Page 78 of Birds of a Feather

‘So, the thirteenth it is then,’ Nora said assertively. ‘I think Friday is meant to be nice weather. It will be a lovely day. We’ll make sure of it.’

I sensed that Nora was well-practised at placating irrational grieving people.

‘Bethie, try and keep an open mind,’ Dad pleaded after I shot down Jarrah’s suggestion that instead of having a eulogy, we conduct a treasure hunt around the city where people find clues to piece together her life story.

‘Don’t you think it would be a hoot?’ she asked enthusiastically.

‘I don’t think funerals are meant to be a hoot,’ I snapped.

‘I know,’ she replied. ‘But you’ve already pooh-poohed my idea of everyone contributing to a mural on her coffin, having an ice-cream van at her gravesite and dressing as something beginning with “E”. I’m just trying to give her a special send-off.’

‘But none of this would be special to her,’ I retorted. ‘Do you really think Gran would be impressed if I scribbled all over her coffin while eating a soft serve cone and dressed as Elvis? If you want to give her a send-off that would be meaningful to her, we should use flowers from her garden in the floral arrangements, scatter some of her ashes at Woodside Ridge, or read one of the poems she liked.’

Silence fell over the table as my family processed the reminder that Gran’s funeral was intended to be about her, and not them. We managed to survive the rest of the meeting without adding to the body count. And Nora referred to Gran by the correct name all but once more.

We settled on wildflowers (a ‘lovely choice’, according to Nora); an eco-casket (a ‘responsible choice’, according to Nora); and a reading of a Dorothea Mackellar poem (a ‘moving choice’, according to Nora). We agreed that Mum, Dad, Jarrah and Elijah would perform one song – an improvement on the five originally proposed – and family friends Sharon and Mike would be asked to deliver the eulogy.

Nora left with one of Gran’s outfits to dress her in, and her favourite hat, which was to be placed on her coffin for the ceremony. When Mum fetched it from the plastic bag of belongings the hospital had given her, I noticed the hat still had the red-tailed black cockatoo feather, which she’d found when we last visited the orchids together, sticking out of its band. I allowed a new wave of tears to fall as I watched Nora walk away with the hat. It felt like pieces of Gran were already dissipating.

But my mood was buoyed slightly as Nora walked down the path towards the road and one of the local maggies swooped to within about 30 centimetres of her head, clicking its beak loudly. Nora hurried to the safety of the car, and I made a mental note to defy wildlife legislation just this once to toss the maggies a couple of bits of cheese when no one was watching.

Chapter 35

Beth

‘Are you going to eat that?’ Elijah asked, pointing to the untouched spring roll on my plate.

‘Go for it,’ I replied, pushing my plate towards him.

Usually, I loved the food we got from the Vietnamese restaurant near my parents’ house, but I hadn’t felt like eating much of anything since Gran had died. I think I had cried out my appetite. Although it was hard to know where my grief ended and hayfever started.

Over the past few days, Mum and Dad’s house had drawn a constant parade of wellwishers, who each arrived with their sincere condolences and a bunch of flowers. We ran out of vases on day one, so had improvised with jars, milk cartons, buckets, jugs, water glasses and empty tins. I despaired at the many thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers that were sitting in sullied water on every available surface in the house. There were various takes on three themes: tasteful and sombre arrangements made up of white roses, chrysanthemums and lilies; bright and cheery bouquets with gerberas, sunflowers or coloured daisies; and wildflowers wrapped in burlap and tied with twine.

I had stayed with Gerry at Gran’s house each night since she’d died. I enjoyed spending time with her and learning about the Gran that Gerry knew. I also enjoyed hearing Gerry talk about Nick.

Nick and I had been texting and talking whenever possible over the past few days. He had said and done all the right things: listened when I wanted to talk, reassured when I didn’t, made me laugh when I needed it, and had organised for a care package full of comfort food and good wine to be delivered. Receiving it had been such a lovely surprise; it was quite possibly the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for me.

The time difference seemed to exacerbate the distance between us; eight hours was just long enough that we were at opposite stages of our day. When I was settling into the evening, he was in the busiest part of his morning; and when I was getting up, he was heading off to bed.

‘Expecting a text?’ Jarrah asked quizzically as I checked my phone for incoming messages after we’d cleared the table and retired to the lounge room.

‘What?’ I asked absent-mindedly. ‘Oh, no. I’m not.’

‘Really?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Because I’ve seen you check your phone at least half a dozen times in the last hour.’

‘Ha!’ I huffed sarcastically. ‘You mean you’ve managed to drag your eyes off your own phone for long enough to notice what’s going on around you. Well done, you.’

Her body recoiled slightly from the lash of my sarcasm.

I knew it was a little harsh before I saw the tears gather along her lower lids.

‘I lost her too, you know,’ she said after a few moments. Her voice faltered. ‘I mightn’t have been as close to her as you were, but I loved her as well.’

I saw a vulnerability in Jarrah that I hadn’t seen before. Her cool, nonchalant confidence had splintered; she looked wounded.

Of course Jarrah had loved Gran. I had found my own grief so all-consuming that I hadn’t really given any thought to how Jarrah might have been feeling. Or anyone else, really, except Mum and Gerry.

I imagined what Gran would say in the car after we left if I had been dropping her home.

---