“It’s a bit complicated at the moment,” he apologized, wiping cappuccino froth from his lip with his napkin.
“I know Dad.”
“The months up to the funeral, and that whole bone marrow thing. Gracie says it took its toll on us as a family.”
“Yeah, know what you mean.”
I meant it to mean I understood him, but his face registered something else.
“Sorry son, I know it’s been tough on you too.”
“I don’t have a problem with it Dad. The last thing I want is for you and Gracie to split up. That’s not going to help things is it?”
“Did it sound like that’s what I meant? That’s not what I meant.”
It’s not what he meant, but I wondered whether it was what Gracie meant.
“How are the kids?”
“Good, good. Jesse got a gold certificate at assembly yesterday.” Dad licked his frothy spoon. “For a story he wrote.”
“It was good to get to meet them at least.”
“Don’t say that son. It won’t be forever. It’s just till things sort themselves out.”
A couple of builders walked in; laced up boots, short shorts, and hard arms. They ordered “Two steak and salad rolls love,” and “A couple of ice-coffees love,” and “A packet of Peter Jackson Blues love.” Love, twenty, blonde, thin and bored, walked out the back with their order.
“How’s Charis, son?”
“Yeah, pretty good. Working full-time for a few weeks while Doris and Hector have a holiday.”
“You know I really like her.”
“Still? Even though she caused that whole scene?” I didn’t want to sound bitter, but even if it came out wrong, Dad didn’t seem to pick it up.
“She seems a lovely girl. You’d do well to hang on to her.”
“Want another coffee Dad?”
“Better not son. I have to pick up the kids from school. Gracie’s at her mother’s.”
“It wasn’t that great anyway,” I tried to smile, “Baristas don’t make it this far into the burbs.”
Dad picked up the bill and we stood up. “I’ll pay this,” he said, “You came all the way out here on your day off. The least I can do is pay for the coffee.”
So, he said, “Where you parked?”
“That side.”
“I’m the other way. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Don’t worry Dad, you’ll be late for the kids. You go on.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
We attempted a half-hug, half back-slap thing but only managed to get in the way of the builders leaving with their food and cigarettes.
“Fuck me mate, watch out!” said one of them, and there’s really no way back from there. We shook hands.
“Bye son. I’ll be in touch.”
“Bye dad, make sure you do.”
And he walked down the mall in his sneakers and too-high socks, turned right, and disappeared past Coles where some trolley boy was struggling to get about thirty trolleys into the bay.
I drove back home through the gridded suburbs and onto Roe Highway, the windows open and playing Roxy Music as loud as the crackly speaker in the passenger door would let me.
Gracie buried my father alone.
As far as I can tell, it happened fast, just eight weeks from being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer to when he slid into the earth. He went straight into hospital, getting sicker by the minute, while Gracie was his only interface with outside world. She obviously wanted to protect him from Mum. And maybe from me, but certainly from Charis.
I thought I had understood why he didn’t come to the wedding, although I assumed it was because he wanted to lie low, to keep the peace, to avoid upstaging Mum.
As it was, the whole thing upstaged her. I managed to keep her at bay through all the preparations and let Charis, Mrs Sullivan and her new haircut run the show. They dealt with the short notice and the tight budget with enthusiasm, although it was Chris who unexpectedly came through with a venue. I remain unconvinced that his clients actually knew they hosted a wedding in their garden - they were no where to be seen on the day and Chris was clearly a few weeks shy of finishing the rather obscene renovation he was labouring through.
We chose a civil celebrant to conduct the actual ceremony. He was a retired Maths teacher friend of Mr Sullivan, and did a great job of avoiding the oiliness that celebrants usually seem to ooze. Mum was not placated, but any lack of “religious” elements in the ceremony was soon made up for by Granny Barlow. She tottered up to the microphone to say grace before the food arrived. She kept the caterers waiting for ten minutes, but she said all that needed to be said. At the end, there was a hearty “Amen” from the nodding crowd.
But Dad wasn’t there. We’re not even sure if he received the invitation. Mum’s daily “tutting” when she spoke to Mrs Sullivan confirmed he hadn’t “bothered” to RSVP. I was too caught up in the euphoria of the whole thing to notice he hadn’t even sent a card or a present. This just added to Mum’s slow brooding sense of indignation. As soon as she drew breath and started with “That Phillip McEvoy . . .” I just shifted my attention to someone or something else; there was no shortage of options.
Charis and I were on our honeymoon when Dad actually died. We had deliberately told no one where we were going - we didn’t want envy or pity as far as the location went, and we certainly didn’t want to test Mum’s very low threshhold of what “important” was as far as contacting us.
We went as far south as we could go, out to the tip of the continent. The little house I rented for the week was comfortable enough but was showing signs of giving in to the relentless attack of the weather coming in from two oceans. Augusta is sleepy outside holiday times compared to the more notable towns further north. We walked along the beaches, climbed rocks and sat in a cafe whose coffee was as bad as the best you can get in Perth, but cost half as much. We talked endlessly about what we were going to do with the bookshop now that we’d taken it over from Doris and Hector, about how we were going to fit all the wedding presents into the tiny flat we’d rented. We dared to dream that I might make some regular money by writing more features on gauche mining boom architeture for the glossy magazine that seemed to like my style. I wasn’t too proud to take their money while they mistook my cynicism for world-weary homage.
It was Charis’s idea to drive out to the Cape Leeuwin Lighthouse every evening. Every sunset was different, as the Indian Ocean ushered the sun to bed while the Southern Ocean watched on from the wings. We sat on the same bench each night, wrapped up together in a picnic blanket, as the evening breeze picked up as the light faded.
Mum found out about Dad the day after the funeral. One of her eagle-eyed friends just casually dropped “Sad to hear about Phillip, even after all that’s happened” into a phone conversation. I imagine it resulted in a rare period of telephonic silence. Mum said afterwards that all she wanted to do was ring Gracie and ask “Why?”, but of course that’s not what she’d have said if she actually broke her vow to “never speak to that scarlet woman.”
Neither Chris nor Stuart returned her calls. She had to bear the news alone until we got back two days later. The explosion of grief was incendiary, but burnt itself out with merciful speed on Charis’s shoulder.
We had our own funeral, Mum, Chris, Charis and I. Mum even organised a Minister to come with us - she had no confidence in Gracie’s ability to “do it right” the first time around. Maybe she was afraid P McEvoy would come back and haunt her if some magical words weren’t intoned over the fissure in the earth that held his remains.
A few words were spoken over the grave, but they lacked any magic as they fell on the earth that was no longer freshly turned. There was no triumphant fist emerging from the soil, no resurrection. No rerun of the life well lived, or otherwise.
We endured a Chinese meal together at Mum’s insistence as some sort of official goodbye. Fortunately, the Minister had the good sense to decline her invi
tation to join us. She played the role of grieving wife, while Chris was distracted and distant.
“I think he was trying to avoid dealing with it. The whole Bevan thing is still eating him up,” said Charis as we talked it through later. “He needs some help.”
“You might be right.”
“Is he coping without you?”
“I was no help, really.”
The hammock that we had rigged up on the tiny balcony of our apartment swung a little as I changed position.
“I hope the kids are ok,” said Charis after a while.
She detected my blank look in the darkness.
“Jesse and Lauren.”
“They’ll be alright,” I said. “They’ll have to be.”
“Will ours be alright?”
“With us for parents, they’ll be legends.”
“Like us?”
“I’m hoping to do a much better job than that.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Dave Cornford
Dave Cornford started writing a local street newspaper at age ten, and edited an irreverent and irregular high school magazine in Perth. He moved to Sydney to study mathematics and economics and to pursue a career as an actuary.
Dave has published a collection of short stories (Cracks in the Ceiling), a series of short books of humorous tips (Nanna's Travel Tips, Driving Tips and Cooking Tips) and a serial set in a smash repair business “that knows too much” (Advanced Smash Repairs). Live-Fiction is a series of novellas where each story is inspired by current events. (Live-Fiction.com). He has written and directed the annual production of a contemporary Passion Play (The Turramurra Passion) since 1999.
Dave lives in the northern suburbs of Sydney, with his wife and three children. He is currently dividing his time between writing and working for a small IT consulting firm.
For more info: www.davecornford.com
Steve McAlpine
Steve McAlpine’s first written piece at the age of seven was the quite prescient tale of a shark that terrorised a family of mice on a Western Australian beach. Since then he has studied Journalism and Creative Writing, worked in a radio news room, gained a Theology degree, taught and lectured at a variety of seminaries, and worked as a church pastor both in Perth and in the UK. In 2010 he was short-listed for the $5000 biennial Nature Conservancy Australia Essay Writing Award for his piece Living on the Edge: Observations from the Darling Scarp.
Steve lives in Perth’s eastern hills with his wife Jill and their two children, Sophie and Declan. When not writing he can often be seen running the trails and pathways of the John Forrest National Park. As an Irishman his writing heroes include CS Lewis and James Joyce.
For more info: www.stephenmcalpine.com
Also by Dave Cornford & Steve McAlpine
The Queensberry Rule - a mystery/thriller set in the social media age. Available in ebook and paperback at amazon (US / UK) www.thequeensberryrule.com.
No Room in the Bin - a novella about Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all Men - and bin rage. Part of the Live-Fiction.com series. Available for kindle and kindle apps for iPad, iPhone and Android at amazon.
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