Sophie has learnt two trades, had two daughters and owned one business.

In 2004 she found herself in the rather unique position of being one of the first people in the U.K to make eco-friendly coffins.

She has a story to tell about what really happens behind-the scenes in the U.K’s funeral industry.  Having spent five years with cardboard manufacturers, farmers, printers, grave diggers and funeral directors; peering inside cremators and digging ’test holes’ in gardens, eventually designing a new type of coffin that might just catapult (or drag) the U.K funeral industry out of the 1800’s Victoriana and into the 21st Century.

Her love of writing started early, writing diaries, then journals, creative short stories and comedy sketches. She’s always been a fan of the handwritten letter, is convinced that’s how she came to marry her husband. She writes blogs whilst travelling, which she shares with friends. She juggled her first trade of fundraising for Cambridge University and signed up for a creative writing evening class whilst her children were still small. This then turned into a creative writing day class, which she attended for two years. Sophie applied to do the Goldsmiths MA, to coincide with her youngest daughter going to University, in order to learn her craft and finish her first book.  Whilst having the time and focus to do it.

She has also started to collect stories for her next project, this time about Love.  As surely that’s the greatest antedote to Death?

Contact Sophie: soliv004@gold.ac.uk

 

Chapter 6 -SAIF

 

The time came to reveal our eco coffin to the funeral directing world. 

We were invited to a SAIF (National Society of Allied Independent Funeral Directors) regional meeting, where they had speakers talking about trends in crematoria regulations, and new policies affecting the independent funeral business.

Ben took the day off work and came with me. We set off to Leamington Spa with two of our coffins in a hire van. On arrival, we drew up at the venue’s forecourt, beside two impossibly polished black hearses. It was at this point that I wished we did not have ‘Thrifty Van Hire’ in blue letters stuck down the sides of ours.  It seemed that I was not the only one to think this, as a man marched quickly over to us and suggested that we park round the back of the hotel in order to bring our ‘merchandise’ through a more ‘discreet’ door.  

To conceal the coffins, we’d brought two blankets with us, but these kept sliding off as we shuffled them through the hotel doors.  In the end, we left the coffins exposed reasoning that SAIF delegates would be far more used to seeing coffins being lugged around the place than we were.  A smart, navy-suited lady met us with a welcoming smile, and pointed to a large conference room, saying “Set yourselves up in there.”

 

We entered an extremely blue room.  Royal Blue, is the signature SAIF colour, and the carpet, posters, table covers, chairs and name badges were all in that hue. A beaming, blue-suited man called Eric, shook our hands and then showed us to our allocated exhibiting space. 

 “Have you been given a copy of the SAIF news?” he asked.  I shook my head and he immediately beckoned two young ladies over to us, both wearing Royal Blue sateen sashes.

“This is Cheryl-Anne and Naomi from the Bereavement Register.” 

I shook hands, wondering if Cheryl-Anne’s vivid turquoise eyes were real. 

“We are up the other end of the hall, come say hello later and in the meantime here’s a copy of SAIF’s latest trade magazine,” Cheryl-Anne said.  

Her colleague Naomi was identical, except that she had slightly shorter black hair, and startling make-up.  After handing me the magazine, they both turned like synchronised swimmers and glided away on very high thin patent black heels to the next exhibitor.

 

“Woo!,” said Ben looking after them.

“Yes,” I breathed out, “I am definitely under-dressed.” 

I glanced down at the magazine, then held it up for Ben to read.

“This is SUCH a great industry,” he grinned.

The SAIF news is called ‘Still Life’.

We were interrupted by Eric clapping and calling everyone to attention:

“Right then everyone, we have two hours until the first batch of talks are over, and the funeral directors come down for their coffee break.  If you can have your stands ready in forty-five minutes to an hour, I would be most grateful.”

Our stand consisted of two eco coffins, one colourful with poppies printed round the base and a sky printed lid, the other plain woodgrain. Ben pulled great swathes of black silk off a roll we’d brought with us to lay the coffins on to make them look sumptuous.  I looked at the poppy coffin and decided we needed some red flowers to go on the top. 

“I’m going to go and ask directions to the nearest florist,” I said to Ben as he billowed the silk across the floor.

Forty minutes later, I re-entered the conference room with a large diamond shape spray of red carnations.  I’ve always disliked carnations, but the price leapt another sixty pounds if you wanted other types of flower.  They did not look much off the coffin, but once on top they pulled the whole display together, the red making the poppies along the base of the coffin shine.

“Ready?” asked Ben.

“Ready,” I replied nervously.

Eric clapped again, asking everyone to quieten down and then opened the conference room doors.  Everyone was silent. We waited for the rush of attendees. 

Nothing happened.  

“It’s like waiting for the Queen!” whispered Ben.

Finally, two or three men in black suits wandered in with coffee cups and headed straight for the Bereavement Register stand.  They clearly knew each other and started talking and laughing. We waited some more, and then another man entered and walked down the room picking up a leaflet from a funeral stationery stand opposite us.  He then peered over to our side of the room and pointed at our eco coffin, calling across to us:

“Those…environmental are they?”

“Yes, that’s right,” nodded Ben.

“Don’t think they’ll ever catch on,” said the funeral director still keeping his distance.

“Really?’ said Ben, “you don’t think so? Why not?”

“If you’re still here in three years’ time, then we’ll talk,” said the man.  “I’ve seen a lot come and go in this industry, but one thing that remains the same is tradition.”

“Would you like a brochure to take away with you?” I called out in a squeaky voice.

“No love.  You’ve got your work cut out for you I reckon.” 

 

Coffee break over, Eric came over to us rubbing his hands together.   

“Feel free to come and listen upstairs if you’d like to? That’s it now until the lunchtime rush.”

I blinked and tried not to look disheartened, keeping my face neutral.

“Come on Sophie,” Ben said as he picked up a pile of our brochures.  “Lead the way Eric!”

We entered at the back of a room filled with seats, where approximately thirty middle-aged men in dark suits, faced a white screen.  So much for ‘a packed conference.’ The speaker was introduced, and the subject was about obesity and what that meant for funeral directors.

With the UK population growing width-ways, the speaker assured his listeners new procedures were being put in place to protect staff from injury whilst moving the deceased.  He flicked up slides of mini-cranes with large material loops to aid funeral directors in lifting. He reminded those present of the importance of Health & Safety training for their staff. 

“Never forget good posture in these cases, otherwise you’ll have staff members off with bad backs for weeks.  Also, be aware that standard coffin sizes will not suffice in these cases, so funeral directors you need to factor in the cost implications of ordering a customised coffin.” 

His talk ended with the stark fact that:

 “Many crematoria cannot accept these wider coffins, as the opening in to the cremator is designed for standard coffin sizes only. So, you will need to ring round to find those that will.”

I turned to my neighbour and asked, 

“If you can’t find anywhere close, do you have to offer burial as the only option?”.

He leaned towards me and whispered that he’d heard of a recent cremation where:

“The coffin was the size of a wardrobe. Weighed a ton. Had to take it all the way to Birmingham, as that crem’s got the new larger specifications, so they could fit it in.”

I nodded.  My mind filled with visions of extra-wide hearses, on large-lane motor-ways, arriving at a double-doored crematorium.

 

Soon we were back in the exhibition room awaiting the next stampede.  This consisted of four funeral directors who sauntered in, had a chat with the girls on the Bereavement Register stand and then went off in search of lunch.  Well if you can’t beat them, join them, I thought. I picked up some of our brochures and walked up to Naomi and Cheryl-Anne.

“How’s it going?” asked Cheryl-Anne.

“Oh, a bit quiet really,” I said feeling a bit embarrassed. 

“Yeah, Regional meetings can be slow,” said Naomi flicking her smooth black hair over her shoulder. 

“Not like National shows, they’re packed!” said Naomi. 

“Oh, really? That’s good to know, for next time,” I said wondering if we would get that far.  “I’m new to this industry, so I don’t actually know what The Bereavement Register is?”.

“Have a leaflet,” said Naomi passing me one from the stack she was holding. “It’s to stop unwanted direct mail being sent to people who have passed away.” 

“Very upsetting for those left behind.” said Cheryl-Anne. 

“Ah, yes,” I nodded thinking this through.

“Yeah, we act as a national database for those who have deceased.  Companies are obliged by law to take their names of their marketing lists.” said Naomi.

I looked down at their leaflet and read:

‘On average, a deceased person will continue to receive 110 items of direct mail during the first twelve months following their death.  With upwards of 580,000 people dying annually in the UK (based on current ONS figures) this amounts to a massive 64 million pieces of unnecessary direct mail every year.’ 

What a waste of paper alone. I thought.

“So how do people sign up for your service?” I asked.

“It’s easy online and it’s free.”

“Free?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Yeah, unusual in this industry!” quipped Cheryl-Anne.

‘ 

 

 Back upstairs filling the ‘Graveyard slot’ after a long lunch, was a tall policeman who woke us up by showing a crime scene photograph on the screen ahead of us.  I peered at it through half closed eyes, trying to avoid seeing anything grim. As far as I could make out, it looked like a pile of burnt newspapers.  

“We came across this potential murder scene in a commercial building site,’ said the policeman. ‘All that was left to see were burnt bits of paper and a pair of feet.  What do you think happened?”

Ben and I looked at each other, trying not to gape.

“He couldn’t run fast enough,” someone shouted out.

  “No,” he said, “it turned out from identifying dental records it was a local Chinese gang member who had killed himself by setting himself and his money alight.”  

This was met with jovial murmuring, as people shook their heads in disbelief.

“Now that you are all fully awake, this leads me on to talk about suicides, which are increasingly left for you, the funeral directors, to deal with, rather than the police; especially hangings…”

Oh no. I thought.  I wonder what ‘deal with’ means?  The policeman did not expand. The session ended with funding cuts to The Force and what that meant in terms of new responsibilities laid at the funeral director’s door.  

 

The final speaker was a Canadian man who specialised in Bereavement Counselling.  He had written books on the subject and was offering funeral directors and their clients the chance to ‘go online and get in touch with your feelings’.  His slide presentation showed Vaseline-lensed images of roses and doves with words like ‘peace’ and ‘tranquility’ gently coming into focus in italics over the pictures.  Everyone fell back into an after-lunch stupor, but I was struck by the expression of my neighbour’s frown, who genuinely looked sad. What was it like dealing with all those grieving families every day? It must take its emotional toll? Or perhaps funeral directors were like doctors and used professionalism and black humour to get them through?

 

*

 

Funeral Four – Carol

 

“Good morning, Eco Coffins, Sophie speaking.”

“Hello.  My name is Carol and I understand you sell environmental coffins.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

“I’ve seen them on your website, but I wondered if I could come and see one,” she said quickly, “as it’s going to be for me, possibly quite soon.”

“Of course you can,” I said, my heartbeat quickening. “I need to tell you that I am not a funeral director though.  My office is in a barn. We can have a cup of tea and then if you feel ready, I’ll show you a couple of them.” 

“Sounds ideal,” she said.  “I can’t think of a nicer way to see a coffin!”

I replaced the phone.  I felt unprepared, untrained.  Perhaps I should go on a bereavement counselling course.  I rang my husband Ben.  

“This was bound to happen at some point,” he replied.  “If the funeral directors won’t sell environmental coffins, then people will go online and find people like us who do.”

“Yes, but what will I say?  I’m panicking.”

“What are you panicking about?”

I thought for a minute.  “I’m worried I’ll cry.”

“Don’t be daft.  Just have a chat.  Be yourself. She sounds extraordinary.”

A slight lady in her late fifties arrived two hours later.  She wore light-blue jeans that matched her eyes and a soft cream cardigan with pearl buttons. She did not look ill.  Only the careful way she moved, betrayed that she might be in pain. Her body might be slow, but her bright blue eyes darted around the room. She was a little nervous, as was I.

“Tea?” I asked her.

“Yes please, just as it comes, no milk, no sugar.”

“Please have a seat whilst I make us drinks,” I waved my hand towards the sofa.

She took the upright wicker chair opposite the sofa, lowering herself into it, whilst adjusting a thin rust coloured cushion to her back. 

“So how on earth did you get into making environmental coffins?” she asked.

I told her my rather circuitous route and we both laughed at how life sometimes brings you to unexpected destinations.

“Need another cushion?” I asked whilst carrying over the tea and a plate of chocolate digestives.

“No, I’m good thank you, ahhhhh tea.”

Whilst we sipped our drinks, Carol told me about her European travels and her job as a translator.  

“I really have been lucky seeing so much of the world,” she sighed. 

Then she took a deep breath, leant forward and put her mug down decisively on the table with a thonk, “Right then, I’d better have a look at one.”

“Colourful or plain?”

“Plain, I think.  Do you have white?”

“Yes, I do.  I’ll just fetch one,” I said, walking over to the partitioned part of the barn. 

One of the joys of an eco-coffin, was its weight.  I could turn up at a funeral parlour and deliver it under one arm! I carried it carefully over to Carol, so as not to bump into anything, due to its length.  

“I’ll lay it down here and if you want to look inside, I can take the lid off.”

“Yes,” she said, “I do want to see inside.  Gosh, it’s really quite narrow, isn’t it?” She stood staring down into it and then said, “Would you mind if I get into it to see how it feels?”

I looked at her.  “Yes, go ahead.” A number of thoughts ran through my head.  What if she freaks out? What if I freak out because she’s freaking out?

Carol slid off her shoes, gave me her small hand and climbed into the coffin. She sat there with her knees up for a second, then held onto each side and gently lay down. She smiled up at me.  “Well, go on then, put the lid on.”

I was concerned.  “Are you sure? It’ll be very dark in there.”

“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you.  Now, go on, I need to do it.”

“Right,” I said, holding my breath.  “I’m going to balance the lid on and if at any time you want to push it off, then do,” I gabbled.  “You will be able to breathe, and I am right here beside you, let me know when you want me to lift it off as I can hear you.”

I put the lid on.  She will be fine. I will be fine.  Let her do this.

After about fifteen seconds, Carol knocked.  I started lifting the lid back off and Carol sat up, saying, “Well, that’s much better than I thought.  Now I can go back and tell my teenage sons not to worry as I’ve been in my coffin and it was not at all frightening.”

I helped her out of the coffin and into her shoes.

 

*