They had built the coffin out of the off cuts of plastic that lay about the factory. So many pieces patched together, like a puzzle, and the seams sliced the body into segments. They could see right through the coffin, although much of the plastic was burned brown, fading into yellow, and it was scratched and scuffed and battered. It was an ugly thing. But then she was ugly too.

The coffin was heavy. Heavier than they had expected. The six of them struggled under it; sweating, straining and swearing. They stumbled over the potholed roads, but they got it to the ARBOUR.

They squeezed it through the warped doorway and into the dim and empty room. The Landlord rushed forwards and helped them carry it over the last few feet. His help was more of a hindrance because of his greater height. They dropped the coffin onto a table top. The table creaked beneath it. And then they collapsed all around it. Short of a chair, The Idiot sat on the ground. He was too tired to steal a chair from a neighbouring table. They sat in silence for a while, all breathing heavily, massaging cramped arms and legs, and contemplating death. Eventually, The Landlord stirred.

‘Pints, lads?’ he asked, stepping behind the bar and pulling jars off one of the shelves.

The six of them nodded in unison. The Landlord pulled seven pints, then an eighth for the corpse, and he lined them all up along the bar. The Idiot looked at his companions. None of them looked about to stir, so he got to his feet with a grunt and went to fetch the drinks. The Landlord helped him ferry them to the table. The men perched each pint on the coffin and stared at them dully for a while. The Landlord dragged a couple of chairs over to the table and The Idiot sat on one gratefully. He picked up his pint and held it aloft.

‘To The Cleaner!’ he called out.

The other men picked up their pints.

‘To The Cleaner,’ they murmured. They sipped at the beer.

‘Say a few words?’ The Idiot asked.

He was aiming the question at The Man of Science but The Realist answered with a grunt.

‘She was useful. I’ll miss her,’ The Realist said.

The others murmured agreement.

‘Landlord?’ The Idiot asked, hoping for something more.

‘Aye, she was a good ‘un,’ The Landlord said, and he took another sip of beer.

‘Anyone else?’ The Idiot asked, a little desperately.

‘Why don’t you say something?’ The Man of Science asked him.

The Idiot smiled and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Well,’ he began. ‘She was really... I mean she was quite... I’ll miss her,’ he ended lamely. He drank to hide his embarrassment.

The light from the door dimmed as a figure crossed the threshold. Everyone looked up, eager to escape the moment. A man came in. Short, like them. Similarly gnarled and twisted.

‘Sorry,’ he said, hesitating.

‘Come in, come in,’ The Landlord urged, rising from his seat and going back to the bar. ‘Pint?’ he asked.

‘Um... water?’ the newcomer said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

The Realist snorted into his beer. The Landlord looked baffled for a moment. He recovered himself and filled a jar with water from the tap. The newcomer walked to the bar and perched on a stool. It was quiet, but for the breathing of the pallbearers and the ticking of the clock. They sat. The Landlord gave the newcomer his jar. They sipped. They swallowed. They sat.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ the newcomer said, finally.

‘Interrupt?’ asked The Dreamer.

‘The funeral. It is a funeral, isn’t it?’ The newcomer said.

‘Oh,’ said The Dreamer, and he looked at the coffin as though he had only just noticed it was there. ‘A wake, perhaps?’ he said, frowning. ‘Why d’you suppose they call it that? A wake?’

Everyone but the newcomer turned to look at The Man of Science. The newcomer caught on and looked to him too. The Man of Science blinked.

‘Forms:  ME wak, woke, Sc. walk, 15 wacke, also pl. (sense 4) waakes, wakesses, waks, ME– wake.

‘Etymology:  In form the word corresponds to Old English *wacu strong feminine, occurring once in nihtwaco night-watch. Compare also the weak feminine forms, Middle Dutch wake (Dutch waak-), Middle Low German wake-, Old High German wacha (Middle High German, modern German wache-), wakefulness, watching, watch, Old Norse vaka (Middle Swedish, Swedish vaka-, Norwegian voka-) watch, vigil, eve of a feast; related to wake v. In the sense ‘state of wakefulness’, the n. is probably, in part, a new formation in Middle English on the stem of wake v., on the analogy of sleep vb. and n. In sense 4 adoption < Old Norse is possible; the sense ‘merry-making’ is found in Old Norse and Norwegian; compare Old Norse Jónsvaka, Norwegian Jóns(v)oka St. John's Eve, Midsummer festivities.’

The Man of Science blinked again and looked around at everyone.

‘Vigil. Watching over the dead. Celebration of life,’ he finished.

A low whistle sounded. Everyone turned to look at the newcomer.

‘You’re some kind of genius, huh? Didn’t really understand most of what you said, but it sounded mighty impressive.’

The Realist grunted. The Idiot smiled.

‘We call him The Man of Science,’ The Idiot said, proudly.

‘Shut it,’ The Realist said.

‘What are you doing here?’ The Dreamer asked. It took a moment for the newcomer to realise the question was aimed at him.

‘I was told I’d find you here. Wasn’t told it’d be a wake, though. I’m sorry about that. I was just told to find you, but I don’t want to interrupt anything. I’m sorry. About the interruption I mean. And I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘But why?’ asked The Idiot.

The newcomer shrugged.

‘Don’t know, but people say that, don’t they?’

‘No. Why were you told to find us?’ The Idiot clarified.

‘Oh! Sorry. Misunderstood. I’m joining your crew. The new addition. The extra hand.’ The newcomer said this brightly, but then realised whom he was replacing. The coffin took up the room.

‘What do we call you?’ The Dreamer asked.

‘They call me The Fool,’ the newcomer, The Fool, said.

‘Why?’ asked The Realist.

‘On account of me being foolish,’ The Fool told him.

The Realist looked at him sharply. The Idiot and The Dreamer chuckled.

‘We already have an idiot,’ said The Realist, nodding at The Idiot. ‘What do we need a fool for?’

The Fool shrugged.

‘Someone to blame?’ he suggested.

‘That’s my job,’ The Accident Waiting to Happen spoke for the first time.

The Fool looked at him.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘The Accident Waiting to Happen,’ The Accident Waiting to Happen told him.

‘Ah,’ said The Fool, ‘I see.’

‘We need a real replacement,’ The Realist said. ‘Someone like her,’ he nodded at the coffin.

‘Who was she?’ asked The Fool.

‘She was The Cleaner,’ said The Dreamer.

‘I can clean,’ The Fool assured them.

‘I thought I was going to clean,’ The Dogsbody whispered, but no one paid him any mind.

‘Nah, we don’t need a fool to clean for us. If we can’t get a cleaner in, The Dogsbody’ll do it,’ The Realist told the Fool. ‘We don’t need you.’

The Dogsbody breathed a sigh of relief.

The Man of Science stirred, took a sip of beer and spoke:

‘Fool,’ he said, his voice rich and rolling. ‘Forms: ME fol, (ME folle), ME–15 fole, (ME foyl), ME–15 foule(e, (ME fowle), ME–16 foole, (15 foolle), ME–18 Sc. fule, ME–15 full(e, ME–16 Sc. fuil(l, -yll, (ME fwle), ME– fool, 15 south. vool, 15 Sc. fuyl.

‘Etymology:  Middle English fōl n. and adj., < Old French fol n. and adj. (mod. French fou n., insane person, madman, fou adj. masculine, before vowel fol, feminine folle), corresponding to Provençal fol, folh, Italian folle < Latin follem, follis, lit. ‘bellows,’ but in late popular Latin employed in the sense of ‘windbag,’ empty-headed person, fool.’

The room looked at him. The Man of Science blinked.

‘You, sir, are a fool,’ he said to The Fool.

‘We’ve established that,’ The Realist grumbled.

‘Why do they call you The Man of Science?’ The Fool asked him. ‘Why not The Man of Words?’

‘He’s a dab hand at engineering, you see,’ The Idiot informed him. ‘Brilliant mathematician, innovator, etcetera,’ The Idiot said. ‘Without him, we wouldn’t function. He’s The Man of Science. A doctor too.’

The Fool nodded.

‘And you’re an idiot?’ he asked The Idiot.

‘No, I’m The Idiot,’ The Idiot corrected him.

‘I see,’ said The Fool.

‘Optimism,’ The Idiot explained. The Fool frowned. ‘They think being positive is an idiotic way to be in this day and age. I can’t say I blame them really but…’ and The Idiot shrugged, a smile spread across his face. The Fool smiled back at him.

‘I see,’ he said.

Silence fell. They sat where they were. The Fool studied the grain of the bar. The pallbearers studied their pints. The Landlord studied his tap and wiped a jar with a dirty dishrag.

Eventually, The Fool spun on his seat and took a good look at the men around the coffin. They were short, like him.

‘There must be something I can do,’ he said, and he hopped off the bar stool and made his way to the table. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ and he sat down on the chair The Landlord had vacated.

‘Please, sit down,’ The Realist grumbled.

‘Well, the thing is,’ The Fool began, ‘I need this job. And I was told I would have a place in this crew. I know I can be of help. Of course the timing isn’t great. I’m sorry to interrupt. But... well, it’s clear you have an opening,’ and he cast an eye over the coffin.

‘What is your skill set?’ The Man of Science asked.

The Fool smiled at him.

‘I’m an idealist,’ he said brightly.

‘Is that all?’ asked The Realist.

‘Isn’t that enough?’ asked The Fool.

‘It’s very interesting,’ said The Idiot.

‘Hmmm,’ mused The Man of Science. ‘We haven’t had one of those before.’

‘What, pray tell, does an idealist do?’ asked The Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘Envisions,’ said The Fool.

‘Pah!’ said The Realist.

‘Ah,’ said The Dreamer. ‘I thought I was in charge of the visions.’

‘What do I call you?’ The Fool asked him.

‘The Dreamer,’ said The Dreamer.

‘I see...’ said The Fool. ‘Well that’s a whole other kettle of fish.’

‘Is it?’ asked The Dreamer.

‘Yes, of course it is!’ said The Fool. ‘You have visions. I envision.’

The Fool looked from man to man, eager, waiting to see the lights go on. They did not.

‘It’s about seeing how to change things,’ The Fool explained.

 They looked none the wiser. The Man of Science blinked.

‘I don’t often dabble in ideals myself,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand,’ said The Dreamer.

‘Of course you don’t!’ said The Realist.

‘It’s quite simple,’ said The Fool.

‘Is it?’ whispered The Dogsbody.

His question went unheard.

‘An idealist is, quite simply, a fool,’ said The Man of Science.

‘Precisely,’ The Fool said, triumphantly.

A silence fell. It was broken with a crash. The Accident Waiting to Happen had fallen off his chair.

‘Oh dear, are you alright?’ The Fool asked.

‘Quite alright,’ The Accident Waiting to Happen assured him.

‘It happens all the time,’ The Idiot said, with a grin as he helped The Accident Waiting to Happen to his feet.

‘Look, I know you’re in the market for another cleaner – ’

‘No we’re not,’ The Dogsbody said quietly.

‘But imagine what you could achieve with me,’ The Fool implored them, ignoring The Dogsbody, just like everyone else.

‘What could we achieve with you?’ asked The Realist.

‘Greatness,’ said The Fool.

‘I don’t much like the idea of greatness,’ said The Dreamer.

‘You’re limited,’ The Fool told them, looking from face to face. ‘You’re not looking at the bigger picture.’

‘Which is?’ asked The Realist.

‘More!’ cried the Fool, and he thumped a hand on the coffin in his excitement.

‘Now, see here!’ The Accident Waiting to Happen said. ‘You can’t just go thumping coffins like that! We took a great deal of care over making that!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said The Fool, holding up his hands. ‘I get a little overexcited at times. I apologise. I’m interrupting.’

‘You are,’ The Realist affirmed. ‘What’ll it take to get you to shove off?’

‘You can’t do that,’ The Fool told him. ‘I’ve been assigned. I’m meant to work with you. You’re stuck with me.’

‘We were stuck with her,’ said The Idiot. ‘And that turned out okay. Why don’t we give him a chance?’

‘It’s not the same,’ The Accident Waiting to Happen said. ‘She was The Cleaner. He’s just a fool. As far as I can tell, fools are fairly useless as far as usefulness goes.’

‘I resent that,’ said The Fool.

‘We’re stuck with him,’ The Man of Science said. ‘We’ll have to make the best of it. Might as well get to know him.’ He blinked and took a sip of beer.

‘So. Tell us about yourself,’ The Idiot said to The Fool.

‘Not much to tell,’ The Fool said. ‘I’ve told you the highlights.’

‘What about the lowlights?’ asked The Dreamer.

‘They’re low,’ The Fool told him.

‘How low?’ asked The Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘As low as a grave bottom,’ said The Fool.

‘It’s a bit soon isn’t it? For gallows humour,’ said The Idiot.

‘I think you mean it’s a bit late,’ The Man of Science informed him. ‘Besides. He didn’t know her.’

‘I miss her,’ The Idiot said.

‘What was she like?’ asked The Fool.

The Realist grunted.

‘Sharp,’ said The Idiot. ‘She had a sharp tongue. And she kept us in check.’

‘In what way?’ asked The Fool.

‘She didn’t suffer fools,’ said The Realist.

The Fool grinned.

‘She had a way about her...’ The Dreamer said.

‘He was in love with her,’ said The Dogsbody, but no one heard him.

Everyone took a sip from their drinks.

The Accident Waiting to Happen sneezed and his drink sprayed all over the coffin.

‘Oh dear! I’m s-sorry,’ he spluttered.

The Dogsbody cleared up the mess with his coat sleeve.

‘I remember when she first joined our crew,’ The Idiot said. ‘She looked around and said: Well you’re a bloody ugly lot aren’t you. Of course The Realist piped up: At least we’re ugly men. You’ve got no chance with a face like yours.’

‘She took umbrage at that,’ said The Accident Waiting to Happen as he blew his nose.

‘Not because he called her ugly,’ The Idiot told The Fool.

‘She wasn’t keen on the fact that he was always bringing her gender into the argument. She always said: In these times it’s hard enough being human let alone being a man or a woman,’ said The Dreamer.

‘They were very close, all the same,’ said The Accident Waiting to Happen.

The Realist growled.

‘Shut up, you bleeding idiot!’

‘I’m not The Idiot!’ said the Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘You are if I say you are,’ The Realist snorted.

‘That’s not quite fair,’ said The Idiot. ‘It leaves me without myself. I like being myself.’

‘I don’t like being myself,’ said The Dogsbody to no one.

‘You might like being someone else better,’ said The Fool. He was talking to The Idiot.

‘Like who?’

‘Anyone. You could be The Cleaner,’ The Fool said, nodding at the coffin.

‘I’ll be cleaning!’ squeaked The Dogsbody.

‘She’s dead. I don’t want to be dead,’ The Idiot said over him.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said The Fool.

‘What did you mean?’ asked The Dreamer.

‘I just meant you could try another role on for size.’

‘But I’m perfect for this one,’ said The Idiot.

‘How could he be anyone else?’ demanded The Realist.

‘How do you know who you are, or how you feel without your name?’ asked The Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘Curious,’ said The Man of Science, but he did not say what it was he found so curious.

‘I’m not sure I like all this envisioning,’ said The Realist.

‘Maybe you should try being a fool,’ said The Fool.

The Dreamer smiled.

‘You sound like The Cleaner,’ he said.

The Landlord finally spoke.

‘She was always on at me to fix that sign.’

‘What sign?’ asked The Fool.

‘The pub sign, of course,’ said The Realist.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ The Fool asked.

‘Well, the H fell off, didn’t it,’ The Landlord said.

The Fool smiled.

‘I can fix that,’ he said.

‘Well yes, all of us could fix it if we had a mind to,’ said The Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘Why don’t you have a mind to?’ asked The Fool.

‘Why should we?’ asked The Realist.

‘Because it isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.’

‘What is?’ asked The Man of Science.

The Fool opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He looked around, from one short man to another, until his eye finally rested on the coffin.

‘She is,’ he said quietly.

‘Aye,’ The Man of Science nodded, ‘but little else.’

The Fool looked at him. He blinked.

‘We could fix that,’ The Fool said passionately.

‘So that’s what idealism looks like,’ mused The Dreamer.

‘How?’ asked The Idiot.

‘Who knows,’ said The Fool with a shrug. ‘But we can find out.’

‘Where?’ asked The Man of Science. ‘Where would those answers be? I have yet to find a place full of answers.’

‘Have you tried looking inside your head? Or perhaps even your heart?’ The Fool asked him.

‘The heart is comprised of four empty chambers through which blood is pumped. No answers there. And all that is in my head is what I have put in it. If I have not found the answers, then they are not in my head.’

‘Well, I’ll have to fix that too then, I suppose. It’s no wonder they sent me here.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked The Realist and he studied The Fool carefully.

‘What I say, of course.’

There was a scrape and a lurch and suddenly everything began to move. The Realist lunged at The Fool, scattering the other men, crashing into the table in his urgency to get at him, the force of his weight throwing the table over. It seemed to move in slow motion, and as it tipped up the coffin slid from its perch and the men on the far side of the table leapt up from their chairs and scrambled out of the way. The glasses shattered and the remaining beer soaked into the wooden floor. A crunching noise indicated that something else had broken, though the table was still in-tact. The men stared at the mess dumbly for a time.

‘You’ll clean it up,’ The Landlord said, eventually, looking at The Realist.

The Realist grunted and looked at The Dogsbody. The Dogsbody, delighted to be noticed, sprang to action and ran to the back of the pub to fetch The Landlord’s cleaning equipment. The others edged past the overturned table and inspected the coffin for damage.

‘A nick here is all,’ said The Idiot, pointing at the foot of the coffin where a chunk of plastic was missing. The Dreamer sniffed.

‘Does anybody else smell that?’ he asked.

‘Smell what?’ asked The Idiot.

‘I think The Cleaner is starting to ripen,’ The Accident Waiting to Happen pointed out. ‘The table’s turned. Makes a change, it not being my fault for once.’

‘I suppose we’ll just have to sit somewhere else!’ The Idiot said brightly.

‘I don’t think that’s the point,’ said The Dreamer.

‘We ought to take her out to the plot,’ The Accident Waiting to Happen said, taking them all by surprise.

‘Is the wake over then?’ asked The Dreamer.

‘Did it ever really begin?’ asked The Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘It did,’ The Man of Science assured him.

The men slowly moved away from the debris, whilst The Dogsbody moved in, righting the table and sweeping up the glass.

‘Names, she stinks,’ The Realist muttered.

The Idiot grinned apologetically, as though it was his fault.

‘I suppose she’s supposed to,’ he said.

They watched as The Dogsbody cleaned.

‘I’m done!’ he said proudly, when he was finished.

They all looked at one another.

‘Should we take her out?’ asked The Idiot.

‘Should we have another drink?’ asked The Landlord. ‘She might have liked that.’

The Realist grunted:

‘Let’s get this over with.’

They traded looks again.

‘Would you like a hand with the coffin?’ asked The Fool.

‘No,’ The Realist said.

‘If you like,’ The Idiot told him.

The Fool grinned.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s take her out.’

The men shuffled together and set about hoisting the coffin up onto their shoulders. The Landlord did not try to help this time. When everyone was as comfortable as they could be under The Cleaner’s weight, they began to walk as one towards the doorway. The Landlord watched them for a moment before deciding to follow them out.

The seven men beneath the coffin carefully stepped over the ground. The Man of Science walked at the front, his head under the narrow point of the coffin, and he led them down the broken road that ran past the ARBOUR.

They picked their way to the plot, The Landlord following, and then finally laid the coffin down beside the hole The Dogsbody had dug the previous day. The Man of Science unwound two lengths of rope from about his waist and he and The Realist slid them under the coffin. The Idiot and The Dogsbody took one end of a rope each, The Man of Science and The Realist took the other ends, and the four of them shifted the coffin over the grave and lowered it down into the earth. Once it was settled, the men dropped the ropes and straightened their bodies. The Realist stretched up into the pallid sky and cracked the bones in his back. The rest of the men came up around the grave and everyone looked down.

‘She had a good life,’ The Idiot said.

‘No she didn’t,’ The Realist scoffed.

‘She had a life like mine and mine is good enough,’ The Idiot responded.

‘Good enough and good aren’t the same thing,’ The Fool interjected.

‘Yes, he’s right about that,’ agreed The Man of Science.

‘Fine,’ The Idiot said, raising his hands. ‘She had a life.’

‘That she did,’ the others agreed, with nods and murmurs.

‘Aren’t there some sort of funereal things we’re supposed to say?’ asked The Idiot.

‘I thought that was what you just did,’ said The Realist.

‘No. Some sort of memory. What do you call them... a ‘you’ something.’

‘Eulogy,’ The Man of Science said slowly.

‘What is it?’ asked The Accident Waiting to Happen.

‘The short version,’ The Realist added hastily.

‘A speech. About a person’s life.’

‘So you see, you’ve done it already,’ The Realist told The Idiot, ‘Let’s cover her up, go back to the ARBOUR and have another drink now. We have a day off. We may as well make the most of it.’

‘I don’t think a line constitutes a speech,’ The Idiot said doubtfully, looking down into the grave.

‘No. I don’t think it does,’ The Man of Science agreed. ‘Though there have been instances when it has.’

‘This should be one of those instances,’ insisted The Realist.

‘No!’ The Idiot said, and the others looked at him with surprise. He had sounded a bit put out.

The Fool grinned.

‘Don’t take that tone with me,’ The Realist barked.

The Idiot took a step back.

‘Oh gosh!’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’

The Realist shifted and sighed.

‘It’s fine,’ he said gruffly. ‘Go on. Make your speech. She deserved that much I suppose.’

‘I – I don’t know how these speeches should go,’ The Idiot said with an embarrassed smile.

‘I could try,’ said The Dreamer. ‘I think I can imagine how it should be.’

‘Go on then,’ The Realist said.

The Dreamer cleared his throat and looked around at the men.

‘We are here today,’ he began, ‘to say goodbye to The Cleaner. She was our colleague and companion for many long years. And now she is not. She was a cleaner. And now she is not. She liked beer and sherry, but now she can’t drink either. She told us off. Now she won’t. She was a survivor... well... until she died. We didn’t know we needed a cleaner until she was sent to join our crew. And we didn’t know we needed a cleaner, then, either. Not at first... but she became one of us. She completed us. We are, each of us, not quite whole without her now, I think. And we shall miss her.’

The Fool looked at all the men. They stood, heads bowed, thinking on The Dreamer’s words. He said:

‘I can fix that.’

‘Fix what?’ asked the Accident Waiting to Happen.

The Fool grinned.

‘There’s a lot round here that needs fixing. I can do it.’

‘Fixing things is a dangerous business unless you really know what you’re doing,’ said The Man of Science.

The Dogsbody suddenly squeaked, loudly enough for everyone to turn and look at him, each of them surprised by the volume of his voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ The Idiot asked kindly.

The Dogsbody looked from one to the other, awkward with the attention he usually craved, and he went red in the face.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said so quietly that they had to strain to hear him.

‘Of what?’ asked The Dreamer.

‘I’m afraid,’ The Dogsbody repeated. ‘I don’t want to be fixed.’

The Fool grinned at him, slung an arm around his neck and said:

‘I can fix that too...’