The Guest in the Pantry

By noon, Mr Bell had eaten eleven miniature pies at his own funeral.

He was supposed to remain in the pantry until the speeches ended. Instead, whenever Nessa opened the serving hatch, his hand appeared beside the mustard.

“People eat when they're upset,” he said.

“You don't look upset.”

“Give them time.”

Nessa had accepted this job because October was quiet. Bell had offered double her usual fee for a private memorial rehearsal. He would listen secretly, discover who truly valued him, then emerge to embrace his astonished family.

She had assumed the invitations explained the rehearsal.

They hadn't.

In the hall, his daughter was cancelling a flight. His brother had arrived wearing shoes borrowed from a neighbour. A woman from Bell's factory stood beside the photograph, crying into a tissue.

Nessa closed the hatch.

“You need to come out.”

“After the speeches.”

“Now.”

Bell pointed to the catering agreement. “You provide refreshments. I provide the occasion.”

The woman from the factory approached the counter. Her name was June. She had worked Bell's packing line for twenty years.

“I shouldn't say this today,” she whispered, “but he still owed us last month's wages. Do you know who handles things now?”

From the pantry came a small, unmistakable cough.

Nessa dropped a tray to cover it.

Then she regretted that more than anything she'd done all morning.

“Excuse me,” she told June.

Inside the pantry, Bell was shaking his head.

“Cash flow. Complicated. Don't get involved.”

He had paid Nessa's deposit in cash, from a thick envelope. The rest remained beside his coat.

She put down her serving tongs.

“You tell them, or I do.”

“You'll lose the balance.”

Nessa looked through the hatch. Her assistant was trying to divide the remaining pies among forty people. Without that payment, this absurd job would cost her almost a week's earnings.

Bell saw her hesitate.

“Exactly,” he said, reaching for another pie.

Nessa walked into the hall and switched off the background music.

“Mr Bell is alive. He's in the pantry. I learned about the deception this morning, and I should have told you immediately.”

Nobody moved.

Then June put her tissue away.

Bell emerged slowly, straightening his tie. He began to explain how a brush with mortality had made him curious about his legacy.

“Mine's six hundred and forty pounds,” June said.

A man near the window raised his hand. “Four hundred and twelve.”

Bell's daughter took the microphone before he could reclaim it.

“Let's go round the room.”

Nessa expected shouting. Instead, people fetched payslips from phones, compared figures, and pulled chairs around the catering table. Bell's brother found a pen. His daughter opened a spreadsheet.

At half past two, June brought Nessa a signed copy of the wage schedule Bell had agreed to settle.

“Did you get paid?” she asked.

“Deposit.”

June glanced towards the pantry, where Bell was looking for his coat.

“Then sit down,” she said, pulling out another chair. “We haven't finished.”