A Tip for a Long Life

A Tip for a Long Life


I squirmed in the overstuffed chair cursing my bad luck at
having to cover a hundredth birthday celebration while I waited for the
care assistants to wheel in the old dear. Valley View Rest Home,
Llantrisant, was, just as I expected, decked out with bunting and
floral wallpaper. Sure enough, there was Mrs Jones, a white-haired
women with thick ankles, glasses, hearing aids and a baby pink cardie
over a shapeless crimplene dress. While I prepared to ask her secret
for lasting so long, I was also wondering how quickly I could get
away.

"I'm going to be cremated," were her first words. She was all excited
as if there was something daring about it. "I'm going to be cremated.
Like he was."

Of course I asked who he was.

"William Price."

I'd never heard of him, so I waited.

"There were twenty-one thousand people there."

I started the tape recorder. Maybe this would be something I could
use.

"He had a house-keeper, you see," she began, "and had a baby with
her."

Well, Victorian gents did, didn't they? I thought. Mrs Jones was born
in 1883 and, judging by the far-away look in her eyes, was thinking
back to her childhood.

"He was eighty-four."

"Eighty-four!" I couldn't help gasping.

"There's a statue in the village. Shows him wearing that coat with
those shiny brass buttons and his fox skin on his head. I used to
wonder at those buttons, they were always shiny and I used to think how
he'd find the time to polish them up like that. We children were warned
off talking to him, but parents respected his doctor's skills even if
they didn't find him respectable. He was a Druid, see, believed in free
love."

I nodded, hoping she'd keep talking, "And the baby?"

Mrs Jones giggled, which sparked a coughing fit. I hurriedly put the
recorder on pause. She took a sip of tea. "It was called? oh, you'll
never guess?"

I smiled.

"They called it Jesus Christ!" she stage-whispered, loud enough for
the recorder, but quiet enough not to upset other residents. She still
smiled like a schoolgirl passing on a juicy piece of gossip. "And this
was a good Methodist village, mind."

I began taking notes, just in case the recorder failed.

"Only lived five months though," there was a note of sadness in her
voice. "Oh, but then?" she sighed for so long, I thought she'd stopped
altogether and was about to ring for a care assistant when she started
again. "That Saturday?"

"That Saturday?" I prompted.

She pulled her cardigan across the front of her dress and made an
effort to straighten her back. "I'd managed to slip away, crawled and
squeezed through people's legs to get a better view. He was reciting
something. I couldn't make out the words, but it sounded really sad.
Some people were watching intently: either fascinated or horrified, it
was difficult to tell. The poor housekeeper was in tears. But William
Price stood with his back ram-rod straight and looked proud. I looked
at the crowd again, but couldn't work out what was happening. Then he
lit a fire. I'd worked out that he was holding his son in his arms. He
bent down and whispered something to the dead baby. I couldn't hear,
but could see his lips move. Then lowered the baby into the fire.

"Suddenly one of the men advanced from the crowd, ran to the fire and
snatched the corpse up. Smothered it with a coat to stop the flames.
There were shouts from the crowd and some of the men rushed up to
arrest William Price. The housekeeper collapsed. But I had to get away
before my parents knew I'd been there." She took a tissue out of a
pocket and dabbed at her eyes, although I couldn't see any tears.

"There was a trial. See, the baby's body had to be whole. Though
people don't believe that anymore. But if the baby had been burnt to
ashes, its soul couldn't be saved."

Mrs Jones paused again. Her hand shook as she reached for her cup, but
she drank without spilling any tea. Her eyes had lost their mistiness
as if what she was about to say was at the front of her mind, instead
of tucked away as a distant memory.

"The judgement shocked everyone, including William Price. It said that
nothing was illegal in English law unless specifically stated. There
was no law prohibiting cremation, therefore, cremation was not illegal.
So he was set free and allowed to complete his son's cremation," she
drew a long breath and paused.

I was wondering what had happened to the man who'd dragged the dead
baby from the fire. He'd risked injury, burns and even death - what if
he'd slipped and fallen into the fire himself ? - and it had all been
for nothing.

But Mrs Jones continued before I got chance to ask, "When William
Price died, he insisted, of course, on cremation?" her voice faded and
she leant back in her chair.

"What about the man who tried to rescue the baby?"

Mrs Jones started and frowned. "The man?"

I nodded.

"Became a recluse," she said dismissively. "Let his family and house
decay around him. And him so proud too."

"Must have been traumatic for him."

"Traumatic? No he was a fool," she almost spat that last word. "A
religious fool. He really believed that the baby's body had to be whole
or it wouldn't be resurrected in Heaven. His superstition meant he
spent the rest of his sad life convinced he'd condemned the baby to
hell because he hadn't rescued it."

"Yes, you're right. Thinking about it: it was foolish," I agreed, not
wanting her to clam up on me. Although I was wondering what drove a man
to carry the guilt of a baby's death for the rest of his life, even
though he wasn't responsible for the death.

She nodded. "A fool of the worst kind: so stuck on principle he
wouldn't budge."

"I'm hearing some regret," I said softly.

"You're a sharp one," Mrs Jones looked at me. "Even though I was ten,
I knew the importance of a good marriage. He had a son who was training
to be a doctor?"

"Who was thought handsome?"

"He married some Londoner when he went off to study medicine. Never
came back to Llantrisant. All because of that fool. He lived on into
his eighties, even outlived his son. Although I've outlived both. If
I'd had my wishes, I've have been a widow these past forty-five
years."

I didn't press her any further. "So," I began sensing my time with her
was running out, "what tips do you have for someone wanting to see
their hundredth birthday?" I expected some guff about not going to bed
on an argument or a glass of brandy every evening.

She sighed. "Regret. It makes you old before your time but it also
makes you cling to life. If you want to die young, achieve early and be
happy."