Conversations in a graveyard can have a strange edge to them? I suppose being surrounded by the reality of mortality brings one to the edge of things.

I was in the local burial ground on Sunday for the November prayers and, walking around between the graves, I was startled when I came to the family plot and saw my own name on the headstone – but of course it was my father’s name. I got to thinking that within a few decades my name will be on that stone too.

I met Tinky Ryan, the local undertaker, and he also was doing his rounds.

“Are you calculatin’ how much you made out of all this crowd?” I asked.

“No I’m not,” he said, “I was just thinking that my time to join them isn’t as far away as I’d like it to be.”

“Me too,” says I.

“You’re a lot younger than I am.”

“You never know the day nor the hour.”

“Well I’m preparin’ for the inevitable,” says he

“How?” I asked, “Are you plannin’ to give all your money to charity and buy your way through the pearly gates.”

“I’m givin’ nothin’ away but I’m takin’ on an apprentice,” says he.

“Who?” I asked

“Breda Quinn,” says he.

“Superquinn, sure she’s as auld as myself. Her days of apprenticeship are long behind her.”

“She might be as auld as you but she’s livelier, with a good business head on her shoulders. She’ll take over the whole lot eventually. I suppose she’s a kind of a partner apprentice.”

“And what about the auctioneering?”

“Oh, she’s joining me in that as well, she’s doing a few courses to get her licence.”

“By God,” says I, “that has a ring to it, Breda Quinn – undertaker and auctioneer.”

“It has,” says Tinky, “and maybe she’ll go the whole hog and become Breda Quinn – undertaker, auctioneer and county councillor.”

“Hang on a minute,” says I, “that’s taking things a bit too far.”

“Well, like myself, you have no one to take over from you,”

“I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet, I have one more election in me and then I don’t care if Kim Jong-un takes the seat.”

“And wouldn’t a seat on Tipperary County Council be a grand job for him if he’s ever fired out of North Korea. If your position at the recycling depot was part of the package he might manage to build a few rockets from the yokes people bring in to ye. With a couple of lawnmowers, a gas cooker and a length of pipin’, he’d be in business.”

“Well, haven’t you the great imagination.”

“Thinkin’ outside the box – that’s what it’s called, Maurice,” says he.

“After a lifetime of putting people into a box, thinkin’ outside the box makes a change.”

Who came strolling among the graves but Superquinn herself.

“Congratulations, Breda. I hear you’re starting a whole new career.”

“Oh, indeed, Maurice. I’ll have the measurin’ tape at the ready at all times,” says she, “if you’re lookin for a decent burial, I’m your woman. I can put on the best funeral face in the business.”

“And what a difference the woman’s touch will make to the funeral process,” I said.

“’Twill make no difference at all, ” says Tinky, “it’s a simple business – three pulls of the bell, two taps of the back of the shovel and ’tis all over. That’s it, no matter how elaborate you try to make it.”

“Don’t worry, Maurice,” says Superquinn, “I’ll put you down gently.”

“And who says I’ll be gone before you?”

“Well,” says she, “on average, women outlive men by five to 10 years.”

“And if a fella was to get a sex change, would it lengthen his odds?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t that be a bit drastic,” says Tinky, “I’d be inclined to hold on to the bits God gave and take me chances.”

At that point, Fr Barney joined us, all decked out in his woolly jumper, his baggy pants and his trademark sandals with no socks.

“Discussing the great mysteries of life and death, I presume,” says he.

“And the odd sex change,” says Superquinn.

“An eclectic conversation, then,” says he.

“Not one for your delicate ears, Father,” says Tinky.

“Oh but aren’t sex and death two sides of the one coin, “says the priest, “beginning and end, procreation and termination.”

“Well, none of the four of us has much to show in the procreation department,” says Superquinn.

I didn’t know where to look; this conversation was about to go off the edge.

“Do you wear the sandals all year round, Father?” I asked.

“I do,” says he, “my daughters give out yards about it.”

The mysteries of life and death paled into insignificance after that. Father bid us good evening and left us wide-eyed, slack-jawed and bursting to know more. CL