Death's Puppeteer

1892-1905

Enoch O'Connor liked death. Not in such a sadistic way that he enjoyed watching people actually die, or a stray dog run over in the street, certainly not, but it was the process afterwards that interested him. The science of embalming a body with special fluids, and on occasion spices, to prevent it stinking and how fast it would decompose when kept cool became a fascination for him in his youth. It was perhaps an odd, and thoroughly morbid, hobby for a young boy growing up in East London to have, for the most part explained by being the son of an undertaker. The O'Connor men had been in the undertaking trade for almost five decades since the mid-19th century when Enoch's grandfather, Ambrose O'Connor, had doubled as a carpenter. Upon his death in 1884 the trade was passed down to his sons, Owen and Uriah and would in turn almost certainly be passed to Enoch in due time.

Enoch was born in the years approaching the turn of the century in December 1892 to Owen and Valentine O'Connor in the East end of London. Valentine O'Connor was a pretty woman of thirty whose blonde hair was constantly blackened like many of the buildings with the smog of factories. Aside from her husband's employment as an undertaker, whose earnings were split with his brother in the business, Valentine worked as a washer woman taking in laundry for a pittance. The family were far from the worst off of the working class, and managed well enough to get by in daily life without wanting desperately for much with the income they earned.

From as young as six years old, Enoch considered himself different from the other boys his own age. He was never interested in the cricket bats and balls they ran around with in the yard and the streets. Instead, he spent his time out of class sitting cross legged on the hard pavement by himself as he impassively watched the games around him. He would barely pay attention to learning Latin, which frequently resulted in a caning before the rest of the class, but from observing his father's trade, could recite the proper amount of formaldehyde to use when embalming the body of a grown man.

By the age of ten, in 1902, Enoch was accompanying his father and his uncle in a hired horse drawn cart to help attend to and collect the dead from houses along the winding and busy streets of East London. He stood a step behind his father as the two undertakers removed their tall, albeit slightly kinked, hats and knocked on the doors of the grieving family's small home. The door was answered by a woman with tears lining her face and a handkerchief pressed to her mouth.
Owen O'Connor dipped his head, holding his hat over his chest and spoke in a thick Cockney accent, "Terribly sorry for your loss, M'am."
The woman choked out a reply and stepped aside to usher them in. Enoch made to follow his father who promptly placed a hand on his shoulder and addressed the grieving widow again. "My son is 'ere to learn, if you won't object."
Without so much as a reply, they were admitted entry into the parlour of the house where the body of an old man was spread out upon a too small table, his legs dangling over the edge at the knees. At the edge of the room sat a young girl with mousey brown curls who barely looked older than Enoch. As soon as the undertakers, with their black coats and bags entered the room, she burst into tears and rushed from the room, brushing Enoch's shoulder as she did so. The boy just scoffed and moved to stand where she had been, giving his father and uncle ample room to attend the body.

xxxXxxx

1905 was the year Enoch O'Connor, son of an undertaker, began to realise just how different he really was.

He brushed a hand through his dark curls which were beginning to hang limp over his forehead, sticking there with the sweat that coated his face, and replaced his grey cap on his head as he leaned against the shovel he held in his right hand. This had to be the least enjoyable, and certainly the most tedious, part of the job, Enoch thought as he began mumble several choice words under his breath.
" 'ow's it goin' down there, lad?" A laughing voice interrupted the thoughts going through the twelve year old's mind and he looked up six feet into the equally dusty face of Uncle Uriah.
"Faster if you'd 'elp again." Enoch retorted, his lips not even twitching in response to his Uncle's good humour, which was perhaps unusual in his profession.
"Reckon you're done now, anyways. 'Ere..." Uriah held down an arm and Enoch obediently passed up the shovel first before reaching his own arm up and jumping to be able to grab onto his uncle's hand. Bracing his feet on the sides of the freshly dug grave, and with Uriah's help to pull him up, Enoch scrambled back onto flat ground. Not bothering to brush off his filthy clothes, he staggered to his feet and looked down at what had mostly been his handiwork. Other boys raced each other through the streets after school, Enoch dug graves.