the object of our visit, 250 pounds of deceased master mariner. On the instructions of Hilton I pushed the canvas sheet under the cadaver and knotted the drag cords. Hilton nodded sagely at my knot tying ability and we lifted our charge onto the stretcher to begin the long trek to our van. We negotiated companionway after companionway without difficulty, but finally we reached a turn that stymied our efforts to negotiate. I suggested we should bend him a bit, rationalising that in his condition he would not mind. My mentor of the moment scoffed at the plan. Did I know nothing about rigor mortis? With downcast eyes I admitted my ignorance. Thereupon he gave me a crash course and within seconds I was an expert on the subject, yet even this newly acquired wisdom wasn’t getting us around that corner. The assistant to the assistant Mortician suddenly recalled a similar situation and explained what he did. We stood the Captain on his feet, and each supporting an arm, we vibrated him around the corner. I told my mentor to steady him while I got the stretcher and suddenly there was a crash followed by breathless squeals. Then somebody released a roar of tortured flatulence. I knew it wasn’t me, for one automatically knows when one has so transgressed, and hoped it was my mentor. I bounded around the corner to find the captain and my mentor gazing into each other’s eyes. The little one underneath must be my mentor for his eyes seemed to reflect a smidgen of life. I gave the captain a hefty push to the side. A piece of apple fell out of his mouth. The assistant to the assistant Mortican studied the object and gravely said, The old bastard choked to death. That bloody fruit still gets men into trouble.
As we placed his body on the slab in the city morgue I was assailed by a ghastly smell. I glanced around and saw the morgue assistants undressing a body just recovered from the harbour. Most of the face was eaten away by the vultures of the sea, and as they undressed the corpse countless prawns were feeding on its flesh. The sight brought the realisation of how little dignity surrounds one whom has died a violent death. As a post-script, I never ate another prawn, and Hilton and I never again enjoyed the privilege of working together. He was a likeable man whose choice of livelihood was a little morbid for my taste.
It took me about 20 minutes to figure out their strategy, and at the next pannier I manoeuvred into the last position. An old character with a chewed off ear lobe and a nose that had collided with a wall appeared to enjoy fighting more than fornication, and to prove his preference, shouted what’s the idea? I pointed out that my wages and his were on a par and it seemed fair I should work no harder than he.
A fellow pupil befriended me. He was the son and heir of the vast Wood Coffill Funeral establishment. Soon I was driving a mourning car and occasionally picking up a body. My mother began calling me The Ghoul, yet, in her maternal moments she softened it to the more respectable - The Body Snatcher.
One Thursday I reported for mourning car duty and was told to see the manager – my flying mate. He needed someone with knowledge of ships and because of my Merchant Navy experience asked if I would help the assistant to the assistant mortician. Seeing my hesitation he hastened to assure me the rate paid was triple that of driving a mourning car, and with a grin he added that this should get me three or four hours solo flying. Immediately we were bosom pals again. I turned as the door opened and saw the dead ringer of Dr. Frankenstein’s senior grave robber dragging his twisted frame across the floor. Without thinking I addressed him as Igor. I humbly apologised when my friend presented me to Hilton.
We followed a sailor to the captain’s day cabin. As the assistant to the assistant of the assistant Mortician I had the privilege of carrying a collapsible stretcher and a canvas sheet with draw tapes and lifting loops. There lay the object of our visit, 250 pounds of deceased master mariner. On the instructions of Hilton I pushed the canvas sheet under the cadaver and knotted the drag cords. Hilton nodded sagely at my knot tying ability and we lifted our charge onto the stretcher to begin the long trek to our van. We negotiated companionway after companionway without difficulty, but finally we reached a turn that stymied our efforts to negotiate. I suggested we should bend him a bit, rationalising that in his condition he would not mind. My mentor of the moment scoffed at the plan. Did I know nothing about rigor mortis? With downcast eyes I admitted my ignorance. Thereupon he gave me a crash course and within seconds I was an expert on the subject, yet even this newly acquired wisdom wasn’t getting us around that corner. The assistant to the assistant Mortician suddenly recalled a similar situation and explained what he did. We stood the Captain on his feet, and each supporting an arm, we vibrated him around the corner. I told my mentor to steady him while I got the stretcher and suddenly there was a crash followed by breathless squeals. Then somebody released a roar of tortured flatulence. I knew it wasn’t me, for one automatically knows when one has so transgressed, and hoped it was my mentor. I bounded around the corner to find the captain and my mentor gazing into each other’s eyes. The little one underneath must be my mentor for his eyes seemed to reflect a smidgen of life. I gave the captain a hefty push to the side. A piece of apple fell out of his mouth. The assistant to the assistant Mortican studied the object and gravely said, The old bastard choked to death. That bloody fruit still gets men into trouble.
As we placed his body on the slab in the city morgue I was assailed by a ghastly smell. I glanced around and saw the morgue assistants undressing a body just recovered from the harbour. Most of the face was eaten away by the vultures of the sea, and as they undressed the corpse countless prawns were feeding on its flesh. The sight brought the realisation of how little dignity surrounds one whom has died a violent death. As a post-script, I never ate another prawn, and Hilton and I never again enjoyed the privilege of working together. He was a likeable man whose choice of livelihood was a little morbid for my taste.
