by Judy Nunn
When the majority of the audience had gone, she took her walking stick in one hand and grasped Anne’s arm with the other. ‘I shall need your help, my dear.’
Frail as she was, Anne was of little assistance in getting Hannah’s bulk out of the chair, and they both nearly toppled over as, with a mighty heave, Hannah hauled on her stick and Anne’s arm to get herself upright.
‘Slowly, slowly.’ Hannah was muttering more to herself than Anne as she shuffled clumsily towards the archway which led to the exit. Just as she reached the columns of the arch, however, she stopped.
‘Are you all right, Hannah?’ Anne was terrified—Hannah’s face was a chalky white.
Hannah said nothing, but shook her head. Then she gave a small, startled cry and fell heavily to the tiled floor.
Anne screamed. People ahead at the exit turned. ‘Help! Help me, please!’ She knelt by Hannah as a man rushed to her aid. ‘Oh please, help her,’ she started to sob. ‘Please help her.’
But no-one could help Hannah Kendall O’Shea. She had suffered a massive stroke. She never regained consciousness, and two days later she died.
Paddy was grief-stricken. Whilst his mother lay in a coma, he would come home from the hospital, via the pub, drunk. Not violently so, he’d not been in the rum, Dot could tell, but it took a lot of ale to get Paddy that drunk. She could hardly blame him, whilst his mother lay dying, but she wondered where he was getting the money. When she tentatively questioned him, he said that the lads were helping him to drown his tears, they were buying him drinks, and where was the harm in that?
‘No harm, Paddy, no harm.’ And she supposed there wasn’t.
But Paddy’s friends were not buying him drinks. It was Paddy who paid the bill at the bar. ‘Drink to the best mother a man ever had,’ he’d say as he told the barman to line them up.
The seven pounds had served him well. A winning hand in a poker game, and a quick visit by steam tram to the Randwick Racecourse had more than tripled his money. But he’d only done it to take his mind off Hannah, lying as if dead in that hospital bed. You could hardly call it gambling. And the copious ales he downed with the lads, you could hardly call that drinking. Ale wasn’t liquor, ale was mother’s milk.
The afternoon of Hannah’s funeral, two days after her death, was a different matter altogether. Paddy spent the morning in the pub. And he didn’t drink ale, it was rum he ordered from the bar.
‘Paddy, how could you? It’s disrespectful!’ Dot was shocked when he walked in the door half an hour before they were due to leave for the cemetery, dishevelled and reeking of rum.
‘I know, I know, I’ve been bad, I’ve been bad, but it’s a terrible thing to see her go in the ground.’
He was remorseful, not violent, and Dot had to forgive him. But she hoped he wouldn’t disgrace them at the cemetery. Hannah O’Shea was a highly respected woman, heaven knew who would be at the funeral.
She bathed his face with a cold flannel and brushed his hair, then changed his shirt and put on his vest, jacket and tie. The trousers and boots were too difficult to master as he sat on the bed mumbling, ‘The best mother a man ever had’, so she left them as they were and hoped people would be too busy grieving to notice.
‘Hannah’s funeral?’ Charles Kendle was quite astounded by his father’s suggestion. ‘Why in God’s name should I go to Hannah’s funeral?’
They were in the showroom of the Kendle and Streatham Emporium. Three hundred feet in length, with splendid displays of imported goods and, more recently, those from the local market. It had been Howard Streatham’s idea to support local industry; it was their duty, he said. And, after initial misgivings, Charles had found that Sydney’s factories and mills successfully eliminated the middlemen and ensured a handsome profit.
The wall at the far end of the hall bore the emblem of gull’s wings and the motto ‘Kendle and Streatham, Trading on the Wings of Honour’. The yacht in full sail had been added beneath, two years previously.
‘I barely knew her.’ Charles wandered amongst the furnishing displays, checking a mantelpiece here, a dresser there, ensuring not a speck of dust could be found. His father was forced to follow. ‘Why should I go to her funeral?’
‘Because she was family,’ James replied, ‘and it is the done thing.’
‘But you didn’t even like her, Father. And she certainly never liked you.’
James wondered why the words hurt so. They were true enough, although deep down he had admired Hannah, everyone had. Even Mary Kendle, much as she would have been loath to admit it. But Hannah had not liked him, and James had often wondered why. He had never done anything particularly bad to anyone in his entire life, and yet nobody really liked him. Nobody particularly disliked him either. They simply didn’t notice him. Yet he’d done well with the business. He’d taken over the reins from his father Richard—well, from his mother Mary really—and, together with his brother-in-law Nathaniel Streatham, he had built it into the success it was today. Why did no-one respect him for it?
‘I would like you to come to the funeral with me, Charles.’ He tried to keep an even edge to his voice, but it threatened to quaver. And he stroked his trim, grey beard, as he always did when he was nervous.
Dear God, but his father was pathetic, Charles thought. He’d never had much time for the old man. Even as a youngster being trained in the family business he had hated working with him, preferring the more ruthless attack of his grandmother, Mary.
‘Anne is going to attend, and Howard too, I believe,’ Charles said as he centred a vase of flowers on a mahogany dining table. Sloppy placement, he must have a word with the design and decoration department. ‘They will be more than adequate company for you.’
James, as usual, sensed his son’s contempt and, mustering every ounce of strength he could, said firmly, ‘Neither Anne nor Howard is my son, Charles. You are.’
Surprised by the insistence in his father’s voice, Charles turned, brow lifted enquiringly, and gave the old man his full attention.
James wilted a little—most people did when Charles Kendle turned his focus upon them, metal grey eyes defying opposition—but he managed to stand his ground. ‘I would deem it a favour.’
The inference was not lost on his son. Well bless my soul, Charles thought, Father is calling in favours. Ah well, he supposed he owed the old man a few. Not least for his early retirement ten years previously.
James had not wanted to retire, he’d been barely fifty-five at the time, there was plenty of work left in him yet. But Charles had promised that his position on the board of directors would be most influential, that he would still be very much a part of the store, and that he, Charles, would deemit a personal favour. Charles had been sick to death of fighting Howard Streatham’s dogmatic policy of customer service and James Kendle’s indecision. At least with his father out of the way, the fight would be strictly between him and Howard. And, in a one-to-one situation, Charles usually came out on top.
‘Very well, Father,’ Charles smiled indulgently. ‘I shall accompany you.’
‘Thank you, Charles.’
‘But I shan’t stay long.’
Outside, in the Haymarket, as James Kendle stepped into his carriage, he wondered how it had all happened. Systematically, it seemed, piece by piece, everything he cared about had been taken from him. He no longer even bothered to attend the directors’ meetings—his seat on the board was a token gesture and it was humiliating when no-one listened to him. His wife Alice and his partner Nathaniel had died; his son didn’t like him, and his widowed daughter, Anne, could not be persuaded to live with him.
‘I am needed at Charles’s, Father,’ she said. ‘He works so hard, he is rarely home, and he doesn’t trust the servants with the children …’
What about his wife, James wondered, why can’t his wife look after her own children?
‘… And Amy is constantly busy with her charitable works. They need me with them at all hours.’
There
was nothing left in his life, James thought, looking out of the carriage window as they passed the busy promenade of Hyde Park. No store, no wife, no children. Perhaps that was why he was so desperate for Charles to accompany him to Hannah’s funeral.
With his cousin Hannah dead, James was the last of his generation remaining in Sydney, and there would be family members present at the funeral, he knew. Family whom he’d not seen in years, and he wanted to prove his place in the scheme of things. He wanted to be seen with his son at his side.
At the cemetery James Kendle barely recognised the family he so wished to impress, but he could guess who they were.
Paddy O’Shea, whom he’d met only briefly years ago, could be none other than Hannah and Daniel’s son. With his mother’s big, brawny frame and his father’s dark Celtic brow, he towered over the priest by his side. A woman who must be his wife was holding his arm, and in his big hands, along with his battered bowler hat, he clutched a red rose. There were tears in his eyes, and he was swaying a little.
Meticulous as he was about appearances, James disapproved strongly of Paddy’s brown trousers and boots. He sympathised with the man’s grief, certainly, but brown trousers and boots! At a funeral! Even in grief, such apparel was unpardonable.
The man standing beside them must be Samuel Kendall, William’s son, and with him his wife and their two children, a baby and a boy around ten years of age.
Howard Streatham stood at the end of the grave, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose then reclasping his hands in front. Sombre and respectful. It was good that Howard had come to pay his respects, but then Howard had always refused to enter into the family feud. ‘Iam a Streatham, Grandmother,’ he would say to Mary when she tried to turn him against the Kendalls.
It had always infuriated his mother, James recollected, that she did not have Howard under her complete control. ‘But I promised Phoebe,’ James had heard her say to her husband, ‘on her deathbed, I promised Phoebe I would give young Howard the world.’
‘And so you can, my dear,’ Richard had replied with some enjoyment, ‘but as a Streatham, it would appear, not a Kendle.’
As the priest’s voice droned on, James looked at the gathering around the graveside, and felt proud. The Kendles were without a doubt the only truly respectable family there. Certainly they were the only ones in correct, formal, funeral attire. Apart from himself, Charles and Howard, not one gentleman present was wearing a black top hat. An omission which, in polite society, would be quite unforgivable.
He had made his statement, he thought, and he was glad. Glad that the others could see him for the success he truly was. A father who had sired a daughter of elegance and breeding, although James did wish Anne could control her tears as she sniffed and dabbed beneath her mourning veil, and a stylish, affluent son.
Charles, as always impeccably attired, back ramrod straight, was bored and intensely irritated. When would this interminable episode end, and why did he have to admit that these shabby people were in any way connected to his family?
Paddy O’Shea, whom on their one brief meeting he had found to be an oaf, was disgustingly drunk, disgracefully dressed, and his wife was propping him up. The poor little woman in the cheap cotton dress was straining with the effort. Any moment they might both topple into the grave. Well, at least that would provide some amusement.
Sensing he was being observed, Paddy looked up and, for a brief moment, the men’s eyes met across the grave, Paddy’s bleary with tears and rum, Charles’s frosty with disapproval. Then Charles looked away in disgust, mentally tabulating a list of the business affairs to which he could have attended this afternoon had he not been coerced into this sordid little ceremony to celebrate the life and death of a woman for whom he cared nothing.
Despite his drunkenness, or perhaps because of it, Paddy O’Shea registered every nuance of Charles Kendle’s disgust and irritation. At the outset, through the blur of alcohol and emotion, Paddy had been vaguely surprised by the man’s presence; but he’d concluded hazily that anyone who wished to pay homage to the finest woman who ever lived was welcome at her funeral, and he’d thought no more about it.
Now Paddy felt the blur of alcohol lifting, to be replaced by a slow burning anger. Beside him, Dorothy became aware that her husband had straightened his back and was breathing deeply. Thank God, she thought, Paddy was sobering up. It often happened quite quickly. He could stand on his own now, she decided and, gratefully, she removed the hand she’d had crooked through his arm and surreptitiously rubbed her shoulder which was sorely cramped.
Black eyes smouldering, Paddy stared at Charles Kendle across the open grave.
The coffin was lowered, the straps were removed. ‘Ashes to ashes,’ the priest intoned as he emptied the small trowel of earth into the grave.
Still Paddy stared at Charles, whose impatient gaze remained on the horizon.
‘Paddy,’ Dorothy whispered, nudging her husband. The priest was offering him the fresh trowel of earth. Paddy took it and emptied the earth into the grave.
‘Dust to dust,’ the priest intoned. Paddy handed back the trowel and once more stared at Charles.
‘The rose,’ Dorothy hissed. He glanced at her. ‘The rose,’ she said again. He dropped the flower into the grave and returned his gaze to Charles.
‘… and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life …’
Paddy saw Charles dip his hand into his fob pocket and remove his watch. He saw him glance at it briefly, frown with annoyance, tuck it back in his pocket and put on his top hat as he turned to go.
‘… through our Lord Jesus Christ …’
It was all Paddy needed. His anger was at fever pitch, and as Charles Kendle turned his back on Hannah’s grave and started walking briskly away, Paddy’s fury exploded.
‘… who shall change our vile body that it may be like—’
‘Where’s your respect, man?’ Paddy charged behind the priest, who staggered and nearly fell into the grave. ‘Where’s your respect?’ In several strides he had reached Charles who had turned, bemused.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Charles said. He could smell the rum on the man’s breath, it was disgusting. ‘Are you addressing me?’
The insolence in the voice and the contempt in the eyes com-pounded Paddy’s fury and he grabbed the man’s collar. ‘Would you spit on my mother’s grave, would you?’ he yelled, shaking him with all his might, Charles’s top hat tumbling to the ground. ‘Would you spit on my mother’s grave?’
‘Easy, Paddy, easy.’ Samuel Kendall was at his side. He was not a big man like Paddy, but he was strong, a strength born of hard physical labour. He grabbed Paddy’s arm to pull him away. ‘Let him go, Paddy. Let him go.’
Samuel’s strength was not enough, however, and Paddy would not let go. Then Howard Streatham was on his other side and between the two of them they managed to break Paddy’s grip.
Charles stepped back and straightened his collar.
‘You’re a bastard, Kendle!’ Paddy roared, Samuel and Howard holding his arms tight. ‘You’re a bastard!’
‘And you are a fool, O’Shea.’ Charles paused for a moment before bending to retrieve his top hat. He flicked the dust from it. ‘A disgusting fool,’ he added with contempt, ‘and I advise you to keep well away from me …’
He didn’t look at the others who were staring in shock, his father, James, most horrified of all. ‘… well away, do you understand?’ Beneath the tight measure of control, a murderous anger glinted, cold as steel, in Charles’s grey eyes. ‘If you come near me or my family or my property, even once, you will regret it, I warn you, Paddy O’Shea.’
He donned his top hat, turned and walked from the graveside.
The Kendles did not attend the wake at the little house in Woolloomooloo and Dot was glad of their absence as she scurried about filling glasses of ale and offering trays of cured ham. A whole leg they’d bought—only the best Paddy had said, and the corner butcher had agreed to waive the bi
ll till the following month—and there was tea and rich fruitcake for those who wanted it.
It had taken a good hour to erase Paddy’s scowl, and several jugs of ale to wash away the anger. But eventually, as the Irish contingent sang all the old favourites and neighbours popped in with posies of flowers and bottles of ale, it was Paddy himself who was singing the loudest.
Front and back doors were open and people crammed the porch and the yard out the back. When fresh mourners arrived, the little house could contain no more, and the party spilled into the street where it continued on through the night. They sang until their throats ached and voices were hoarse, and then they sang some more. All the old songs Daniel O’Shea had sung to Hannah. And no neighbours complained, they all joined in. From porch to porch they encouraged the singers, until it seemed the whole of the Loo was celebrating the life of Hannah Kendall O’Shea. Paddy had never felt so proud.
High above, at Kendle Lodge, Charles stood, pyjama-clad, on his balcony. In the terraced garden immediately below, captured in the glow of strategically positioned gas lamps, bloomed the glorious confetti of spring. Vivid red and white camellias, delicate honeysuckle, the misty blue of wisteria, all riotously assembled amongst a series of trellises and arbours, fountains and statues.
Upon Charles’s instruction, the lamps burned throughout the night. The garden being his pride and joy, it was necessary the world should see and admire his personal masterpiece. It never seemed to occur to Charles that the creation was nature’s, and that the masterpiece was the work of a team of gardeners who tirelessly orchestrated that creation.
But tonight his attention was directed beyond the garden to the valley of Woolloomooloo, where it appeared every house was a blaze of light and every person was giving full voice to the drunken caterwauling which was keeping him awake. It was after four in the morning, he thought angrily. When in God’s name were they going to shut up?
‘Send for the police, Charles,’ his wife Amy had said two hours previously when she and Anne had joined him on the balcony, they too unable to sleep.
