Book review: After reading more than 200 pages of this Dickensian discourse, I was left with no illusions about what Bill Edgar does for a living. The publisher’s blurb describes him as a coffin confessor, but by the book’s end I can only view his role as a dead-end job – if arguably in the best possible way.
He’s commissioned by individuals confronting death to ambush funerals and families with their hitherto unspoken secrets and desires. I have always assumed that this was a solicitor’s role in life (and death), but obviously not. Just as the obsequies are underway, Edgar appears, paper in hand, to deliver what often can be, and there is no other way of describing it, as the ultimate party spoiler.
This isn’t always the case, of course, but for many using his services as one of Australia’s “best-known” private detectives to deliver their after-death message, revenge can be a dish best served cold from beneath the coffin lid. In his hands, death definitely has a sting, and judging by Edgar’s forbidding visage in publicity shots, he’s the man to deliver it. In this roughly hewn book, he doesn’t shrink from featuring a certain four-letter obscenity on most pages.
Edgar’s life has followed a very hard road through some very dark places which have obviously moulded a hard man straight from the pages of a crime noir novel. Undaunted by irate nearest and dearest and furious celebrants, the role of Coffin Confessor is “a job I sort of fell into”. In this context, it’s an unfortunate but entirely suitable analogy for a man who describes himself as a concierge for the dead.
This can either involve revealing a deeply held personal secret, expressing a final but unspoken wish, seeking forgiveness or delivering the ultimate revenge. Edgar’s presence would definitely add spice to those endless tastefully polite eulogies that haunt most farewells. Regrets about what people didn’t do in life are just as common as regrets about what they did do, he notes.
Revenge plays a small part in work that can also feature moments of profound love and loyalty. “Confessing your deepest, darkest secrets isn’t for everyone, but we all die with at least one big one.”
It must be noted that Edgar charges for his confessional services. Generosity of spirit comes at a price. As for crashing funerals, cash and confession in hand, no worries for Edgar. No shrinking violet, he’s merely giving voice for those who can’t speak. He also confesses that arrogance and attitude help when you are confronting an outraged congregation after arriving at the church/funeral home in a 1974 Ford Mustang bearing a number plate inscribed COFNFSR. Are we ready for him in New Zealand? I could not possibly comment.
If Edgar’s work appears distasteful, it frequently is. He’s been commissioned to open the coffin during the service. (“Easier said than done. Not all coffins are the same design. Some have hinges, some careful grooves in the wood.”) One late lamented asked him to play Pop Goes the Weasel as he walked in.
Some of his work is poignant, some crass in a very Aussie way. But professionally speaking, he’s definitely on to a growth (or should it be terminal) career path, not one for which everyone is suited but one that provides grist for this gritty book. As Edgar says, “Life is quick. One moment you’re here, the next you’re not.” Amen.
The Afterlife Confessional: Last Call for Tell-All by Bill Edgar (Penguin, $40) is out now.
