In the empty block beside the hall half-a-dozen cars were parked. Out the front, a young woman was sitting on the grass, smoking. Shh, she said, when Beth approached. She looked at the blue bag with the red tie and smiled. Are you here for the meeting? She had short blond hair and was wearing a black T-shirt with the words Death Done Good on it. Did you come by train? I thought they stopped that ages ago. She butted out her cigarette. Come in, come in, she said: my name’s Kellie. Don’t be scared, you don’t have to sing, just mouth the words, that’s what I do, there’s always some wankers singing loud enough for two. She wiped her hand on her leg and popped a mint in her mouth. What’s your name? Beth, said Beth. Ah, Beth! said Kellie. She led her across the grass and stopped before the door. Drop it there, she said. There were a few small bags and packs lying in a pile beside the steps; Beth dropped her blue plastic bag among them but kept her tote bag close. Now don’t get panicked, said Kellie: go slow. The opt-out clause is valid right up to seven and it’s only three-thirty now. But you should join in just the same. I’m a cynic, said Kellie, leaning over and whispering to her, always have been, but it’s changed my life, I can tell you. I’m going up there tonight, for sure. She gave Beth a smile, a beautiful smile, a smile that said I know exactly what I’m doing. She opened the door and ushered Beth in.
There were about thirty people inside, standing and singing. A big-boned woman in a flowing dress was on a raised stage at the front, her hands out as if at a revivalist meeting, moving in rhythm with the crowd. And yes, as Beth stood at the back and took it all in, it struck her how much like a revivalist meeting it looked: the voices in harmony, the swaying bodies, the charismatic leader, the clear feeling that something profound was going on in the room. Kellie took her by the hand (what a beautiful gesture, thought Beth, to take someone by the hand) and led her through the crowd. Some turned, and Kellie gestured as if to say: Look what I found! Everyone smiled, and continued singing. They were holding lyric sheets, glancing down for the verses and lowering them to their sides for the chorus. It was all done in unison, the woman at the front showing the way. Kellie found a spot deep in the crowd, pulled out her own lyric sheet and started mouthing the words. She lifted the sheet in front of Beth and encouraged her to do the same. Beth did, glancing sideways at Kellie’s lips: full red lips, with the crease of a smile in the corner. As the final chorus rang out the big woman raised her arms and, in a gesture, thought Beth, very elegant for someone with such chubby hands, she closed her fingers into fists, drew them together and pulled them apart as if stretching out a piece of elastic, then brought them to a springy stop. Everyone clapped and cheered.
All right, said the woman, calling for quiet, now Alan is going to say a few words. She stretched her hands out towards the edge of the stage where an elderly man was mounting the steps. He was thin and slightly stooped but with nonetheless an incredibly straight spine, like someone had put a metal rod through it. His hair was neatly cut and he had a short, grey, well-trimmed beard. There was something of the old hippie about him. He took the microphone stand that the woman brought in from the wings and quickly adjusted the height. He looked like he’d done this before.
I know, he said, that because of my university background many of you have got used to calling me The Professor. And yes, he said, smiling, I will be using a few big words. But they call Death the great leveller for a reason. I am neither above nor below you. Tonight we are all equal. His voice was mesmerising, full of quiet authority; everyone stood silently listening. I am going to speak from the heart, he said, as those who came before me have and those who come after surely will. I want to speak of resignation. The word has two meanings: let me first speak of the first. To resign, to quit, to give notice, an active verb, this is the meaning we are most familiar with. When I resigned from my position as lecturer in moral philosophy—a prestigious position, I must tell you—to protest against the dumbing-down of our universities, this was an active thing. I was taking action. Now, some of you may think that what we are doing here is in this first sense of the verb. We are, you might say, taking action against those who are trying to keep us alive. We are protesting in the same way I was with my resignation. But I want to argue that, no, we are resigning ourselves in the second, passive, sense. We are not saying: Here, look at me. We are saying: That’s it, I’ve had enough. It is this second sense of resignation that I want to talk about this afternoon. Philosophers, founders of religions, poets, painters, they all, like us, here, at the final moment, have grappled with the idea of the self giving itself over to the Great Unknown. Of giving in, of giving up. Of saying No in the face of Yes. This acceptance of No, of negativity, against the cacophony of positivity our society continually assaults us with, this is where all of you about to go are forging a new path. They tell us life is worth living. Who are they and what would they know? Since when did they become experts? Have they got wind of something we haven’t, aside from the fairies-at-the-bottom-of-the-garden talk about Jehovahs, Jesuses and Mohammeds? We say No. We have found the Great Resignation. Life, we say, is not worth living: you can bang on about it all you like but we know Death is better.
I know, The Professor continued, up at the Big House this evening, after we have drunk and eaten and danced and sung, that those who are ready to go to the place from whose bourn no traveller returns will join hands, cross to Bald Hill, and pass from this life through the gateway into the next. To those who at the so-called eleventh hour choose not participate but to observe, please know that we are not judging you. We all approach our end in our own way, and in our own time. Death hath ten thousand several doors. A death well planned but badly executed is in many ways worse than a life badly lived. Ripeness is all. In life there are a million little corrections you can make: the alcoholic can give up the grog, the philanderer may curb their ways, the murderer does time and reforms. But a botched death, my friends—it’s over, it can’t be undone. We are here to celebrate our togetherness in this great and final moment, but no matter how communal tonight’s event in many ways will be death is still a private matter. We must all square the ledger with ourselves, in our hearts, before we book a berth on Charon’s boat.
Beth listened, hypnotised by The Professor’s words; the crowd around her in the hall were doing the same. He seemed to be throwing open the doors and letting a cold blast of reality in. Of course she stumbled in her thoughts each time he said the D-word or uttered his euphemisms for it but she just as quickly gained her feet. After the events of the preceding days—appointments, referrals, tests—she felt that, yes, finally, she had arrived at the shore of the river with the jetty (as The Professor might have put it) where Charon’s boat was tied. But was she really ready to go? The journey from denial to acceptance, said Panchal, is often the most fraught we can take.
Just as she was thinking this, The Professor finished, everyone applauded and another man took the stage. He was young, late twenties at most, once obviously well built but now stripped to skin and bone. A tradie, like Trent. His face had an unearthly white pallor. The big woman had brought on a chair and The Professor lowered the microphone for him. The young man started by telling everyone how he’d already said goodbye to his wife and young children and that now he wanted to say a proper goodbye to all those gathered here who had, he said, choking up, this past fortnight, become his other family. He was crying now, the tears falling freely from his cheeks to the floor. Beth felt faint, her knees wobbled. She looked around for Kellie but Kellie was gone. Had she pushed her way to the front? Beth carved a path back out through the crowd to the door: it parted for her, there was no ill will, people were coming and going throughout.
There were others outside, taking the air, listening to the amplified voice of the young man coming from inside the hall. Some were at the fence, staring at the open fields that rolled like a carpet to the horizon; some were smoking; one had a hip flask; some were asleep—or looked to be—in the shade of a scraggy old gum. Beth stood listening. There was another r
ound of applause. She heard the big woman’s voice again, singing the first line of a new song.
Kellie hurried towards Beth clutching a T-shirt and held it up for her to see. It’s your size, I think, she said. No, actually, it might be a bit big across here. Do you want to try it on? There’s toilets out the back, the brick block past the tank. Beth took the T-shirt from her. Is something wrong? Beth shrugged. Is something wrong? What The Professor said is a good thing, said Kellie, to remind us we are free agents, that we have free will, that nothing and definitely not our freedom can be taken away, even at the end. A dignified death, said Kellie, that’s one where you’re in control. You’ve done Sit and See? Beth nodded. She was staring out like the others now, the T-shirt rolled up in her hand. I understand it’s all going a bit fast, said Kellie, most of us have been here for weeks, you’ve barely been here half an hour. When was your first presentiment? Four, five days ago, said Beth; I was outside with a glass of wine, looking at the moon. There you go, said Kellie, you’ve still got plenty of time—don’t think you have to go tonight. She stood up straight. I am, she said, for sure. But there’ll still be folks around tomorrow to talk to, plus the new lot arriving Sunday. Relax. Beth turned to Kellie and smiled. What could she do but smile? Hadn’t Kellie smiled and taken her by the hand?
Why are you going? asked Beth. Kellie seemed momentarily taken aback. You’re so young, she said. Kellie’s smile darkened. No judgments, she said, we don’t do judgment here—and then, as an afterthought: Fuck I love this song! She opened the door, the singing burst out: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Kellie slipped inside.
Beth listened for a while: the singing was beautiful, it was a beautiful song. They repeated the chorus, the crescendo rising, then—cut—the singers stopped. There was loud applause, the doors flew open, the bolts were pushed down and the people inside spilled out. Beth took her T-shirt to the toilets; it was shady around there, and quiet.
She was about to go in when she saw The Professor cross from the back door of the hall to the fence where the cars were parked and use his rolled-up speech to push the top wire down. Professor, she said—excuse me, I’m sorry, can we talk? He stopped. She stepped forward. I’m not sure I can do this, she said; I have two daughters, two beautiful daughters, and a husband who loves me dearly. I heard what you said about resignation, but even though I’ve done Sit and See I don’t think I’m yet completely resigned. That’s the truth. Yes, yes, said The Professor, but are you coming up to the Big House? Beth nodded. The Professor flipped his leg over—a young volunteer was waiting for him on the other side. He swung the car door open. Later, said The Professor, later—and he slipped past the volunteer into his seat.
In the toilet, there were dark lesions on the chrome mirror where the rain had got in. Beth tried on the T-shirt: it didn’t fit. How different I look already, she thought. She took it off, rolled it up and changed back into her white cotton top. Outside, the cars were backing out of the car park and some people were already making their way down the road on foot. There was a white van waiting up on the verge with its motor running. The big woman was locking the hall. Beth threw her blue bag over her shoulder—then she heard Kellie calling out. Over here, hurry up, bus departing! Her head was halfway out the window. There were others in the van too. The walkers turned back to look. Come on! said Kellie.
Except for the one next to Kellie, all the seats in the van were taken. You don’t like the T-shirt, she said. It’s a bit big, said Beth. Damn, said Kellie, I’ll get you another one later. But you’re not just saying that, are you? Beth shook her head. They were moving slowly down the road away from the hall; the walkers stood aside while they passed. Beth could see more cars up ahead; the van driver was hanging back on account of the dust. He had a blue collared shirt and a blue armband high up on his bicep.
Like Kellie, most of those in the bus were young; it was the older ones who’d chosen to walk. Can you put some music on? she said. The driver fiddled with the radio. So what happens now, said Kellie, is that we go up to the Big House and get ready. She was talking to Beth but with her eyes straight ahead. Most have already settled in, she said, there were only a few who arrived today, so the majority are pretty familiar with things—but don’t worry, I’ll explain. Are you okay? I mean, are you feeling all right inside? Beth bit her lip. Kellie put her arms around her and drew her into a hug. Beth didn’t know what to do. The young man in the seat across the aisle turned to watch. Kellie released her. We’ll make you better, she said—well, no, that’s not right, that’s silly! She laughed. The young man was laughing too. We won’t make you better, said Kellie, but we’ll try to make things right. It was not so much the hug as Kellie’s last words that finally settled the butterflies in Beth’s stomach. We’ll try to make things right.
Kellie went quiet after that, as did the others; the radio played, the van rattled on the bumpy road. Beth looked out the window. They passed first through sheep country—the wheat-fields were behind them—then wound their way through low scrub and empty paddocks. The van turned left onto a straight road which went up a rise. There were no crops or livestock here; the wild grass had been left to grow. The driver turned the radio down.
At the top of the rise was an old homestead, with a few gum trees on the near side and a couple of old sheds further on. Past them Beth could see a cluster of single-room demountables, like the portable classrooms at Lettie and Gem’s school. She counted three, then, as they got closer, at least six more on the other side. The cars were pulling up; doors were slamming and people were moving around. The van pulled up behind. Kellie grabbed Beth’s hand and squeezed it. All right, she said.
THE BIG HOUSE
Their driver slid the door back; everyone started ducking their heads and making their way out. Kellie took Beth’s hand again and led her to a volunteer sitting on a fold-up chair under one of the trees. This is Beth, she said, she’s a newbie, she arrived by train today, Glenda’s already ticked her off. She’s not sure if she wants to go yet but there’ll be spare beds in ours soon if she stays. The volunteer, an elderly woman who looked like she’d been asleep, lifted her eyes. What? This is Beth, said Kellie, she’s sleeping at ours—and before the volunteer could object she was leading her away again. Don’t worry, you’ll like it, it’s fine, she said. They crossed the open area on the eastern side of the house—Beth could see other volunteers watching from chairs on the wide verandah—towards the paddock with the demountables in it. There was a low hill in the distance with a patch on top where the ground had been trampled or scorched. Bald Hill, said Kellie, and she touched Beth lightly on the elbow.
On the paddock with the demountables the ground too had been trampled, this time into little tracks that merged into one bigger track that led back up to the house. There was good space between the rooms (you could have packed more in if you’d wanted) with each door set at a slightly different angle so none looked into another. Kellie slid one back.
It was warm inside, with bedsheets hung over the north-facing windows and half-a-dozen mattresses spread across the floor. Each had a small stack of possessions at the end. There were three people in there lying down: all women. Two were reading and one was wearing headphones; they barely glanced up. Kellie told Beth to leave her things in the corner for now and that she could take her bed later. This is my third week, she said, so it almost feels like home. Mind you, she whispered, there are some who have been here a lot longer. The woman with the headphones looked up. And maybe grab something warm, said Kellie, for later. Beth took a cardigan from the hospital bag and tied it around her waist.
It was a relief to be outside with no baggage; she’d not been free of the tote bag since leaving home or of the other stuff since the Kolms’. Kellie led her back to the front of the house, stopping here and there along the way to introduce her to passers-by. This is Beth, she’s a newbie! They all seemed happy to stop and chat but were also, Beth noticed, distracted. It’s because of this evening, she thought, and the business with Bald
Hill. There were six wide steps to the front verandah; a group of volunteers was sitting up there in a row of green plastic chairs. Kellie introduced her to them. Middle-aged to elderly, they’d all been chatting and laughing, but now lowered their voices as Kellie led Beth past them to the front door.
It was a mansion inside, originally built, said Kellie, by one of the wealthier families in the district. The surviving members had moved away and the property had changed hands a few times, she said, before about ten years ago a foreign investor bought it. But he was land banking, hoping to sell it for a profit down the track, and by the time Jerry and his charity took it over for peppercorn rent it was looking pretty sad. With weekend working bees, said Kellie, they’d got the dead birds out of the chimneys and the dead sheep out of the ballroom and made it habitable again.
They’d stopped in the grand entrance hall now: leadlight panels on either side of the front door and ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. The old carpets were long gone, the raw floorboards sanded and polished and all the walls painted a uniform white. Kellie stopped before a door. The Crying Room, she said. She pushed it back a little. No, she said, no-one here. She pushed it all the way back and gestured for Beth to follow her in.
It was a big, light-filled room with an old fireplace at one end and along the wall directly opposite enormous sash windows looking out across the paddocks to Bald Hill. Scattered around the room were coloured beanbags, big cushions with loud prints and about a dozen low wooden tables with a box of tissues on each. It’s quiet now, said Kellie, but it will be busy later on. Come on, she said, and she took Beth’s hand again. (It seemed normal now.) Quietly, reverentially, Kellie closed the Crying Room door. Down here, she said, and I’ll show you the ballroom.
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