He reaches out to shake her hand. 'Hello, Sophie.'
Sophie puts her hand in his: warm, dry, enfolding hers. She lets her eyes drop to her watch. It's five to noon.
I knew. I knew the moment we sat in the cab and your father shook my hand. It was five to noon on Thursday the second of...
'I'm Callum,' he says. 'Callum Tidyman. Grace's husband.'
20
Rose sits right at the end of the front pew of the church next to the aisle, with her walking stick propped up beside her. The seat offers no support for the lower back and already she can feel a stabbing pain. Oh, sugar! It hurts. It really hurts. She has to stop herself from crying out, that's how much it hurts. If her back had ever hurt like this when she was twenty she would have been hysterical, demanding painkillers and cups of tea in bed, but she has found that nobody is especially surprised to hear you're in pain when you're in your eighties. You might find it astonishing, but nobody else does.
People are murmuring to each other, or sitting silently, hands clasped carefully on their laps, looking self-consciously solemn. Occasionally there is a hollow-sounding cough. Funerals all have the same smells and sounds. The cloying, nose-twitching scent of lilies. That muted rustling. Sometimes, a sudden, shocking, uncontrollable sobbing. Although there is not much sobbing at the funerals Rose seems to spend so much of her time attending these days. People would consider it excessive and rather Italian if you started wailing at the death of an elderly person. Instead, you say things like, 'Well, he had a good innings, didn't he!'
No surprise you're in pain, no surprise you're dead. You're old. That's what is meant to happen. We don't care that you forget you're old. We know you're old.
Rose thinks of that poem she used to like and is pleased with herself when she can remember the first few lines.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
That's right, she thinks. We should all be raging and raving and brandishing our walking sticks: We don't want to go! And by the way, we want our legs and arms and backs to stop HURTING!!
She will ask Thomas to find the rest of that poem on the Internet for her. He can find anything on his lap computer. He's a sweet boy, Thomas. Such a pity it didn't work out with Sophie. They'd all liked Sophie.
'What's the hold-up? It's so chilly in here!'
Enigma is sitting on Rose's left, jiggling around in her bright red outfit. Her feet don't quite touch the ground. When Rose looks straight ahead she can almost believe that it's still a little girl sitting next to her, not a seventy-two-year-old Enigma.
'Rose? Isn't it cold! You'd think they'd have a heater. No need to make us feel like we're in a morgue just because we're at a funeral, eh? Rose?'
Rose ignores her. She doesn't feel like talking. Enigma makes an offended sound and turns to talk to Margie, who is sitting on her other side and never ignores her mother.
Rose and Connie had chuckled, just last week it was, about how funerals had become their new hobby. Throughout their lives they'd taken up various convivial pastimes together-tennis, art classes, lawn bowls. Now they'd taken up funerals.
Their friends had got so old that whenever Connie bought a get-well card she also bought a sympathy card at the same time, to save herself the trouble of going back to the newsagent when they didn't 'get well'. Rose had thought that was just terrible, but Connie always liked to be the practical one.
The light inside the church is like twilight, shadowy and strange, making it hard for Rose's eyes to distinguish anything except the giant stained glass picture at the front, which makes her flinch with its assault of colour: ruby, emerald and sapphire. The picture features a handsome, melancholy Jesus stretching out an imperious, drooping hand to his poor mother, who kneels distraught at his feet. Both Jesus and Mary have glowing circles around their heads, like psychedelic motorcycle helmets, and they're surrounded by macabre baby-faced angels.
Why did you want a church, Connie? Is this your last shot at pretending we're good Catholic girls?
It is unbearable to think that she won't ever hear Connie's acerbic response.
Above the stained glass there is a window revealing a square of pale blue sky and a wispy cloud. The sky looks comfortingly mundane compared to the garish kaleidoscope of the stained glass. It makes Rose yearn to be reliving any one of a thousand ordinary days spent with her ordinary older sister, who has now done this extraordinary thing and died.
A lifetime of ordinary moments crowd her head. Teenagers, sitting in a train station, picking at the green peeling paint of their chair and bickering desultorily over something to do with a pair of shoes. In their forties, driving somewhere, running late, looking for a parking spot. 'There! On your right! Too late, you ninny!' Little girls, fishing off Sultana Rocks: Connie holding a frenzied flapping slimy-silver fish trapped with her foot, while Rose crouched down to remove the hook, saying 'I'm sorry!' to the begging-for-mercy eye. Whole afternoons with baby Enigma on that old red checked rug in the backyard when the jacaranda tree was in full purple bloom. They didn't have the slightest inkling of how to look after a baby. They made it up as they went along and played with her like two children with a doll.
Thousands of cups of tea. Thousands of conversations about what to eat and what to wear and how to get there. Thousands of shopping trips. Thousands of circuits of the island: running when they were children, strolling languidly when they were teenagers, power-walking with hand-weights when they were middle-aged and worried about cholesterol and osteoporosis, and then slower and benter and even slower, until they bought their 'hotted-up' bikes, the best thing they ever did, and once again they were children again, with the air skimming their cheeks as they soared around the new unfurling sandstone footpaths that always reminded Rose of the yellow-brick road in The Wizard of Oz.
I didn't properly appreciate one damned moment.
Someone starts a CD and music begins to play. 'What a Wonderful World' by Louis Armstrong. It must be Connie's choice. According to Margie, Connie has specified every tiny detail for her funeral.
Rose didn't even know she liked this song.
People turn their heads towards the back of the church, keeping their faces blank, reminding themselves that they're here to see a coffin, not a bride. Rose twists slightly in her seat and her back shrieks in pain. There is no surprise about Connie's choice of pallbearers: Jimmy's four nephews who used to come and stay on the island for school holidays.
The boys are men in their fifties now, but to Rose, as she watches them walk down the aisle, they don't seem all that different from the four little boys they were. None of them have lost their hair: they still have identical curly mops, like clowns. They were extremely naughty children, always breaking things. You had to watch them like hawks. As they walk down the aisle of the church, each with one shoulder hunched to carry the gleaming coffin, their heads solemnly bent, Rose realises she is still carefully monitoring their behaviour, as if at any moment they'll let the coffin crash to the ground and go pelting off to play with their water pistols.
Connie was always very good with the boys, whereas Rose felt a bit scared of them and tried to cover it up by acting too strict and schoolmarmish. Connie cooked them enormous meals and she and Jimmy had midnight water fights with them, whooping around the island in the moonlight.
It should be Connie's own sons carrying the coffin, not Jimmy's sister's children. Jimmy should have let her adopt. He'd let her do anything else she wanted. Rose feels a fresh surge of anger, as if it had all happened yesterday. She should have spoken up after the war, when it became clear that Jimmy and Connie would not be contributing to the baby boom. She should have said, 'Don't be so stubborn, Jimmy. It doesn't suit you. Pick something else to be stubborn about, if you must prove yourself a man, but let her adopt a baby for heaven's sake!' People thought bringing up Enigma gave Connie all the mothering she needed. Rose was the
only one who knew why Enigma wasn't enough. Rose was the only one who knew, without ever talking about it, how much Connie yearned for her own babies. The problem was that Jimmy got in a bad mood when he learned the truth about Alice and Jack. That was his ace and he played it. Connie should never have told him. It offended his pride. Made him feel silly. 'You women have all been sniggering behind my back!' he kept saying.
The coffin passes and Rose looks at her lap. Next to her Enigma is sobbing with abandon into a man's handkerchief. Ever since she was a baby, Enigma has cried when she's unhappy and laughed when she's happy. For a person whose whole life is built on a mystery, she is very un-mysterious. There is nothing enigmatic about Enigma.
The boys lower the coffin onto its pedestal and walk back down the aisle, separating to go to their wives and children. Rose tries to smile at them but they have their heads bowed.
Another song starts.
'Danny Boy.'
Oh, Connie, really!
The sly old thing. Rose can just imagine her chuckling as she threw that one in. 'This will get the waterworks going!' Enigma is now howling like a two-year-old. Like the two-year-old she was. Margie is making soothing sounds. Like the two-year-old she was. Margie was born motherly.
Rose carefully shifts again to see which members of the Funeral Club have turned up and their expert reaction to 'Danny Boy'. Good Lord. The first person she sees is Mick Drummond, with his ancient bobbing head. Would that man never die? Was he immortal? Was he real? Would he outlive them all? He'd been old for decades, it seemed. Wait till she tells Connie!
She turns back around and sees the coffin again, lustrous black, like a grand piano. It hits her with a horrible lurch that she won't be eating cinnamon toast tonight at Connie's kitchen table and telling her all about her own funeral. It is pointless saving up the good bits. Rose's big sister is lying flat on her back in her good burgundy suit, inside that shiny box, with her face collapsed and her lipstick perfect but somehow not quite right.
I'm the only one left in the Doughty family, thinks Rose. You've all abandoned me. She wants to wail and sob and stamp her feet. She is five years old and stuck in a dreadful old woman's body that aches and creaks. Mum, Dad, Connie! How could you just leave me here all alone? It's not right. I'm the youngest! I shouldn't be left here on my own!
21
'We are here today to celebrate the life of Connie Thrum.'
The priest stands behind the pulpit with hands outspread. He is a fresh-faced boy. No surprises there. Children are running the dashed world, thinks Enigma, while tears slide down either side of her nose, trailing pink rivulets through her face powder. Doctors, policemen, politicians, newsreaders. Children everywhere, acting so important! They think they've always been in charge, which is sweet, although sometimes inconvenient, such as when the doctor refuses to give Enigma the prescription she requests and tries to come up with her own ideas, when Enigma knows exactly what it is that she needs. They all take themselves so damned seriously. Sometimes Enigma has to try not to laugh. All this talk about Australia's 'aging population' when anybody with eyes can see it's not aging, it's young-ing, or whatever the opposite word to aging is-Connie would know the right word. Connie filled in every single square of the Sydney Morning Herald cryptic crossword puzzle every single day. The clues are all nonsense to Enigma.
Connie was always a real smart woman. Enigma remembers the night they all sat around doing the National IQ Test on television and Connie got the highest score. Ron had been furious and made accusations of cheating, pretending he was being funny but everyone could see right through him. Veronika had accused her father of being a misogynist and Thomas had told Veronika to stop acting like a pseudo lesbian intellectual. Enigma didn't understand either accusation. Rose had dreamily refused to take part in the IQ test. Luckily Thomas got quite a high score, nearly as high as Connie, which was a relief because ever since Enigma dropped him when he was a baby she has been secretly observing him for signs of brain damage. (Nobody knows about this-she has never told a soul, it wasn't her fault, he was such a slithery baby!) Even when Thomas went on to study at the university, she never completely relaxed, worrying that perhaps he was some sort of idiot savant.
Enigma leans back and peeks a look down the aisle at Thomas, sitting next to his wife, dull-as-dishwater Deborah, with dear little Lily on her lap. Oh dear, Thomas looks quite stupid today with his mouth hanging open like that. He probably does have a touch of brain damage. Certainly, it was stupid of him not to hold on to Sophie Honeywell, who was so funny and pretty and really enjoyed her food!
Rose hasn't cried at all, Enigma notices. She is sitting very still, looking at the priest with that gracious blank expression she gets. You can never tell what she's thinking. That Rose is an odd fish all right, Enigma's husband Nathaniel used to say.
'Connie played many roles in her life,' says the boy-priest.
'She was an outstanding member of the community, a successful businesswoman, a loving sister to Rose, loving wife to Jimmy, and loving adoptive mother to Enigma.'
Yes, well, excuse me but that's not strictly true, she never actually adopted me. Enigma remembers coming home from school one day and asking Connie if she could call her 'Mum'. 'No, you can't,' Connie had said. 'One day, when you're forty years old, I'll explain why. This is nothing to cry about, Enigma. Save your tears for something worthwhile.'
Enigma had still cried. She didn't need to save them up; her tear ducts never let her down. When the other kids teased her for being the Alice and Jack baby and having a funny name, she would plonk herself on the ground, bury her face in her hands and bawl luxuriously until they got bored with yelling things like, 'Your dad stabbed your mum in the guts!' and 'Enigma's mum was a Murderer!'
She liked being the Alice and Jack baby. It made her feel special and exotic, like a girl in a film. And she loved a good cry! Afterwards she always felt serene and slightly sleepy. Once she revealed this to her granddaughter Veronika, who told her that when you cry your body releases a chemical like a sedative. 'You're probably addicted to that sedative, Grandma Enigma,' Veronika had said. 'You're like a druggie.'
A druggie! That child talked such rubbish at times. Margie should have smacked her more when she was little.
Enigma leans forward to see Veronika sitting at the end of the pew, her skinny face all twisted in a ferocious expression. She'll give herself wrinkles. Probably still sulking over Connie leaving her house to Sophie. It is a poky, old-fashioned house anyway. Difficult to clean. Enigma doesn't know why Veronika is making a fuss over it.
Such a pity that Veronika's marriage to Jonas had been a flop, but then Jonas had been a wishy-washy sort of fellow. No match for Veronika. She needed a good, firm man in her life.
Actually, what that child needs, thinks Enigma, sniffing noisily, is a real good fuck.
She sits back in her seat with a satisfied nod and rummages through her bag to find her Tic-Tacs. She enjoys thinking deliciously shocking thoughts from time to time. It does her good.
'How many calories in a Tic-Tac?' wonders Margie, as her mother rattles the little plastic box in her face.
Surely not many. Perhaps none at all. She holds out her hand and Enigma tips a white lolly into her palm. Margie puts it into her mouth, sucks, and immediately begins to viciously attack herself. 'This is why you're so fat, you blubbery whale, you greedy pig! Calories are insidious! Why do you say yes every single time food is offered to you? Why are you so weak? Why are you so pathetic? Can't you feel how the waistband of your skirt is digging into your pasty, doughy flesh! And you don't even like Tic-Tacs!'
She remembers a tip she learned at the last Weight Watchers meeting. If you don't love it, don't eat it.
Surreptitiously pretending to cough, she is about to spit the Tic-Tac into her hand when her mother suddenly shoves against her arm as she leans across her to offer the Tic-Tacs to Ron. This causes Margie to gulp and swallow the Tic-Tac and all the calories it contains, without even tasting it.
It's probably one of those deadly, calorie-packed food items. Like cashew nuts. They have been warned to avoid cashew nuts.
Margie gives her mother a reproachful look, which Enigma doesn't notice at all. 'Tic-Tac, Ron?' she is hissing.
For heaven's sake, surely it's disrespectful to be passing Tic-Tacs down the pew during a funeral! The priest is trying to talk. A minute ago her mother had been crying her eyes out into one of Dad's old hankies, and now here she is cheerfully handing out Tic-Tacs! Margie has always secretly suspected that her mother is just a bit shallow.
Ron takes a Tic-Tac of course, just to amuse himself, and offers, by raising his eyebrows and inclining his head, to pass the Tic-Tacs down the aisle to other members of the family. He is doing it to make fun of Enigma and she doesn't even know. He thinks he's superior to everyone. Has he always been like this? Margie can't remember.
'...and I know Connie's wonderful blueberry muffins will be sadly missed.' The priest gives them a gentle, sad twinkle and there is a ripple of fond laughter. Margie, who told the priest to say that, chuckles along with them.
My thighs certainly won't miss them, she thinks. At least with Aunt Connie dead there won't be so much fattening, calorie-laden food on the island. No more Connie turning up with a freshly baked caramel fig loaf or a tray of honey cakes, even though she knew perfectly well that Margie was trying to lose weight.
What a selfish fat-person thing to think. She loved Aunt Connie. Although she did always feel a bit relieved when Connie left the room.
She'd noticed that whenever Connie left she could feel herself exhaling just slightly as if she'd been holding her breath. Connie could make her feel slow and bovine; the way she'd suddenly snap her head around and bark a question that would leave Margie fumbling for an answer. Even if it was a perfectly ordinary question like, 'How are you, Margie?' it sounded like a test. Connie always seemed disappointed with her answers, as if she'd expected more, although Margie never knew in what way. She'd certainly never shown the slightest sympathy for Margie's attempts to lose weight. 'You're too old for such rubbish! Of course you want a second piece!'
The Last Anniversary Page 11