Two people walked past carrying a trestle table, and Kellie and Beth followed them to the next door. It doubles as a dining room, said Kellie, and she pointed inside. The volunteers set the table down and more volunteers started bringing in chairs. This room was three to four times bigger than the Crying Room, but with the same polished floor, white walls and big floor-to-ceiling windows looking past the eastern verandah and the compound of demountables to Bald Hill. This is the set-up for dinner, Kellie was saying, you won’t be able to move in here later, but then, after we’ve eaten, the tables and chairs go and it gets converted back into a ballroom. Singing and dancing are important to us, she said: you’ll see. A female volunteer carrying a stack of chairs stopped, smiled at Beth, put down her load and grabbed Kellie by the fingers. How are you feeling? she asked. Kellie hesitated; the woman drew her aside. Beth stood waiting while more chair carriers came and went.
This is Beth, said Kellie, to the volunteer who’d drawn her aside, I’m buddying her; she’s not sure yet. The volunteer held out her hand. I’m Sarah, she said. The look, the voice, the demeanour were all direct, heartfelt, sincere. She let go of Beth’s hand, touched Kellie’s arm and went out again. Kellie raised her finger. The kitchen! she said.
Beth knew the tour was important, that Kellie only had her best interests at heart, but already she was starting to feel a bit weak-kneed again. Wasn’t Kellie herself feeling tired? She was going tonight—did she really want to spend her last hours showing the newbie around? The Pampering Room, said Kellie, pointing at another door. They’ll open it soon; I’m booked for six. Down there—she gestured to another hallway—are our Counselling Rooms: One, Two, Three. Past that is the admin area—but we don’t go down there. They walked on. Another female volunteer came towards them carrying a zipped-up sports bag. Beth recognised her straight away. It was Meg, the woman from the house with the hairdresser sign and the dog. How are you feeling, Kel? she asked. A million dollars! said Kellie. Sorry about Keeba, said Meg to Beth; I was too busy when she was a puppy and now it’s come back to bite. Ha! But you’ve settled in okay, got your buddy? There was something teacherly about her voice. I’ll see you later, she said. She took out a bunch of keys, unlocked the Pampering Room door and went inside. Meg, said Kellie. Yes, said Beth. And here’s the kitchen, said Kellie. She pushed open another door.
There was a blast of hot air and a hundred smells. While the rest of the house seemed muzzled in a blanket of calm, in here it was all movement and noise: taps going on, food being chopped, stocks and sauces prepared, instructions shouted from one end of the room to the other. There were about a dozen volunteers in there, dressed in light-blue aprons and caps, preparing for the evening meal. Kellie walked Beth between the benches. I know it looks a bit over the top, she said, but the idea is that anyone going gets to choose their last meal. And we’re not just doing hospital food either! I’m having baked trout, she said, because I was born on a farm near a river where my dad used to take me fishing. And scalloped potatoes on the side. This is Hannah, she’s doing the potatoes. Hannah looked up and nodded. She spoke quietly, but even with the background noise Beth could still hear: she was telling Kellie to lie down before dinner and let someone else show the newbie around. But she’s still not sure, said Kellie, she might want to go tonight. Hannah looked at Beth. She won’t be going tonight, Hannah whispered back; anyone can see that.
The big woman in the flowing dress who had led the singing came in through the back door of the kitchen, picked up a stick of celery, threw a few instructions left and right, then exited again through the other door back into the main part of the house. A couple of volunteers raised their eyebrows and whispered to each other in her wake. This way, said Kellie, and she led Beth out the door the big woman had come in.
Out here, on a flat area of trampled grass, were three shipping containers and, beyond them, a row of charity bins, all blue. One of the containers was refrigerated; Beth could hear the motor purring. Another had its door open with a man walking backwards down a plank; he trundled his trolley of boxes up the worn path to the door. Down here, said Kellie, and she led Beth past the charity bins to a little patch of vegetables and herbs, crudely fenced with bamboo stakes. Most of the summer crop had gone to seed but in a section at one end some new cabbage seedlings had been planted. I’ve been looking after it, said Kellie, but someone else is going to have to do it now. It’s north-facing—that’s east (she pointed right) and that’s west—so it gets good sun all year. She crushed some mint between her finger and thumb.
Who pays for all this? asked Beth. Kellie brushed the mint from her fingers. The community, she said, the general community, with donations. We’re outside anything official here. It runs on disenchantment, that’s the fuel—disenchantment with all those systems and institutions that people have blindly followed to now. If you can take back control of Death, Beth, you can take back anything, really. She pinched the edges of her T-shirt so the slogan stood out like a billboard. They want to keep us alive—but why? Because they can, she said. Well, fuck ’em all, I say.
She walked around from the back of the house to where the land sloped and the full view of Bald Hill opened up. Come here, she said, hold my hand; I need someone to hold my hand. Beth did as she asked. They were standing below the verandah and low in the east Beth could see a full moon rising, solid pearl against a deepening blue. From the west a low sun threw long shadows across the grass. Kellie had gone silent; Beth held her hand in silence too and watched the light on Bald Hill change.
Other people started gathering on the grass area below. Beth saw The Professor wander over for a chat; his hair looked all aflame. Nearer the house, on the edge of its shadow but still in light, Beth could see the sick tradesman who’d spoken earlier in the hall sitting on a fold-up chair with a stubbie holder in its arm, beside him on the ground an esky just big enough to hold a six-pack and beside that, two empty stubbies. He wore a peaked cap and had a blanket over his shoulders. Further down, along the fence near the drive, three elderly women stood in a row. They were all bald, and each had an arm around the other. The sounds were all echoey and strange. On the one hand you could hear things far away (a train going north, a chainsaw in a nearby town) and on the other, but at the same volume, everything up close: Kellie swallowing, your own heartbeat, a murmuring from the volunteers up on the verandah, a pot being stirred in the kitchen. Kellie shuffled, and loosened her hand. I need to go, she said. Will you be okay? Beth nodded and, without thinking, patted Kellie reassuringly on the hand. (The shoe is on the other foot, she thought.) Yes, she said, I’ll be fine: you go, thank you. Kellie headed back towards the house.
The tradie in the deckchair opened another stubbie. A car with its lights on came up the drive towing a trailer with a ride-on mower. The Professor was still talking with the group on the lawn—maybe Beth should try speaking with him again? But just then he stepped back, said a friendly goodbye, and with his straight-backed stoop he walked up to the house. Beth stepped out of the shadow into the last of the light. She found a patch of grass between the tradie and the east verandah and sat. The hill was almost phosphorescent now. She heard a motor start up, and everyone looked in the direction of the driveway. A farmer—he looked like a farmer, wore a farmer’s greasy hat—was driving his ride-on mower off the trailer down to the fence where the three old women were standing. (One of them had since put on a woollen hat.) He chatted with them a moment while he undid the gate. He drove through, and one of the ladies closed it behind him.
As the farmer turned the mower’s headlights on Beth saw for the first time the faint line of a track already mown; ankle-high against the surrounding knee-high grass, it cut a straight line to the crest of Bald Hill. The farmer started over-mowing, working his way a hundred metres up, then mowing back again. The track he made was as wide as a road and he was taking it back almost to the ground. Insects rose in his wake; the exhaust hung in the air as a blue-grey haze. The noise, loud at first, grew gradually dista
nt. Beth and the others watched the evening light change and a bright-lit road open up, a bright arrow pointing the way.
She stayed out there watching the sky turn and the full moon above glow bright. When the farmer finished he drove at speed back down from the hill to the gate. The old women had gone inside; he opened it himself. In the gathering dark Beth watched him put the mower back up on the trailer and strap it down. It was only Beth and the tradie out there now; she watched him kick his empty stubbies aside, pick up his esky, fold the chair and stagger back towards the house. The lights on the verandah came on. A bell rang. Someone called out: Dinner!
The lights were on low in the entrance hall but the dining room was bright. Beth was one of the last ones in. The trestle tables and chairs were set in rows, and from what she could see most were already filled. The room smelled of hot food, perfume, aftershave and deodorant. At the far table near the windows Kellie stood and waved. Over here, she said, I’ve kept a place! She pointed at the empty seat beside her. She’d had her hair and makeup done and was now wearing a shoulderless red satin dress. Beth made her way towards her past the tables, on each a vase of white flowers. Many in the dining room were dressed up like Kellie: evening frocks, pressed trousers and collared shirts, coiffed and gelled hair, clean pores, shaved skin, shiny jewellery and shoes. Of the fifty or so people in the room at least twenty were dressed like this.
When Beth reached the table, Kellie threw her arms around her—she’d had her nails painted too—and introduced her to the others. This is Beth, she said, she’s not going yet, but she’ll scrub up nicely when she does! They all laughed. Kellie kissed her on the cheek. Beth sat down. Kellie was wearing too much foundation, her red lipstick was overdone and her hairstyle pulled straight from a cheap magazine. She was wearing so much deodorant it had already stained the underarms of her dress. She’d had a bit to drink.
Beth let her eyes skip over the crowd. On the far side she could see the three bald women with their bouffant wigs and too much makeup and further over The Professor with a glass of red wine, still dispensing last advice. The big woman was standing in front of the fireplace, counting heads. The tradesman appeared in the doorway. He was well and truly drunk but he’d had a makeover too: his hair was gelled and his face shaven, he wore an ill-fitting suit and polished black leather shoes. He waved his arms about like a windmill to let everyone know he was there and the room gave him a big round of applause. He gave it a bow that nearly put him on his head. The big woman came over, took him by the arm and gently led him to his chair.
The meals started coming out: the chosen ones were served first. Kellie clapped her hands like a child when a volunteer waiter put the plate of baked trout in front of her. She even kissed him on the cheek. Other special meals followed—the tradesman had a steak the size of a plate—and after that came gnocchi with pumpkin and sage, and green salads to share, the standard meals for the rest. Those going got the special wines too, with the waiters showing the labels like sommeliers and first pouring small portions to taste. Kellie offered her bottle around and called for another when it was gone.
The room ate and drank. There were conversations in pairs and groups, some hushed, some loud, some spoken shoulder to shoulder, some shouted down the table or across the room. There was the strong sense that everything going on here was for those dressed and ready to go; this party was theirs, they were the centre of attention and all the talk was tuned to them. There were smiles, nods, bent fingers on chins, while the waiters hovered like bees. I go to the great light with brushed teeth and clean undies, said Kellie, standing up and raising her glass: my work here, Mum, is done! Everyone laughed. But when Kellie sat down this time her brightness dulled. A waiter took her plate away. She finished another glass. She put her chin on Beth’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.
But it’s all bullshit, isn’t it? Bethy? The Great Fuss. Look at us. Look at me. I look like a fucking Barbie doll. And why am I getting all dressed up now when I had other reasons, other times? I had a boyfriend, once. He loved me, sure, but he couldn’t handle me either. Men. They get a sniffle and a cough and want you to rush them to emergency but you get a bit weak and helpless and they’re like: Oh, no, excuse me, I have to go and polish my balls. Fuck you, Nathan. Is it so hard to love someone? In their hour of need? So you break all the ties—you have to, don’t you?—cut them clean with a knife, say goodbye and leave all the what-could-have-beens behind. The things you might have done, places you could have gone, kids you could have had. Kellie let those last words hang, then lifted her chin from Beth’s shoulder and looked her in the eye. But it’s too late for that talk now, isn’t it? Bethy? Regrets! Regrets!—then, as if someone had thrown a switch, Kellie flipped back to happy: her eyes creased, her smile widened, her cheeks flared. Instruction time! she said, and she flicked a nail against her empty glass. Everyone, instruction time!
Thank you, Kellie, said the big woman, standing in front of the fireplace. Welcome, all. Kellie applauded. If you don’t know me yet, my name is Ruth and I am here to step you through a few dos and don’ts before our ceremony this evening. (Thank you, Kellie.) So, said Ruth, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, it’s seven o’clock now and the ceremony is for ten. It’s important in the time remaining that the personal space of those going be respected. We now should know who these people are, please take a moment to familiarise yourself with them. (Ruth allowed a few seconds for this to happen.) All leavers should be at the gate, and all viewers in position, by nine-forty-five at the latest. Please be aware that there are safety protocols that all of us must follow—participants and observers alike—to ensure a smooth and trouble-free evening. Only those leaving are allowed onto the paddock: all viewers must at all times remain behind the fence. Please also be aware that for those with sensitive eyes the light may be very bright and that on exit the sound will be very loud and you may wish to block your ears. Our debrief starts in Counselling Room Three thirty minutes after the end of the ceremony, at ten-forty-five sharp. She looked around the room. Any questions?
Someone asked her about the dance and Ruth reassured them it would start as soon as the room was cleared. She then announced that before Final Things it was time to dispose of medications and, as she did, one of the kitchenhands came out with a big mixing bowl and stood alongside her. All leavers, said Ruth, should now deposit their medications in the bowl Hayley is passing among you. Hayley moved around the room and as she did those dressed and ready to go rifled in their bags or pockets and dropped their tablets in the bowl. One by one the cardboard packets, plastic bottles, blister packs, pill reminders, Webster-paks were piled one on top of the other so that halfway around Hayley had to stop and push them all down with her fist. Kellie threw hers from across the table, like a basketballer into a hoop; the tradesman, suddenly glum, made Hayley take them from him. The three wigged old women had gathered theirs into a big pile and together they happily scooped them into the bowl. When this ritual—the saddest so far, thought Beth—was finished and Hayley had exited back to the kitchen, Ruth took the floor again. All right, she said, I now call for Final Things.
It took a while to get going. The leavers, then the others, if they chose, stood and shared a story, an anecdote, a poem, a joke or a song—anything, really—as a way to clear the gloom. First up was a man with a limerick where bed in the second line rhymed with dead in the first (everyone laughed and applauded), and next a woman with a complicated and in the end tragic story about a mother and a child (for a long while no-one said anything). A young woman sang unaccompanied in a minor key, a middle-aged man recited a poem of autumn-to-winter—the days grow short, then shorter—and immediately after that the drunk tradesman jumped up with a joke about a gravedigger, an undertaker and a postman. Everyone laughed in spite of themselves. Kellie belted out a karaoke version of My Way, her face screwed up, beetroot-red, holding her two clenched fists against her collarbones until they shook.
Beth at first felt rattled by all this, but a
fter a while she relaxed, sipped her wine and, like the others, applauded and laughed. Everyone knew these people were going, they had been building to it for weeks and now they were letting off steam. Soon a strange—at first Beth thought inappropriate—excitement was moving through the crowd: one person no longer waited for the other to finish before chiming in, a joke segued into a song, a song into an anecdote, an anecdote into a confession and that confession into another. At one point half the room seemed to be standing up. Ruth and The Professor—and, as Beth now saw, a well-dressed gentleman standing in the doorway—looked contentedly on. Yes, everything was going to plan.
Beth grabbed a bottle from the table and refilled her glass. To hell with it, she thought, these are my people now. But then, almost simultaneously, she felt the mood in the room turn. Many of those standing sat, and for a long while there was only the sound of chair legs scraping on boards. Beth looked around. Yes, those still on their feet were leavers—but just as she realised this, the leavers left. There was no spur, or none that Beth could see, it just felt like the energy in the room had been spent. Silently, in small groups or alone, they made their way out into the hall. Beth heard the chair beside her scrape and realised Kellie was going too. Kellie? she said. But Kellie didn’t hear—or didn’t want to. Beth watched—the scoop of her neckline, her thin white shoulders, her still elegant shape—as she crossed with the others, like zombies, to the door.
For a long time the people remaining didn’t know what to do with their hands: some sipped their drinks, some wiped their mouths with a scrunched-up napkin, some picked invisible lint from their sleeves. The waiters brought in dessert but few had an appetite for it. It was a pudding of some kind. They cleared the bottles and glasses, waiting where necessary while someone drank the dregs, all under the watchful eye of Ruth. Beth refilled her own glass before the waiter got to her, hid it momentarily under the tablecloth and picked uninterestedly at her dessert.
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