"She will always remain with us": a funeral in a seaside town
"You never make the effort to see either of us," she said. Her eyes confronted him at first and then slid away, as if it were too hard to say this.
He took a deep breath and registered, for the first time, the lines about Jane’s eyes. Earlier, she had said, "You have been in my life for forty years, more than forty years, every minute of my life." Her words were a noose around his neck. What could he possibly say that would not be taken as denial or self-justification? Nothing would be adequate. It would be necessary to admit guilt, or at least accept her accusation. And what if he did, what if he accepted it and said sorry? It would never be enough. There would never be a clean slate. The record would always be there in the mind, in the unwritten ledger of life’s unpaid mortgages.
When the silence between them had reached its limit, he said, "I don’t know what to say...it's not as if..."
"You don’t have to say anything." Jane picked up her cup and took another sip of the flat white. "It would be enough if you took notice for once."
Anger rose in him and he bit the inside of his lip to control it. Then he pushed his cup away and said, "I need to go to the toilet." As he walked away, she said, "We have to go in a few minutes."
When he came back, she was at the counter, paying for the coffee. He said, "There was no need to do that." She did not seem to hear him. As they went out into the street, she said, "Are you going to say anything?"
"Speak, you mean? Of course." He would never flinch from telling the truth, being honest. He had been brought up that way. Perhaps that’s the problem, he thought, as they walked down the street to the church.
But hadn’t he always done his best to be there for her? And how many times had he told her to just ask? And hadn’t she got her own life now? He simply couldn't be there as often as he wanted. It was the nature of his job. To be there on this occasion, he had to get Jackie to rebook all the flights.
As they walked, a street on their right opened up the view. The harbour was flat and steely beneath an indeterminate grey sky; a gauze of Scotch mist draped the hills. It could rain at any moment. He thought it was the perfect day for her funeral, descriptive of the way their relationship had ended all those years before.
Jane abandoned him at the entrance to the church, saying she had to find Bill. At least Bill had more to him than the first one, he thought. A bit more get up and go. Why she had picked that first no-hoper he would never know.
He did not want to stand in the vestibule as if he were welcoming mourners; but when he emerged into the church everyone seemed to be watching him. He was surprised at the number of people there, at least a hundred, maybe two, although he tried to discount that many. He hesitated, doubtful of where to sit but Jane knew where, waving at him to come and sit beside her and Bill, the family pew, close to the proceedings. Of course he had known he would also be there, but he was still unnerved when he saw John sitting beside them. When he drew close, John stood up and grasped his hand: "Thanks for coming, Dad." John’s grip was unusually strong.
He was confused, answering, "Well, it's the least I could do, eh?" He looked away and added, "I was able to change the flights." When he sat down he ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar, relieving the unaccustomed constriction of a tie. He had even taken the trouble to wear his one dark suit.
He looked up at the carved tōtara beams, more than 120 years old according to the church pamphlet, adding to their weight. There were the coloured glass windows, stations of the cross, he thought, but we all have those, don’t we? As he looked at the altar with its polished brass, a "flash image" popped randomly from his memory banks, of a painting he had seen somewhere in Europe on one of his filming trips, of barbarians sacking a church, striking a cowled and tonsured figure with a great brass altar cross.
Jane pushed a folded order of service into his hands. He ran his eye down the list of songs. The organist had been playing "Jesu, joy of man's desiring" since he had entered the church. He presumed she had chosen the music before she died. She had always had a thing about "Jesu, joy" although she had not been in the least religious. Something atavistic, he suspected.
He saw, with a small shock, that she had included the adagio from Schubert’s String Quintet, and the slow movement from Beethoven’s Seventh to see her out to the hearse. She had been a tabula rasa to this kind of music when they first got together. He reckoned he had introduced her to almost every piece of music she had chosen. Everyone here would think it was all down to her. It would fit with the image of grace, dignity and forbearance that her sister Maggie said she had shown through all those months of her final illness. He felt a surge of guilt at the thought he had not gone to see her. He had sent a card, suggesting that, but never received a reply and, if he was not wanted, he would not go. He had never imposed himself on anybody. Still, they had been together 20-odd years, even if the same amount of time had elapsed since they split. He knew he should have made the effort. Most of those 20 years had been pretty good really...
The minister approached the pulpit with his prayer and hymn books and "Jesu, joy" finally gave up man’s desiring. But the allegretto from Beethoven’s Seventh? A bit over the top, a bit self-important. When he went, there would be Monty Python’s "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life" (and death). Fatally, the tune began to bounce around the inside of his head: "Always look on the bright siiide of life, teedum, teedum, teedum-teedum-teedum, always …" The mad repetition was broken when Jane jerked the pew as she got up to give the first eulogy. He thought she had never looked so fine, her black hair tied back severely, cheeks pale, a simple but elegant black two-piece suit, a small red carnation pinned at her left breast, her mother’s favourite flower. He was so proud of her, he had always been proud of her. But he was surprised when she put on spectacles to read from her notes. How long had she needed those?
Jane spoke clearly, her voice wavering now and then with emotion, but never to the point of tears. She spoke of her mother’s devotion to family, to her parents and sister, to her children; of how she had been the one to assemble the family history. She had been a great and enthusiastic gardener (but who had mowed all those bloody lawns? he thought), providing for the family table when times were tough (tough? when was that?). She had spun wool and knitted jerseys for her children; bottled shelf after shelf of apricots and pears; redecorated the house almost single-handed (hey, hey, steady on),and still found time to help with homework and attend virtually every sporting event in which she and John had taken part (Yes, but I did, too. When I could).
"I remember once," Jane said, "she took me to a hockey game, when I was about thirteen, and I found, to my horror, that I had forgotten my hockey blouse and Mum just took off her own - both were white thank goodness - found some safety pins in her handbag to make sure it fitted me snugly and then put my number on the back with a marker pen!" There was a soft ripple of surprise and approval across the congregation. Jane went on, “I'll never forget her standing on the sideline, egging me on, clutching a scarf and parka around her to keep warm." Jane paused. "Her support that day - and on every other day - was absolutely unflinching. Whatever the problem or the crisis, she got us through." Without any extra inflexion or expression, he knew the pause that followed had been enough for him, for all of them, to know what she was implying. His face began to burn, as if he were under a strong spotlight.
It is a eulogy, after all, he thought. But who was this saint, this martyr that Jane was talking about? He had never heard the hockey blouse story before. Where would I have been, when Jane was thirteen? Must have been the winter of ’87. Could have been shooting that first whale doco in Japan, although there had also been the monsoon flooding stuff in Bangladesh. He could not be sure, and maybe it had been the year after, or even the year before.
Jane finished by saying how much she would miss not being able to just pick up the phone and talk to her mother, knowing that whatever difficulties she was facing, she could rely on her "ever-wise advice". You could always ring me, sweetheart, you could always ring me, he thought. He would tell her that. He would make sure he told her that. Again.
John got up, without notes or spectacles, and for a moment he thought John was going to fluff it. He had never been able to handle speaking in public when he was young. A bit of a mummy’s boy, even looked like her, those slightly hooded pale blue eyes that never gave anything away. He had another "flash image" of her lying beneath him, watching him with those eyes, detached, a small po smile on her face. She had never got on top. Not once in over twenty years. What did that say, about both of them?
John said, "I can't match Janey’s eloquence. She’s always been a better talker than me." He produced a rueful smile. "She has said a lot that I would only repeat ... but anyway, I loved Mum always, without even thinking about it I suppose. She may be gone now, physically, but she will always be with me right here." John placed his open right hand against his heart. Another "flash image", of Jonah Lomu lined up before the start of a test match, looking up as the national anthem played, big hand on heart. He had seen Lomu score a try against England, at Twickenham, too. He would never forget it. One of those things that stayed with you forever. John was now talking about Mum taking him to sport, no matter how hard that had been at times. As if he had never been there.
"My Mum," John concluded, "was simply beautiful. In heart, in mind and..." he hesitated, "in the way she looked, too. That’s all I really need to say." He blew a kiss towards the coffin. "Love you." John came back to the pew, tears streaming down his face, and he reached out for him, the breath catching in his throat. But John brushed past and sat down heavily on the hard seat.
He wondered whether he should go next but sister Maggie was already on her feet, brooking no questions over precedence. Maggie cried from the start, breaking through the tears from time to time with laughter when she recalled the "high jinks" that the two of them got up to as girls. She said, "But I was the scatty one. She always knew how to talk both of us out of any fix we'd got ourselves into with Mum and Dad or any aunties and uncles." I bet she did, he thought. Then he switched off. He could not listen to any more.
Suddenly, Maggie was standing before him, staring at him to get up, go up and say something. He stood up with a start, dropping the hymn book, its loud slap on the tiled floor sounding throughout the church, breaking the terrible silence.
His throat was dry as he smoothed out the creased page of notes. He looked for the glass of water that was always on hand when he gave a talk or seminar. But there was nothing save the old lectern and, beyond, row upon row of expectant faces. God, there’s Helen Smithies, he thought, seeing for the first time in years those boiled-sweet eyes bulging and fixed on him as if he insulted her simply by being there. And there was Pamela Hitchings, watching him with that sideways sneer, distrusting him even before he had opened his mouth. He took a deep breath, and began.
"It seems to me, especially as you grow older, that life is made up of mounting losses. Losses private and public that, if you are not careful, become a burden of endless grief, of endless sadness for lost relationships, for what once was ... of regret for what might have been done better, for what was never done at all." He paused. Not too far down that track, mate. " As Jane and John have pointed out so well," he gestured at the coffin, "she will always remain with us and, rather than expressing regret or grief I, for one, would rather say ‘thanks’. Thanks for taking a lost, incomplete young man, holding him in your arms, and making him slowly whole." He stopped, feeling the tears prickle at the back of his eyes. He cleared his clotted throat. "Thanks for all your love and support during the hard years, those first years, when we had the energy but never knew if we were ever going to make it. Thanks especially for Jane and John." He waved his hand in the direction of the coffin again. "Thanks for a life and everything." Tears slid from the corners of his eyes as he stopped and turned away.
Outside the church, Pamela Hitchings nodded to him and said, "Nice words." Her pursed lips offered a modicum of approval. Helen Smithies walked up to him, looked him full in the face and squeezed both his arms. "A great woman," she said. "A truly great woman."
Jane came up and took his arm: "Are you coming with us?" She nodded at the hearse, waiting to slide away to the crematorium. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He shook his head. When Jane frowned, he said, "Somehow, I don’t think it would be right."
"But..."
"It's been too long. Too much has happened. She was yours, in the end, not mine."
Overhearing, John came up and took his other arm. "That's a cop-out," Jane said.
John said, “It's Dad's choice. He’s allowed to make it."
"He always has," Jane said, releasing his arm. As she began walking towards the hearse, he said, "Jane. Jane, I want you to come up north for a while and stay with me, you and wee Sarah."
“I've got a job," she said. "And I'm planning to take a course at uni."
"Well, you know you can if you want. Give me a ring. You will, won’t you?"
She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Thanks," she said. For the first time in years, he felt she meant it.
John walked after Jane. "John," he said. "You, too." John paused, assessing something under his hooded eyes. "Yeah. Well, I might be up there next month," he said.
"Give me a ring. There's always a bed. Plenty of room in the new place." Better not mention Rosalyn. John nodded with just an edge of conviction: "Yeah. OK. Right. See you," and turned away.
As he began walking towards the churchyard gates, a voice called out behind him: "Excuse me! Excuse me!" He turned to see a young man half running towards him. He was wearing torn jeans, an embroidered black jerkin, red neckerchief and thick black hair tied back in a bun. "You don’t know me," the young man said. "Rick Besterman. I’m just finishing the film programme attached to the zoo course at university."
He half smiled: "That turns out some good stuff, I hear." Rick said, "I hope you’re spending some time here. Come along and talk to us. Your work is iconic, inspirational, we study your stuff all the time."
He smiled. "Look, I really appreciate that, I really do..."
Rick held out his open hands, beseeching: "It would be so cool, man."
He laughed. "Look. I’ve got to fly out tomorrow. Funerals in Papua." Rick looked sideways at him. "No really. Look." He fished out a business card and pushed it into one of Rick’s open hands. "Get your prof to get in touch. We’ll sort something."
Rick closed his hand over the card. He said, "OK. That'll be cool. I'll do that,” a suggestion of "Yeah, right."
He turned and walked quickly away from Rick’s still outstretched hands - and the image that had flashed into his mind. Of John and Jane standing close together, both knee-high to a grasshopper, holding out their arms, their hands half-twisting in that childish way, the disappointment, the beseeching, in their eyes.
He flagged down a taxi and plunged into the front passenger seat. "Where to, sir?"
"Airport", he said. But when the taxi pulled up at the first set of lights, he said, "No. Not the airport."
"Where then, sir?"
"Out to that long drive overlooking the beach, you know the one I mean?" He wanted somewhere without people, from where he could look out to nothing but the sea.
When the taxi dropped him off, he turned up his collar against the wind and began walking towards the headland. The sea burst against it with what seemed persistent malevolence; until he reminded himself there was no feeling involved there, no intent. It was a relief simply to see it and accept it after the demands of the hours before.
The breaking sea became more violent as he walked closer to the headland and, further out, seal-like surfers rode the long swells, waiting, waiting. He pulled out his phone, saw the time, and began tapping out the taxi number. He should still be able to make it to the airport in time. To his left, golfers chipped from green to green and then, as he shaded his eyes from the sun breaking through the cloud, he saw the smoking chimney, and the crematorium which sat like a vaulting horse on the side of the hill.
He pushed the phone back into his pocket as a couple walked past him with a bouncing dog and two kids on bikes with trainer wheels. The young man said to him, "Brilliant out here isn’t it?" He grunted something in reply and, as they drew away, he thought, It’s only a short walk across the golf links. If I get a move on, I could catch them, take them to lunch.
He hesitated before pulling out the phone again. He saw there was a text asking if he wanted to be picked up from the airport when he arrived. Bugger it, he thought, and replied saying he would not be back that day and maybe not the next day either. He told them to go on ahead without him. They could manage without him for a while. He would catch up. Next week's short story is an adulterer's tale by Auckland writer VIvienne Lingard, from her new collection Pocket Money.
