Will pulled down his mask and blew dust from the V-shaped channel he’d been working on. Chisel in hand and eyes watering behind his safety goggles, he stepped back, contemplating the granite block before him: ‘12.4.1927 – 13.5.2022’. Something about the inscription didn’t sit right. Admittedly, Will had slept badly, again, the pain in his knee dragging on like the cricket season, but still.
Turning to his Dad, he exhaled hard. The older man, only metres away in the workshop, stood stooped over a piece of black marble. Seemingly oblivious to Will’s uneasiness, he continued adjusting a paper stencil on the stone’s surface. Typical. Never a clue what was going on in his son’s head.
“This totally sucks,” said Will, ripping off his goggles and slamming them down on the bench. His Dad straightened, hands pressed into his lower back. “What are you carrying on about now? And pull your jeans up, will you? No-one here cares what brand your undies are.”
“No-one here should be wasting time being so petty,” retorted Will, “and what I meant, is it’s not fair that such a pathetic little line between two dates is all there is to represent a really incredible life. After 95 years, doesn’t the guy deserve more than that?” He blinked. “Couldn’t we at least make the en-dash a bit longer?”
Will hitched his jeans over his hips, felt them drop again as his Dad replied. “Well I’m sorry, but that’s not the way it’s done,” he huffed. “En-dashes are a standard length. Everyone gets the same. Now, mask and goggles on and get back to work. Last thing we need right now is you getting sick.”
“But Dad, all anyone will ever see when they visit his grave is this dumb old headstone. How will they ever know about all the great things he achieved?”
“That may be true,” said Dad. “But you need to respect tradition. We can’t just go round making radical changes whenever it suits us.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it radical,” muttered Will, rolling his eyes. “Plus, we need to keep up with the times. We should be looking for ways to make our headstones more than just symbols of death, before someone beats us to it. What do you think, Grandad?”
Grandad George sat, propped by pillows, in a worn recliner beneath the window at the back of the workshop. Parkinson’s disease had robbed him of his days ‘on the tools’ and, after a stroke the previous year, he’d lost the power of speech as well.
But Rose had insisted he remain involved in the business and so, every morning, his son Keith and grandson Will picked him up from home and brought him in to work for the day, under the pretext of keeping an eye on things. It broke George’s heart to see the two grown men squabbling like a pair of seagulls, day after day. Keith needed to back off a bit. The boy was obviously not ready to be working there full-time, not yet; he was still too angry and upset about his knee.
But, what could George do? Starved of his former self and stuck beneath the halo of dust motes, he immersed himself in the daily races, trying not to think. His own father, George senior, would be turning in his grave. On hearing the tone of Will’s question however, George’s attention was lured from the respite of his Form Guide. The afternoon light had captured a flick of defiance in the boy’s curls. Grandad George inhaled deeply in recognition; he’d once sported similar undisciplined waves, though Will’s were additionally flared with the strawberry-blonde of his mother. Josie. Ah, Josie. Not surprisingly, things hadn’t worked out between her and Keith, but together they’d produced a fine young lad in Will.
Despite the handicap of his teenage years, Will showed potential, and he had a far better grasp of technology than Keith.
The boy, it seemed, held the key to the future of the business and George’s dream of seeing Blackburn Stonemasons into a fourth generation, before his sand ran out. Will just needed an innovative idea, and to learn how to tackle his father.
Grandad George nodded and then attempted a wink at his grandson. Will smiled and retrieved George’s leather-cased radio from a nearby shelf. Without being asked, the boy tuned it beyond the crackle to the races channel. Rose had put George’s bets on for him. She was a good wife, even if she didn’t want him at home. Must have been hard on her, too, he supposed, watching him wither away like a dying weed. Rose was hosting her book group that day. The ladies had been reading Claire Keegan’s So Late in the Day. Rose had told him, with a wry grin, that it was about the downfall of a man who’d failed to change his ways.
Will’s knee injury had come as a shock to Keith, to them all. For the previous three years the kid’s hopes had been set on ‘getting drafted’ into the AFL when he finished Year 12. He’d had every chance, too. Blessed with Keith’s reliability, and Josie’s speed and creative streak, Will’s field play was entertaining to watch. He’d been a standout all through juniors, signed up with an agent and captained the school team.
But then last year, in the grand final of the school competition, he’d received that knock; contact from another player’s knee and his leg had buckled sideways. No-one’s fault.
They’d hoped it was little more than a dislocation, but the MRI had showed a ruptured ACL, strained medial ligament and torn meniscus. Poor kid’s aspirations had been dashed, crushed into more pieces than the knee itself. Six-foot-four worth of muscle and structural magnificence, reduced essentially to ashes. Fourteen months of rehab before he could even consider playing again. There’d been no ‘Plan B’ and the discomfort of grief had left Will and Keith stretched, like fabric between spiky tenterhooks.
But six months after the surgery, with Keith working frantically to catch up on the backlog (after two years of COVID-19, his father’s stroke and then Will’s operation), his son was still lying around at home, playing computer games all day. Walking in the door late one evening to find their last packet of potato chips gone and the carpet, once again, covered in crumbs, Keith had snapped.
When his Dad had cracked it over a few chips on the floor and demanded that he start working at Blackburn’s the next day, Will had been totally pissed. He’d had a full knee reconstruction, for crying out loud. But when the expectation of him having to pay board had been put forward as well, and he’d checked his savings, he’d realised he had no choice. And what other job could he do? He wasn’t cut out for hospitality work, or some nerdy university course.
The only subject he’d actually liked at school, besides PE, had been English, and who made money out of writing? Okay, J. K. Rowling, and probably that ‘Treehouse’ guy, but Will didn’t see it as a career.
At least his Dad paid well and the physicality of the labour would keep him strong, just until he got back to training, of course. Plus, he’d learned most of the craft already, during stints over the school holidays.
Okay, so he didn’t always put his tools back in the right place, but Will knew his way round the different types of stone. And he was more than competent with a chisel and mallet, despite his Dad’s constant blustering. (Seriously, how many times did he have to hear that he was being too heavy-handed, and to work with the stone, not fight against it? The words were almost etched into his brain.)
And, to be honest, he had been wondering if he’d ever play footy at the highest level. Fears of another injury had taken to his confidence like a flesh-eating spider, and the doubt was messing with his head. If you wanted to succeed, you had to go in hard, didn’t you?
Will’s Dad hadn’t seemed to appreciate how serious his son had been with the remarks about the en-dash. Now, as Will chipped out the letters on his great-grandad George’s headstone, the triviality of the work they were doing was becoming increasingly bothering. His great-grandad – a canny Scotsman who’d lived through World War II, survived immigration to Australia, founded the family business and outlasted three wives, before succumbing to chronic lung disease six months before – was facing the ultimate indignity of having his life immortalised by an insufficient selection of characters and numbers.
And the stone Will was to be working on next only added to his angst; a 16-year-old girl. Had she been ill? Died in a car accident? Taken her own life? Not the deepest grooves or finest gold paint could add real dimension to the name ‘Charlotte Martinez’. Blackburn’s solid but restrictive slabs were failing to do anyone justice.
Then a week later, as Will brushed sealant onto the surface of his great-grandad’s headstone and observed the natural colour and texture of the granite emerging through the stone, it came to him. Again, he turned to his grandad.
“Grandad George? What do you reckon about replacing the en-dash on some of these finished stones with a QR code? Wouldn’t need to be that big, and we could link it to a picture of the person and an obituary. Then anyone who visits the grave in the cemetery could find out about who the person was.
“Our stones would be more like gateways to a celebration of life …”
“Will!” his Dad interrupted, “Show some respect. Death is a very distressing and awkward time for families. Surely you’ve seen how consumed by grief relatives are when they come in to see us.
“The last thing they need is a huge palaver over the grave; they just want the formalities over with and a classy headstone to mark where their loved one is buried … don’t they?”
Will tensed at the hint of uncertainty in his Dad’s last comment; a steely look from Grandad George confirming now was the time. “Work with the stone Will, work with the stone,” he disciplined himself.
“Dad, the QR code and bio wouldn’t have to be done upfront. We could include information about how it works, on our website, and then do a follow-up with families later. If they decide to go ahead, it would be easy to add a small enamelled disc with the code on it.”
Grandad George coughed.
Will and his Dad turned simultaneously to see the old man nodding, his mouth contorted into a lopsided smile. Will grabbed the moment and ran with it.
“We could give it a try on great-grandad’s stone? See how that goes over. We’ve got plenty of photos to choose from and I’ve kept a copy of what I said at his funeral.”
His Dad, though still frowning, had lifted his chin.
Will continued, “And then maybe, when things settle down a bit round here, I could go and do a professional writing course. Once my skills improve, we could offer the new ‘Necrologue Service’ to customers.”
“Hmm. Well I still don’t think we should be replacing the en-dash, but I guess we could attach something lower down on the headstone, or on the grave surround.”
Will smiled. “Sure. And since you seem to be up for radical changes today, Dad, while I’m off doing the course, maybe you could look into getting a sandblaster instead of having to hand-engrave all these stones. Save us heaps of time, and money.”
Grandad George lifted a contracted fist, and pumped the air. His horse had won.
Author: Daphne Briggs
Daphne Briggs is a former midwife and flight attendant, with a passion for writing. Based in Melbourne/Naarm, she is a member of the Bayside Women Writers group and enjoys creating short stories, flash and micro-fiction. Daphne’s writing credits include shortlistings in the Australian Writers Centre’s ‘Furious Fiction’ competition, and the 2024 Queenscliffe Literary Festival’s ‘Penned Micro-fiction Competition’. She is currently working on her first novel (a historical fiction about two young women whose lives become linked by a pendant).
