by Stella Quinn
Vera was pretty sure Marigold could eat and talk no matter where she was sitting, but she slid a piece of ginger slice onto one of the vintage plates she’d bought at the local op shop and set it down in front of the woman. ‘Cup of tea, too?’
‘Better not. The funeral service is at ten-thirty, and the old bladder isn’t what it was. The bereaved get a bit testy when the celebrant ducks off to spend a penny halfway through the ceremony.’
Wait … what? ‘You’re doing the ceremony, too? I thought you were just organising the wake.’
Marigold’s bangles jangled on her arm as she lifted a forkful of ginger slice. ‘I’m a celebrant, Vera. I’m performing the ceremony.’
‘Oh! For some reason … gosh, this is awkward, I thought—’
‘You thought I was retired? An elderly lady of leisure, just puddling about in Hanrahan putting my nose into everyone’s business because I’d run out of socks to darn?’
The wink Marigold dropped in her direction took the sting from her words, but Vera reached down into the cabinet and pulled out a slice of tart for herself. She needed a calorie fix.
‘I suppose I did,’ she said. ‘Pretty ageist of me, wasn’t it?’
Marigold chuckled. ‘I think you need to pop on down and join my yoga class, Vera. Every morning at dawn, spring through autumn, on sunrise. Keeps me young at heart. But, you aren’t totally wrong. I did retire. I had a florist shop in Cooma back in the day, which is how I became an expert on weddings. And funerals, now I think about it.’
Something was tugging at Vera’s memory. ‘Graeme told me he knew a florist; he must have meant you. Do we have you to thank for the fresh flower delivery he organised?’
‘That boy is almost as cunning an operator as I am. I put him in touch with the couple who bought my business. Mates rates,’ she said. ‘I send bridal business their way, so they like to keep me sweet.’
Vera smiled. ‘I’m very grateful. The tables are so pretty with the touch of pink and yellow. Do you do much, er, bridal business?’
Marigold scraped her fork over her plate to gather up the last crumbs. ‘One a month, I suppose. Funerals the same. The weddings tend to be out-of-towners who fancy a wedding in the alps. The funerals are locals. Usually people Kev and I have known for donkeys.’
‘That explains …’ Vera paused.
‘What, honey?’
‘Oh, it’s just, when we first met, you mentioned you and Kev visit Connolly House a bit. Where my aunt is.’
Marigold rested a ring-heavy hand on hers. ‘I do funeral services there, yes. There’s a chapel for those that like a reverend to see them off, and celebrants are welcome to use it. I potter about with the relatives of the deceased, and Kev takes roses from his bushes at the hall and does a bit of flower arranging with the residents who enjoy that sort of thing. Is this going to be difficult for you today, Vera? Having a funeral wake here? Is it too close to home?’
‘No. It’s fine, really.’
‘Because we can farewell Joyce in the park; you just say the word.’
Vera blinked away the sting in her eyes. ‘You’re very kind, Marigold.’
Marigold gave her hand a squeeze. ‘You just remember that later when I’m bossing you around.’
CHAPTER
7
Josh knew the power nap wasn’t going to happen the second he walked back into the clinic. Sandy must have heard him come through the private foyer which led upstairs, because the door to the reception area flung open and she was standing there, with a pleading look on her face which did not bode well for his plans.
‘Josh, best boss ever, you got a minute?’
He supposed he did. And being called boss did still send a thrill up his spine. ‘Sure, what’s up?’
‘I need to run to the bank, and Hannah’s tied up, and—’ She angled her eyebrows to the waiting room behind her, to where a chubby-kneed kid sat huddled in a chair. ‘We have a goldfish emergency.’
‘A what?’
Sandy lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Might be dead. Kid’s used half a box of tissues already trying to stop snivelling.’
‘Seriously. A fish.’
‘Yeah. Ovoid in shape, has a tail, breathes through gills.’
Josh narrowed his eyes. ‘Snarky remarks mean I get to have a jellybean from the reception jar; you know that, Sandy.’
She winked at him. ‘The crying fish kid beat you to them. Go on, see what you can do, can you?’
‘But I’m so inexperienced,’ he said. ‘Surely this is a job for our most senior vet?’
‘Nice try, hotshot.’ She turned her head and called over her shoulder. ‘Sarma? This is Dr Cody. He’s going to take a look at your pet.’
He sighed. ‘There better be some more beans in that jar when I next come out here, Sandy, that’s all I’m saying.’
She gave him a pat on the shoulder like he was a truculent toddler. ‘Bank and jellybeans, you leave it with me. I won’t be long.’
She headed out to the street with the haste of an army retiring from battle, and he turned to the kid, who’d stood up, and was now looking at him with hope in her eyes and a plastic bag clutched to her front. When had Poppy last looked at him like that … like he could solve every problem and would never disappoint her?
Had it been weeks? Months? Certainly not since he’d first brought up the idea of moving back to Hanrahan. He had to believe he’d made the right decision, moving home. It would just be a hell of a lot easier to believe if Poppy would agree to pay him a visit.
‘Can you fix my fish, Dr Cody?’
He gave the kid a reassuring smile. ‘Call me Josh. I hope so.’
‘I put my moneybox on the counter. I dunno how much is in there, because my brother took the key when he was torturing me.’
‘Oh? Your brother torture you often?’
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Do sheep have dirty butts?’
He grinned. Sarma, whoever she was, had a flair for the dramatic. ‘You know, I have a sister, too. I used to play all sorts of pranks on her when we were little.’
She stopped sniffling long enough to look up at him. ‘Oh yeah? Like taking her teddy bears and tying them to pretend train tracks and sending her ransom notes? That kind of stuff?’
He steered her into the last treatment room and wrestled the plastic bag from her sweaty grip. ‘Exactly that kind of stuff.’
‘Huh.’
‘You know what my sister did to me once?’ he said.
‘No. What?’
‘Put a lizard in my bed.’
She giggled. ‘No way.’
‘Yes way. Not that I’m recommending you do the same, mind you. Now, what,’ he said, holding the bag up to the light, ‘seems to be the problem with this fish?’
‘Starsha.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s her name. Starsha. She’s not eating her food, and she’s just doing nothing.’
‘Let’s get her out of this bag. Fish breathe oxygen out of the water, and there’s not enough water in this bag to keep her going for long. We can use a glass snake tank for the time being, but this is where we need to have a serious talk.’
‘About dying?’
Josh cleared his throat. He’d forgotten how direct young kids could be.
‘Yes. Your goldfish—Starsha—is not my usual kind of patient. Fish are tricky to treat because we can’t take an x-ray of them, or feel their muzzle to see if they’re dehydrated, or listen to their heart with a stethoscope … that sort of thing.’
Did fish even have hearts? He wondered how unprofessional it would look if he turned to his computer and googled How to tell if my goldfish is alive.
‘Just do your best, Josh.’ Sarma sat herself in a chair and looked at him expectantly, her eyelashes wet with tears.
He sighed. Water. Neutralising agent. No sudden change of temperature. That would have to do for a start. He ran his eyes over the row of textbooks and science journals stacked in the shelving above the desk
and settled on the battered copy of The Australian and New Zealand Vet Companion.
He flicked the child a look. ‘Can you read, Sarma?’
She frowned at him in a way that made him think fondly about strapping teddy bears to fake train tracks. ‘Of course I can read. I’m nine.’
‘Look up goldfish in this index, will you, Sarma, while I fill the tank and get the temperature adjusted. Let’s get Starsha a new clean home with plenty of oxygen in it. We can work on her lack of energy and appetite later. You cool with that?’
Sarma slipped off the chair and marched up to the desk like a warrior preparing for action. ‘G for goldfish. That comes after F, right?’
He had to resist the urge to give her a hug. Plucky and cute. Just like Poppy used to be.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Let’s see what we can do for your pet.’
An hour later, Josh was staring at his reflection in his sister’s new bathroom mirror. The bevelled glass fixture was a fine piece of work, rising from the hip-height marble counter to disappear into the decorative plasterwork of the cornice. He should know—he’d nearly broken eight fingers installing it.
‘Tell me why we’re going to this again?’
‘Mrs Juggins’s sausage dog, Henry, was one of my first customers. And, owing to the ridiculous quantity of biscuits, sausages and well-buttered vegemite toast triangles she kept feeding him, he was one of my fattest customers, which meant he was a frequent visitor. His vet bills probably paid for the x-ray machine.’
Josh’s fingers paused on the blue silk of his tie. ‘The bunny ran under the tree. No, down the hole and over the tre—Damn it. Where’s YouTube when you need it? I can’t believe I’ve forgotten how to fasten a tie.’
‘Come here, you big lump.’
Hannah swivelled him round to face her. ‘Crouch down a bit.’ She flipped the tie into position, then pulled his collar straight above it. ‘Any luck at the council office?’
‘Some clerk made me wait for an hour, then let me fill in a form and cut me loose. The local councillor’s out of town for a few days, so I’ve booked an appointment for next week.’
‘Barry O’Malley? Our local member?’
‘Yeah. I grabbed his business card and stuck it to the noticeboard in the office.’
‘I guess that’s something.’ She smoothed the top buttonhole in his shirt then stood back. ‘You scrub up okay, big brother.’
He grinned. ‘That’s more than I can say for you. Do you even own clothes that aren’t made of denim?’
‘Some. Maybe. I think. Why?’ She looked into the mirror, fussed a little with the neckline of her no-nonsense navy blouse.
He pulled her ponytail. He should have known better than to poke fun at Hannah for what she wore, so he covered his gaffe with a comment guaranteed to annoy her so much she’d forget the clothes question.
‘Wonder if Tom Krauss will be there? Haven’t seen him since I moved back to town.’
Hannah suddenly grew very busy fixing a string of bright orange beads around her neck. ‘What are you doing in my bathroom, anyway? You’ve got your own flat. Downstairs.’
‘I don’t have a mirror. Or hot water. Or furniture.’
She snorted. ‘Heaven forbid Hanrahan’s prodigal son should rock up to an elderly lady’s funeral with his hair mussed up.’
‘Ouch,’ he said, grinning. ‘Come on, let’s get outta here before someone brings us another depressed goldfish.’
Hannah giggled. ‘That was so sweet. I had to get Sandy to pinch my arm to stop me from laughing.’
He grimaced. ‘The dizzy heights of a small-town vet practice. And me just a first year, too. I’m surprised you let me handle such a tricky case as overfeeding.’
His sister clattered down the stairs ahead of him. ‘Well, Sandy said it seemed like more of a kid issue than a pet issue. And you’re the expert there, Dr Dad.’
Yeah. Such an expert his own daughter was giving him the runaround. School holidays had started and still no word of a visit. ‘Don’t let Poppy hear you say that. Ever since she turned fifteen she’s developed this epic expression of utter disdain. Let’s not give her an excuse to use it.’
He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. ‘You want yours?’
‘No thanks. It’s warm enough out.’
‘I heard the wake’s on at the new café. Hopefully no-one will call before I get to sample the buffet. I’m starving.’
‘Thinking with your stomach. How very like you. Come on, we don’t want to be late; Marigold will give us The Look if we interrupt her service.’
‘Marigold Jones,’ Josh said with relish. ‘Kev still kicking?’
‘Of course. The two of them still gambol about like spring lambs. Love or yoga—one of the two—is keeping them young.’
‘Which one, I wonder?’ said Josh, as he held the back door open for Hannah.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said as she passed him.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I wouldn’t know either.’
The funeral was sweet. From the heart, as anything was when Marigold Jones officiated, and poignant. Sadness emanated from the bowed shoulders of Mr Juggins, alone in the front row but for Kev, who had the knack for knowing just where he was needed most.
The Jugginses had run the garage out near the local primary school for years. He could remember George Juggins as a younger man in green-stained overalls, rolling out from under a car to offer up some old-fashioned service at the fuel bowsers. His wife had managed the store and sold soft drinks and hot pies to schoolkids passing by who were lucky enough to have a few bucks in their pocket.
By the time the small crowd had made it from the cemetery down near the lake to the private room of The Billy Button Café, the general air of decorum had dissipated, leaving the older townsfolk to resume the chitter-chatter and story-swapping of people who’d known each other half a century or more.
He’d missed this. The sense of belonging, of being known. He’d thought Poppy had finally been willing to give it a try, but her school holiday was about a third over and there was still no sign of her.
No phone calls, either, and even the surly text messages had dried up. She was ghosting him, and every day she didn’t arrive, his hope grew dimmer.
He hadn’t missed all the country-kiss greetings, though. He’d been kissed by so many old biddies in the last hour, he was sure he had coral lipstick stripes on his cheeks: the wife of his old Scout Leader, the lady who ran the bowling alley where he’d hung out after school some nights, even Marigold had cornered him, demanding to know why he’d not found the time to drop by. She’d slipped him her yoga schedule for dawn stretches in the park.
Yeah. Like that would happen.
The one pair of female lips in the room that hadn’t made their way to his cheek were currently on duty by the tea urn. He let his eyes dwell on them for a minute. Soft. The colour of pinot noir in a glass held to the sun. Kissable.
‘If you’re sick of the tea, mate, I can make you a coffee that’ll strip the hairs from your chest.’
Josh turned to the waiter he’d met the other day. ‘Graeme, isn’t it? Better not. I’ve already had about six cupcakes. I won’t fit into my scrubs.’
His eyes wandered back over to Vera. She stood apart from the crowd, looking … he thought it over, tried to find the right word. Unsettled? Anxious?
‘Girl can cook,’ said Graeme in his ear.
‘Mmm,’ he said, but before he could wonder if he was embarrassed about being caught staring at the waiter’s boss, Vera picked up a plate of salmon blinis from the buffet table and began passing them around.
The crowd shifted, Graeme disappeared to collect glasses, and before he knew what was what, she was standing right before him.
She was even more breathtaking up close. Colour warmed her cheeks, throwing the paleness of her skin into sharp relief. She’d tied her hair back into some sort of braid, but wisps of it had escaped, softening the formal bla
ck suit she wore.
‘Blini?’ she said.
‘Josh.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Just reminding you what my name is.’
She sighed, a quick in-out-in that made him wonder if she’d noticed him in the same breath-seizing way that he’d noticed her.
‘I know your name. I really should keep serv—’
Before she could move on, Marigold began tapping a teaspoon against a pink and white floral teacup.
‘Can I have your attention, everyone. Everyone! George thanks you all for coming here today to celebrate the life of his wife, Joyce.’
Josh surreptitiously glanced at his watch. He was due back at the surgery in ten minutes, and Marigold Jones wasn’t famous throughout the whole Snowy River region for her brevity.
‘Our friend, Joyce Juggins, was unwell for some months, but still found time to worry about how George was going to cope after she passed. She and I planned out this gathering between us, and she asked me to read a little something here.’
‘Oh boy,’ muttered a voice behind Josh. He turned to see Kev right behind him. He raised his eyebrows at the old man and received a wink in return. What was Marigold up to now?
‘Dear George,’ she read out. ‘I want you to look around you today and see all the lovely folk of Hanrahan who’ve come to see me off. They’re here for me, but they’re here for you too, and they’re getting my sincere thanks for it. You make note of all these faces, George, and when you’re feeling lonely, you know who you can go visit. I’ve baked some casseroles for you and they’re in the freezer—’
The crowd gave a laugh, and even Mr Juggins seemed to see the funny side of his beloved wife still caring for him from the grave.
‘—and I want you to promise me you’re going to take up a hobby. You can take on my role up at the community hall, or join the Men’s Shed down in Cooma. Something with people, okay? Pottering about with your tomato seedlings doesn’t count. Promise me now, out loud, in front of all these good people.’
Marigold looked up at old George expectantly. ‘Well? What do you say, George? Have we got your promise?’
