It occurred to him that he hadn’t phoned Barbara. He assumed that was the right thing; he didn’t think Lynette wanted Barbara here, and she certainly didn’t seem to be missing her.
Lynette was drinking wine, and Ferdie thought, when I remember this time, it will be Lynette with her nose in a wine glass, serious, drinking. As though she would find wisdom in a wine glass. Not, so you’d notice, drunk. He supposed she’d slow down, soon.
The exhibition was good, said Nerys. But I must say I don’t much admire your gallery. Too big. The Brisbane one is much friendlier, much more accessible.
Too many words, said Acacia. Always telling you what to think. Why can’t you just look at the art?
Ferdie thought how in the time he’d been here he hadn’t considered going to the gallery. Just sent its postcards to Berenice. He had read a book he’d found in the study, about William Robinson, and been delighted to discover his idiosyncratic view, of landscapes and chook pens and goats. Some of the paintings made him remember going on a picnic with Lynette when he was quite young, out to one of the river crossings, and he had twirled round and round until he’d fallen over, giddy, and looked up at the white branches of the trees above him and the clouds in the sky whirling round as though they were the visible expression of the earth moving. Robinson’s pictures gave him the same excited, slightly queasy feeling in his tummy that he could recall after all these years.
The one he sent to Berenice had almost abstract patterns of corrugated iron, enfolding noble-looking goats and the comical figures of Robinson and his wife minding them. He wrote on it, I think this is great art and it’s great fun too. He realised he didn’t actually know what Berenice thought about any kind of art.
This is very nice wine, said Lynette. You forget, all that sauvignon blanc, how nice riesling is.
Yes, said Janice, but we aren’t here to praise the wine, are we.
Lordy, said Lynette. She drank some more wine and looked round the table. William’s family, she said. His three children. Two of his three wives. His brother. No mistresses. Who knows where or how to find them? We might have had to hire the convention centre.
Janice put her hand on Lynette’s and shook it slightly.
Yes, well, said Lynette. I’ve asked you here to make an official announcement. There will be no funeral. I know I’ve already said that, but possibly people did not believe me. No funeral. William is already cremated. His ashes are in a box in the cupboard.
You’ll have some sort of ceremony, though, said Janice. A service. A commemoration. A wake.
No. Not unless this is it.
But all William’s friends, his colleagues, his acquaintances. They’ll want to pay their respects. William loved a party.
They can raise a glass in the privacy of their own homes.
This is very dangerous for you, said Acacia in her low and rather thrilling voice. Death offers so many gifts.
Lynette lowered her eyelids. Loss? Betrayal? Sorrow?
Yes, all those things. But a chance to grow through those things, and celebrate the great narrative that is life.
Mine’s been snipped off.
No it hasn’t. William has ceased, on this plane. But you have not. Life’s richest experiences are available to you. The joy of grief. The gift of sorrow, which without love you could never know.
It’s like a weird pattern. Threads of words all plaited together. A pretty pattern, maybe, but no meaning at all.
Beauty is a comfort, said Acacia. William was part of your life, of your being, you deny him at your peril.
Deny him.
Yes, said Acacia. You deny him. You say you will have no ceremony, and for why? To punish him. But you cannot punish the dead. You can only punish yourself. And that is not a good thing to do.
Lynette burst into tears. She sobbed in stormy gusts of noise and damp. She lost her breath in hiccups. Ferdie put his arms round her and stroked her neck. Aurora got a packet of tissues and mopped her face. Janice poured more wine.
I haven’t done that before, said Lynette.
So much anger, said Acacia. Of course it’s easy to understand. But you must put it away. Anger is natural, but like many natural things it is a poison. It is poisoning you.
I loved William. I believed he loved me. Having him die was the worst thing. But then it wasn’t. It was his betrayal, and that was so much worse than anything.
Betrayal. I am not sure it is a useful word. I think William loved you. He was not a monogamous man, that appears to be the case, but I think his love was true. He died, and you were secure in his love. You have to hang on to that.
He turned it all to shit. It’s all shit.
Acacia shook her head. Erin in her turn burst into tears. Don’t say that, Mummy. He’s my daddy. I loved him. He loved me.
Sweetheart, said Lynette, clutching tight hold of her, I know, I know, that’s the true thing and we’ll never not know that.
The true thing, said Erin.
Lynette and Erin held one another and cried for a long time. Everyone else simply sat and waited while they did it. Ferdie wondered what people were thinking. For himself he thought he was sitting there not thinking, staring at the long table with its silver singing cup of lilies that Aurora had already replaced once. He wondered what people had sung, to win the cup.
This is necessary, said Acacia. I do not think it has happened before. Weeping clarifies. Washes away and clarifies.
Lynette stopped crying, then Erin. They still held one another, with little sobs from time to time.
Until William is laid to rest you will have no rest either.
You mean he’ll haunt us, said Aurora, whose eyes were full of tears too.
Haunting. Haunting has its meanings.
Jack said, I can’t see William as a ghost.
Aurora said, You might have the gift.
All people have rites of death, said Acacia in a musing voice. It may be sky platforms for vultures to pick the bones clean, or funeral fires, or burning ships put out to sea. Shrouds, coffins, mausoleums, wrapping the bodies and putting them in the ground, or exposure to the elements: earth, air, fire, water. Fire is what you have chosen for William. But you need a ceremony as well.
Why don’t I take care of it? said Jack. We could go out beyond Ben Boyd’s tower, you know, around the edge of Twofold Bay, and cast his ashes into the sea. Bill was keen on the sea. Say a few words. Then come back to the pub and have a glass. Do it late one morning. Anyone who wants can come.
Yes, Mummy, said Erin.
Who’s going to say the words? said Lynette.
I’ll say them, said Jack. Ferdie can help me get them into shape.
Lynette stared at him. You’d do that? A public ceremony, and talk, and things?
Yes. Yes, I would. Bill’s my brother. We need to say farewell.
Farewell, thought Ferdie, moved by Jack’s choice of words. He is a good man, he thought. Could you have said that of William? He wasn’t a bad man. He was charming, witty, good company, but he wasn’t a good man. Would I want that for my epitaph? he wondered. Emulate Saint Augustine: make me a good man but let me have a go at being witty clever fun first. Why should goodness not go with those things? He couldn’t think of a reason, only that when he thought of Jack as a good man he knew William wasn’t. Not in that way. Jack had fallen in love with Rosamund, years ago. Not only was he faithful to her in life, he was faithful in death, Ferdie knew, there’d be no one else. Rosamund was past having her heart broken, not like Lynette, who’d had hers broken by a dead man, but still Jack paid attention. But then you could say that wasn’t virtue so much as nature. Jack was that kind of person. The faithfulness before and after death was a symptom. I suppose it really comes down to a kind of selfishness, thought Ferdie; you know William always put himself first. But then doesn’t everyone, in their own way? It’s just that for some people, putting themselves first means considering other people. It was what Jack needed, being faithful, whereas William didn’t; it was
n’t anything to do with the people he loved.
And what about Berenice?
Too hard.
Lynette had been silent for moments, and so had everyone else, watching her. Okay, you do it, Jack.
Jack and Ferdie wrote a notice to put in the paper. Ceremony of farewell for William Cecil. Meet at Ben Boyd’s tower.
Will people know where it is?
Oh yes. Great big landmark. See it for miles. Ask any local. Boyd built it for a lighthouse. But he only wanted to light it when it suited him. So the government wouldn’t let him. A lighthouse has to be all the time, you see, or not at all.
Right, said Ferdie. So you can’t have your own private lighthouse.
We’ll just hang on to this notice for a bit, said Lynette. Until we know the date.
Ferdie rang up his mother. You know how you aren’t coming down for the funeral, he said. Well, there isn’t going to be one. Lynette’s had him cremated already.
What, said Helen, no funeral? Isn’t that . . . outrageous?
Yes, well, people think so. But they’ve persuaded her to have a ceremony. At Ben Boyd’s tower. Cast the ashes into the sea. Jack’s organising it.
Good old Jack.
That’s what I thought. But anyway—I don’t suppose you want to come to that?
Oh Ferdie. There was a pause. No, I think not. I’d made up my mind. I don’t want to change it.
No, of course. How are you?
Oh, well. Really well. Busy.
Oh good. Busy’s good, isn’t it?
Better than being bored.
I reckon. Not much chance of that around here.
I suppose not.
Nerys and Acacia are here.
Nerys and—who’s Acacia?
She does funerals. A funeral celebrant. Kind of new age, I suppose. Ferdie knew that for his mother this would be an entirely pejorative remark. Nice, though. Some good ideas.
Yes, I see.
She and Nerys are an item.
Really? I didn’t think Nerys . . .
Lots of gossip to tell you when I see you. Shouldn’t be long now.
Well, that will be nice.
Bye, Ma.
Bye, dear.
Damn. He was supposed to say Helen.
BARBARA DRINKS THE LAST OF THE WINE
Barbara found the satin nightgown in a crumple at the back of the wardrobe. She rinsed it out—no more fabulously expensive dry-cleaning—and ironed it while it was still damp. It had lost some of its gleaming ivory richness, and even after ironing was still faintly creased and crazed like the skin of an old woman. She hung it on a coathanger and thought what hard work it was. Would a woman seeking glamour in the heyday of this gown have been prepared for the work it took, or would such a person have had a lady’s maid? It was a garment out of a film; film stars didn’t do their own ironing. The idea of ironing kept running through her mind. Like so much work it was ephemeral. Teach a class and something of it might remain in one mind or several and be important. Ironing, vacuuming, washing up: they were keeping disorder at bay, and how interesting was that? Bring on disorder. She looked round the apartment; she’d done it well. Disorder somehow didn’t happen in it. Not like the old cluttered house in Reid, full of beloved objects. People.
She had bought a bunch of grapes at the fruit shop, perfect oval green globes taut with juice. The label had said ‘Product of USA’ and normally she would not have bought them, but this time it had not seemed to matter. The refusal of her small purchasing power, one bunch of grapes, how could it make a difference? They were already here, in the country, had used up whatever time, trouble, fuel was necessary to get them here. And she needed grapes. She washed them and placed them on one of her white plates, and put that on her grandmother’s cedar table.
She made herself a strong vodka and tonic and drank it down like medicine. Then she had a bath, long and slow and scented, with tealight candles all around, and anointed herself with the unguents of Tuscan nuns. She put on the satin nightgown; it might have gone a bit limp but still felt silky against her limbs. There were three bottles of sauvignon blanc left from a dozen that Cecil had sent her. She got one out of the fridge and poured some into a tall glass. She read the label: New Zealand, from Martinborough. She remembered Cecil saying, Martinborough, not Marlborough, notice. An altogether different terroir. More rare, more distinguished.
I see, she said, expecting that she would.
North Island, just outside Wellington. Over the hills, the Rimutakas, great steep sweeping roads. A group of winemakers carefully choosing the perfect place, no accident. Making their wine with great subtlety.
It had been good, having Cecil tell her things.
She ate one of the American green grapes and took some sips of the wine. It was very fine, and elegant, and delicate, which was a nice thing at this moment. She sat at the yellow table, taking slow sips, tasting. The double-storey window seemed very high, very wide. She could see an expanse of indigo sky, strangely lit. No stars, but an underbelly of cloud. The day was nearly done.
The yellow honey surface of the table had a smooth and waxy feel. She imagined her grandmother polishing it, rubbing in lavender-scented beeswax. She pressed her nose to it, but no trace of any odour remained. The word evanescent came into her mind. Everything is, of course. The table lasts longer than the grandmother, but one day it will be gone too. It will have a history before its final decay, but no one can guess what it will be. Certainly its family runs out here, no child or grandchild to pay attention to its bloom. Chloe could have grown up to care for it, but maybe not. People often cannot be bothered with that kind of labour. But she’d have liked the story of the grandmother from whom it came. Barbara believed that.
She went upstairs to her bedroom, gathering up the slippery folds of the nightgown so she wouldn’t trip. If she fell down the stairs and hurt herself, how long would it be before someone came? It might be weeks, months. People would ring, she would float into consciousness to hear the phone’s useless trill but would be able to do nothing. Pain would come in waves, and hunger. I suppose I would die of hunger, she thought. People living alone died and nobody knew. How sad that thought was. She held carefully to the rail. Not a good idea, to die of hunger.
In the bedroom she got packets and jars of pills out of a drawer. She’d been collecting them, afraid of insomnia, doling them out only when she was desperate. Her GP understood her fear of not sleeping, and gave her a script when she asked for it. She paused to look out the window. There was the woolly-headed man walking across the car park, holding Chloe’s hand. So slender she was, so tall now, such grace in her limbs, she walked with her back straight like a dancer, her steps full of energy. Why were they walking away, why weren’t they coming to see her, going down the lane at the side, ringing the bell at the front gate, speaking into the intercom? Chloe’s voice sweet and light, full of music, as it had always been. They went across the car park to a big black four-wheel drive, and as the girl turned to get into the car the light from a street lamp fell on her face. Of course she’d known that it wasn’t Chloe. Of course. But the way her stomach fell into twisting griping spasms belied that knowledge. She took some large mouthfuls of the wine. She’d have to go downstairs and get more. Making a carry bag of the skirt of the nightgown, gathering it up and holding it in one hand so she could transport the packets and bottles of pills, holding the wine glass in the same hand so the other was free to hold the rail, mindful of not stumbling and falling down and lying in slow waves of pain over weeks, a month even. She felt the terror in each step, of falling and injuring herself.
She put more wine in her glass and sat again at the yellow table. She ate another grape. They behaved in a perfectly grape-like fashion, sitting taut on the tongue then bursting with a certain sweetness, but there wasn’t much flavour. Maybe it had all leached away, in the time it had taken for them to get from there to here. Pale green clouds of grape flavour, floating over the Pacific Ocean. Would they have come by plan
e? Surely a boat would be too slow. Bunches of grapes, loaded into the belly of a cargo plane. It seemed improbable.
She emptied the bottles of tiny coral-coloured pills on to the table. Then she popped the others out of their foil packets. There seemed a lot. She pushed them with her fingers in a pile to the side then slid them one at a time to form letters, the letters spelling out a name. Capital C, H, L, O, E. It didn’t take long, and didn’t take all the pills. She didn’t think of spelling out another name. She thickened up the letters of the one she already had.
She needed another bottle of wine. The elegant Martinborough sauvignon blanc was just wine now, delicious, but no longer insisting on its suavity, its elegance. She swallowed the C. The pills were small, enamelled, easily sliding down with a good mouthful of wine. She stood up and walked over to the window. It seemed very large, tall, towering. Across the road the restaurants had their names written in neon light, long swooping words that she couldn’t read, they seemed to have blobbed together as though dissolved in coloured water. She saw Chloe sitting in the window of the bistro wearing a lemon-yellow jumper, but when she squinted her eyes to see better, the glass of the window squinted maliciously back and the girl’s face wobbled out of view.
She went back to the yellow table and looked at the remaining letters. After a while thinking about it she swallowed down the E. Another period of time passed. She looked at the H, the L, the O. They didn’t seem to make any sense. She sat with her head resting on one hand, using the other to hold the glass and pick up the pills, carefully, carefully does it. She bunched the L into her fist and swallowed it, and after a bit did the same with the H. The O remained, very round. O, she said. She felt tired. There wasn’t much wine in the bottle, she poured it into her glass and went over to the sofa. She drank some and lay down. It was very comfortable. A bit cold. She’d turned the heating up but lying down in a flimsy nightie she felt chilly. There was a soft wool throw folded on one of the sofa arms, or was it on a chair, she couldn’t seem to reach. It was very comfortable on the sofa. The room was turning but quite gently, horizontal, safe. The sofa held her. She thought, I cannot come to a bad end here, and a small laugh caught in her throat.
Goodbye Sweetheart Page 20
