by Nikki Stern
‘And he always hated you!’ Her voice was raised in anger; she was becoming abusive. ‘He hated you with a passion.’
‘Yeah, but this is about the kids, not me and Paul.’
‘I’m organising it and this is how it’s gonna be,’ Deirdre shouted, and hung up.
I was shaking from shock as the line went dead.
Shoshanna looked contemplative. ‘But who’s in charge of the body?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, I guess she is,’ I supposed. ‘She’s certainly taken control—she’s acting like she’s next of kin.’
‘Well, you’ve still got his will. So, you’re the executor, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, I guess so . . . but it was written in 1992.’
But Shoshanna thought that didn’t matter—unless he’d done another one. She reminded me that she’d studied estate planning at uni.
My brain wasn’t functioning properly; I’d completely forgotten to ask. ‘But Deirdre didn’t mention a will,’ I said.
‘That’s probably because she doesn’t have one,’ surmised Shoshanna pragmatically. We recalled what Paul was like: how he didn’t ‘do’ paperwork and how he never filled in forms. We all knew he’d never have changed his will to make Deirdre the beneficiary.
Shoshanna spoke with conviction. ‘Even though Dad might have said he hated you—which I don’t believe for a moment—he knew that what little he had would come to us kids eventually. So I reckon you’re the executor and you control the remains.’
That sounded perfect, because I didn’t want his ashes scattered over the sea. Deirdre had spent time around Mount Martha, but we doubted it was somewhere that had been significant to Paul.
‘If anything, it should be Holland or Canada . . . even Warrandyte,’ I suggested. ‘He’d loved it here—the wildlife and the view. Remember how excited he’d get whenever there was a koala in the garden? Or how he delighted in feeding the kookaburras on the balcony? And when they brought their baby fledglings—he was ecstatic.’ Shoshanna nodded tearily, her eyes puffy and red.
‘He’d even drawn a cartoon about it. He seemed truly happy then,’ I recalled.
As soon as Shoshanna had recovered her composure, she called Deirdre to ask if she had Paul’s will. Her response was insulting: ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a relative.’ This was Paul’s daughter asking, not some long-lost relation coming to claim an inheritance; besides, we all knew Paul had no assets.
A quick conversation with my kind neighbour—a Supreme Court barrister—confirmed my suspicions: since Paul never divorced me and the will wasn’t superseded, I was the executor and had ‘the right to dispose of the deceased’.
‘We can have whatever type of funeral you kids want,’ I told the children gleefully. We were all overjoyed. I couldn’t believe we were fighting over Paul’s remains. ‘I’m gonna call the police and find out where the body is.’
‘And I’ll book flights,’ said Shoshanna.
We’d been told there’d be an autopsy, and I called the mortuary to inform them that my undertaker would be collecting the body— under no circumstances should it be released to Deirdre’s.
The phone was ringing incessantly with friends who’d heard of Paul’s death. I was desperately trying to contact Paul’s half-brothers, but had no phone numbers for them. I also called one of my aunts. She’d only met Paul once, but wanted to attend the funeral as a gesture of support to me. I was touched by this—other than Deirdre, we would know no-one.
In the middle of all this activity, I received a call from the oncology department of the Mercy Hospital. It had been several weeks since my massive cyst operation. Now I was told my pathology report revealed a rare and aggressive high-grade ovarian cancer, which had spread to my peritoneum. I was scheduled to begin chemotherapy immediately.
My reaction was shock; the children’s was disbelief. Right now, however, I could only focus on Paul’s funeral and put my poor prognosis out of my mind.
Somehow, I would have to make sense of his wasted life and write his eulogy. I’d long thought of him as a flawed genius: he had been so gifted, but he’d frittered his talent away. He had so much potential and was so many things: writer, artist, film-maker, entrepreneur, actor, salesman . . . he even had that brief stint as a real estate agent. If he’d been born into a nurturing family, he could have been something spectacular. Instead, he became a pornographer.
We arrived early at the Mount Gravatt Cemetery; I wanted ample time to view Paul’s body. The undertaker had warned that we might be shocked by the discolouration and bloating but he had done what he could, without overdoing the make-up.
I was struck by how much Paul had aged in the six years since I’d seen him—what was left of his hair was now mostly grey. He looked serene as he lay there in his white satin shroud. His face was asymmetrical from the blood that had pooled internally on the side where he’d lain.
Ya’el was first to caress his head, tears streaming down her face. The others followed. I too plucked up the courage to stroke his icy hands, clasped neatly on his chest. Whatever our differences had been—and there were many—I felt no anger or bitterness, just affection and sadness for him and his lost life. After all, we had loved each other once.
There was only a handful of mourners, who sat with Deirdre on her side of the chapel. Some were fellow market stallholders, but most were apparently friends of hers who barely knew Paul. Bravely, each of the children recited a poem, Ya’el reading her own moving composition titled ‘Dad’s Quirks’. It felt odd to be sharing this intimate moment with strangers, but then Paul had never had many friends.
The celebrant read my eulogy. To finish, I used the same Shakespearean rhyming couplet I’d previously quoted at the funerals for Egon, Dory and Trudie. Of all of them, it was truest of Paul:
Golden lads and girls all must
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
After the funeral, Deirdre handed over to us a box containing Paul’s possessions. Among the old and tatty clothes were only two things of sentimental value: his portfolio of drawings, and his pool cue. The former, mainly from his youth, still encapsulated the life force and creativity that was Paul.
The undertaker delivered the ashes the following morning to the serviced apartment we had taken in Brisbane. He included a cutting of Paul’s hair—tied with a tiny bow—for Ya’el, who’d requested it. We had bought a duffel bag in which to carry Paul’s possessions. That virtually the sum total of his life fitted into a carry-on luggage bag was a tragedy in itself. We knew there were other possessions, but Deirdre showed no inclination to give them to us. No doubt the estate would be bankrupt.
Paul’s ashes sat in a yellow supermarket bag on the kitchen table. He had been a big man, and the ashes were heavy. Naturally, we had assumed Deirdre would ask for a portion, but she hadn’t and I did not make the offer. The children regained their composure as we spent hours talking fondly of their father’s idiosyncrasies. I knew that the grieving process would be a long one for all of us.
The airport was crowded with holiday makers as we made our way to the security gates. We were jostled in line as we waited to go through the X-ray machine.
Shoshanna was concerned. ‘It’s not going to be a problem, is it . . . taking Dad through airport security?’
‘I don’t think so.’
We became separated from Ya’el and Ben in the crowd.
‘Who’s got your father?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Shoshanna. ‘Where’s Ben?’
I found Ben, who at well over six foot tall is always easy to locate. ‘Have you got Dad?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ben, holding aloft the yellow supermarket bag.
‘Okay, you need to put him through the X-ray machine.’
Ben lifted the bag onto the conveyor belt.
‘G’day,’ said the airport security official. ‘So, what’s in there?’
‘Dad,’ said Ben firmly.
‘It’s their father’s a
shes,’ I clarified. ‘I know it’s a bit unusual to be taking human remains on board a plane, but . . .’ I produced the letter that the undertaker had given me. I waited tentatively as he read it.
‘Okay, no worries.’ He smiled benignly. ‘Have a safe trip.’
As I walked down the concourse, I thought to myself, ‘Jeez, that’s the end of an era.’
But could I honestly say I wouldn’t have missed it for the world? I simply don’t know.
Epilogue
Deirdre was the last person to see Paul alive, at around 7 p.m. on Tuesday, 7 April 2009 when she told him to go downstairs. Apparently they had an arrangement that he slept in the basement when he was drunk. She didn’t find his body until 6:05 a.m. on Thursday, two days later. In her police interview, she said she went to work on the Wednesday morning without checking on Paul. She wasn’t asked why she didn’t check on him that evening and no explanation was offered. When asked why she checked on the Thursday morning, she cited the fact that she hadn’t heard his smoker’s cough and thought something was awry.
The coroner couldn’t give an exact date of death, only a range: Paul died sometime between Tuesday night and Thursday morning, probably closer to the former. The autopsy report cited chronic and acute alcoholism as Paul’s cause of death; the presence of vomit in his mouth may have been the immediate precipitator. Prominent marbling—associated with decomposition—was evident, the face being only just recognisable for identification purposes. Autolytic degradation of tissue cells was present in all organs, and severe in some. Other organs (including Paul’s brain) were liquefied to such an extent that sectioning was impossible.
Due to the disturbing nature of the death scene, the coroner most reluctantly released the photos. They depicted a squalid basement unfit for human habitation, with 150 empty wine casks, an enema kit and two buckets—the makeshift toilets used for evacuation of bowel contents. Nearby was the filthy foam mattress on which Paul’s body was found.
He was 45 years old when he died.
Over several conversations with the children and me spanning several months, Deirdre confirmed that Paul was cross-dressing during her time with him. She said that it was ‘almost a relief’ that he was dead, even stating that ‘towards the end, I don’t think I loved him any more’.
To date Deirdre hasn’t asked for a portion of the ashes; nor did she offer to contribute financially to the funeral, although she received half of Paul’s meagre superannuation. Upon request, I obtained a few more items from Deirdre, including several early issues of Flesh. The funeral expenses were eventually covered by the sale of Paul’s car, although his estate was bankrupt.
In a remarkable coincidence, Shoshanna completed a hotel management traineeship at the Pavilion Hotel in Canberra (now Rydges Capital Hill).
Inspired by his grandfather’s achievements, Ben is saving to start a pilot training course.
Ya’el won the Cancer Council Victoria art competition. Her work combined a facsimile of my pathology report with her drawing of me.
My community choir, The Chocolate Lilies, released their first CD; I have also returned to drawing and photography.
My chemo was apparently successful and I am now in remission, although the statistics for ovarian cancer are chilling.
In 2012, X-rated videos are still only legally available for purchase from the Australian Capital Territory and Northern Territory despite the fact that X-rated material is freely available on the internet. There are no further plans to introduce a non-violent erotica category.
The Horny Housewife Home Movies 1 to 5 can be found in the National Film and Sound Archive of Australia.
Acknowledgements
Where to begin? Perhaps my thankyous are best done chronologically, so I’ll start with my dear friend Dr Beth Spencer—for giving me that initial push to tell my story and for her incisive comments along the way.
To my cherished MLC friends: Lyn Dennerstein, who deserves a very special mention as a fabulous feedback reader, who gave so generously of her time with such incredible insight; and to Sue Rose, Lee Hunter, Karen Innes and Jane Miller—thank you for being there for me, especially during the very dark days of my chemo.
And to my other dear friends who were so encouraging with their enthusiasm and support: Roxanne Viggiano, Ruth Schoenheimer, John Beckwith, Dr Ann Davidson, Neil Huybregts and Sonia Van den Berg. To my choir, the Chocolate Lilies: thank you all, especially Nerida Kirov, for providing such a wonderful environment in which to sing together.
Thank you to Craig Brittain, reference librarian at Adelaide’s Flinders University, to whom I owe a huge debt of gratitude for his brilliant research skills and tireless efforts. Thank you also to my many Eastern Regional Library friends and colleagues, particularly at Ringwood and Knox, especially Alan Bennett for his military expertise.
To all the industry people who were so wonderfully helpful in my requests for information: thank you Robbie Swan (lobbyist extraordinaire), David Haines (former Deputy Chief Censor), John Lark, Peter Chan, Peter Arman, Peter Torney, Sue Metzenrath and Suzanne Bower.
To the late Dr Alan Saunders of the ABC—philosopher and broadcaster—for his help with the High Court legal arguments.
To Irina Dunn: thank you for your constructive criticisms and encouragement. I will always be grateful to you for securing both my publisher and agent.
To my incredible agent, Selwa Anthony: you’re an absolute marvel! And my tireless editor, the legendary Dr Richard Walsh: thank you for commissioning my book and for working with me so patiently on it. Your efforts have improved it beyond my wildest expectations.
And to all the amazingly talented people at Allen & Unwin, in particular Claire Kingston, Kathryn Knight and Amy Milne, and copyeditor Jo Lyons: thank you all for making this dream come true.
To the iconic Xaviera Hollander: thank you for your wonderful commendation; as well as to two other extraordinary women, Annie Sprinkle and Indigo Bloome.
And last but not least, to my three dear children—here you have it: your parents’ lives, warts and all!