by Paul Carter
The one thing that I have learnt from this is get prepared, get a life insurance policy, get your will sorted out, get your affairs in order, and your bills paid, and if you’re done with some possession, collection, hobby or other accumulative pursuit, get fucking rid of it or leave it specifically covered in said will before you die, if not for tax reasons then just so your family are not suddenly laboured with what to do with, oh, say, a silenced weapon and 500 rounds of subsonic pistol ammunition or a 1964 Commendation for Bravery from HRH the Queen that no one knew about and you’ll never get the chance to ask. Or the collection of various passports, or the albums of photographs of people you have never seen before—I could go on. Suffice to say I don’t think I even scratched the surface of getting to know who my father really was, I don’t think anyone did. He presented a myriad of different versions of himself to suit the particular audience, and somewhere within that stood my father.
I choose a nice two-piece grey suit, his favourite shoes and tie, and we wait for the funeral director to come and collect him. That’s a strange time. Elisabeth suggests we lie Dad out straight while he is still flexible. ‘It makes the funeral director’s job so much easier if he’s nice and straight when they get here,’ she says, ever thoughtful. So we pull off the bedclothes and get him nice and straight and level, the only problem being when I pull the pillow out from under Dad’s head and his mouth opens up. Elisabeth has already left the room; my sister looks at me with this ‘What now?’ expression and starts crying. ‘Go and put the kettle on,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll sort him out,’ I say, like I know exactly what I’m doing, and she leaves.
Dad’s mouth is wide open, and he had a big mouth, in a physical sense. I lean over and very gently push his jaw up and close it, delicately drawing back and looking down at him; it stays shut for about ten seconds, then pops open again. Now this goes on for a good few minutes, getting slightly harder with each push, and every time when I close Dad’s mouth he begins to have a slight smile on closing, just a hint at first, but it was definitely a smile by the time I start losing it. I prop a pillow under his chin, then a cushion, I try a book, I go into his closet, pour another glass of scotch and come out with one of his neckties and stand there talking to him. ‘Look, mate, just help me out here, for Christ’s sake,’ and I down my drink and tie his jaw up with a nice bow at the top, and pop, his mouth opens up again. I try a belt, pop, another tie, pop, two ties, pop, two ties and the belt, pop. Another scotch and I’m eyeballing the stapler on his desk. ‘You’re loving this shit,’ I say and he smiles back at me in that knowing way.
I’m straddling his chest and, with a combination of knotted-together ties, wrapping his head up as fast as humanly possible, knotting the top in a half-hitch as hard as I can, all the while talking to Dad as beads of nervous sweat leave my bald head and land on his, and my sister walks in with a cup of tea, that she drops.
‘Paul,’ she says, and closes the door behind her then gives me the hushed bollocking at quarter volume. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
My head spins around; her hands are covering her mouth, ‘I’m taking him out for breakfast, what the fuck do you think I’m doing?’ I say and hop off.
We stand there looking at our father and she grabs the scotch out of my hand and takes a drink.
‘He’s smiling,’ she says.
‘Yes, I know,’ I reply. Our father lay there with four neckties wrapped around his head, grinning up at us.
‘Cheers, Dad, nice one,’ France says and leaves us.
The funeral is hard. I am amazed at how many people turn up, as well as the flood of messages, emails and telegrams that come in over the next few days from all over the world. The church is packed. Elisabeth has done an amazing job, organising everything and giving my father a very civilised and memorable send-off. My mother is effortlessly supportive and that makes her such a wonderful mum. Afterwards I stand in the corner at the wake and one by one meet people who knew Dad, people in uniform, in kilts. I’m hit with more than one Masonic handshake and lodge banter, reams of characters, some of them quite teary, and young people who tell me that they wouldn’t be where they were in business today without Dad’s support. They all talk about a man who they would miss, especially his sense of humour.
Dad went out smiling in the end. He managed to stay on this good earth long enough to hold his grandchildren and tell them how much he loved them. And I got to throttle him with a necktie.
Honi soit qui mal y pense—I found these words on the back of my father’s commendation, so small I could barely make them out. They say, ‘Evil to him who evil thinks.’
SPECIAL THANKS
After repeated snivelling, I was backed by several companies. Had they not, I would still be sitting on my arse in Perth wondering how fast that bike could have gone, and for that I am truly grateful.
So thanks to Linc Energy, Vallourec & Mannesmann Tubes, SGS Australia, Jet-Lube, Besmindo, Pentagon Freight, Frank’s International, Xtex, Test Trak, Prospero Productions, Roadbend Jaguar.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Jason Theo, Peter Bond, Shaun Southwell, Erwin Herczeg, Donald Millar, Mark and Elaine Murray, Neil Boath, Ross Luck, Christiaan Durrant, Jethro Nelson, Matt Bromley (still alive after riding into God’s blind spot), Howard Fletcher, Simon Hann, Maximum Dave, Clayton Jacobson, Diego Berazategui, Janelle van de Velde, Jim Thompson, Les Ellis, Drew Gardenier, Craig Walding, Gregg and Sherri Cooper, Ashley Taylor, Tony Pecival, Hartley Taylor, the remarkable Elisabeth Sandison, Associate Professor Colin Kestell, Rob Dempster, Ed Styles, Steve Smith, Russell Vines, Eliot Buchan, Ed Punchard, Julia Redwood, Nicole Tetrault, Duncan Milne, Sally and Simon Dominguez, Julian Carraher, Dare Jennings, Jeff Lemon, Boston and Sid for turning my helmet into a toilet.