Like most students, I had a variety of jobs during those long summer vacations from college, but by far the most unusual job was my stint in a coffin factory in a small village by the banks of the river Barrow.
My brother-in-law was a coffin- maker, and he offered me some work in his coffin factory during those long summer breaks, even though I couldn’t drive a nail.
The mention of a coffin factory may conjure up ghoulish images, but my memories of working there are of laughter, good times and great friendships.
Being surrounded by coffins every day of the week may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but, when you find yourself drinking cups of tea off an upturned coffin lid, which served as our table, and sharing in the lively banter of elevenses, your thoughts are far from mortality, death or dying.
I had to sand the coffins, to make them smooth and splinter-free before they were varnished or waxed. Simple though it was, I didn’t find it easy. Firstly, all protruding nails had be punched in and puttied over. Then, with a wad of green, coarse sandpaper, I’d attack every inch of the coffin.
A plain pine coffin was a doddle, but more often than not the coffin would have ornate panels that required intricate fingerwork with a chunk of sandpaper. I loved working with obeche, a soft, yielding timber, but an oak coffin was a nightmare: solid and stubborn. My hand was often red and raw from the constant sanding.
Occasionally when the boss, my brother-in-law, was away, we would play a game of 25s, sitting around an empty coffin oblivious to the fact that our “card table” would soon be host to a corpse. In the pub after work, I played darts with my fellow coffin-makers, talked sport, told jokes and made friends for life with my workmates in death. Sometimes, at funerals , in the midst of all the mourning, my mind drifts back to the laughter and camaraderie in that small coffin factory.
