Page 86 of Birds of a Feather

I recognised a few of the people already seated. Some of the other volunteers Gran worked with were huddled together, and two-thirds of a throuple that Mum and Dad had been friends with for years were seated in the back row.

Geoff and Alannah arrived and waved solemnly as they took their seats. I was equally touched they had made the effort to come and grateful they hadn’t approached me to chat; small talk felt completely beyond me at the best of times.

People continued to file through the doors at the back of the chapel, every second one clutching an order of service (‘one between two’, Nora had insisted; additional copies would have involved an upgraded funeral package).

Jack and Emily approached me.

‘G’day, Beth,’ Jack said, smiling warmly and holding out his hand to shake my own. I noticed he was holding a brown paper bag in the other one. ‘I’m so sorry about Elise. She was one of a kind, that one. A true gem.’

He opened the neck of the paper bag and removed a mason jar half-filled with dirt.

‘We went back and collected some dirt from the boundary of the reserve and Woodside Ridge,’ he said, handing me the jar. ‘Thought she’d like to be cremated with some of her Country.’

I was so touched by the gesture that my heart physically ached. I tried to stop the tears, but they came anyway.

Emily stepped forward and handed me a perfect red-tailed black cockatoo feather.

‘And when we got there, we found a Kaarak had left this for her, right where she …’ her voice trailed off.

‘Thank you so much,’ I managed to splutter before I scurried off to place the feather and precious dirt on top of her coffin. The loud squeal of a speaker interrupted the poignant moment.

Nora touched her mouth on the microphone and, in an excessively breathy voice, announced to those of us still standing that it was time to take our seats. She then instructed us to silence our mobile phones and pointed to the location of the toilets. While I knew it was necessary, it felt like an intrusion of normalcy into a sacred ceremony.

The white-walled chapel was lined with pine beams, and the pews faced large windows, which looked onto a deep garden bed planted with native plants. Wattlebirds and wrens darted in and around the foliage, wholly and blissfully oblivious to the gravity of what was happening inside.

My family and I took our seats in the front pew, while Nick and Gerry sat immediately behind us. I gestured for them to join us, but they both shook their heads, softly, wordlessly communicating they would be more comfortable one row back. I understood completely.

The eulogy was perfect. Sharon and her husband Mike had known Gran and Grandpa since the 1970s. They spoke of her love of her family and of her tenacity and spirit. They also shared a story of when their families went camping. Gran had insisted they go hiking, but no one had packed a map. When they became lost, Gran shared her plans for how they would establish a new society and allocated everyone’s roles within it. Apparently, she seemed genuinely disappointed when they stumbled across their campsite a few hours later.

My stomach was in knots as it came time for me to make my way up to the lectern to read the poem ‘Colour’ by Dorothea Mackellar – one of Gran’s favourite Australian poets.

As I read the stanzas that referenced Australia’s boundless plains, I thought about how Gran had enjoyed a childhood of freedom and had then returned to a state of liberty when she reconnected with Gerry. The colours of the country that Mackellar described spoke to Gran’s love of Australia’s bush, and how she cherished her work and being in natural areas.

Mercifully, I made it through the reading without faltering.

Next, the rest of my family rose to perform. And it was perfect.

Jarrah had put together a slideshow of photos that rolled through as the lyrics, and my family’s voices, washed over me. Old black-and-white photos of Gran as a girl on Woodside Ridge and one of her and Gerry at uni depicted her full of wonder and optimism. Her marriage to my grandpa and life as a mother were captured in shots of weddings, birthdays and family holidays. Snaps of her in various natural settings, including the one of her and Gerry she’d sent the day she died, spoke of her professional accomplishments. And more recent photographs, where the resolution was crisper and fewer people were blinking, showed her in my favourite of her roles – as grandmother.

As my family reached the song’s crescendo, and a photo of Gran I’d taken on my last trip out to Woodside Ridge with her hung on the screen, I allowed my tears to fall.

I felt so proud watching my family. Their performance was perfect, and I understood it was the best way they knew to honour Gran and all that she meant to them.

One by one, those who’d gathered in the chapel took it in turns to place a sprig of rosemary on Gran’s coffin. Holding the herb between my thumb and forefinger, I rubbed the spiney leaf with the fingers on my other hand to release the fragrance. The aroma reminded me of Gran’s lamb roasts: she would place sprigs of rosemary in the baking tray so the flavour would permeate the meat and the roasted spuds. I willed myself to keep the association of its scent with those fond dinner memories, and not with the time that I farewelled her with Nora the funeral director looking on.

When the celebrant wrapped up the proceedings and invited people to stay for greetings on the lawn across the path (‘we’ll need to vacate the room since we were late to start,’ he added pointedly), I felt relieved the funeral was over.

‘That was lovely,’ Nick said as I walked with him and Gerry up the aisle, and towards the back of the room and the midday sun.

I nodded, not yet sure I could speak. We wandered up the path and stopped in the shade of a Moreton Bay fig tree. Its magnificent, exposed root system ribboned across the ground for metres.

‘So, Nick,’ Jarrah said, appearing by my side. ‘Tell me all about yourself. I want to hear everything about the person who managed to steal Bethie’s heart.’

I scoffed indefensibly. It was true; he had.

‘I need to make sure you’re up to standard for this one. She’s one in a million.’

She flashed me a broad smile before turning to Nick and examining him through narrowed eyes.

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