by Chris Else
59.
THE CHAPEL AT THE crematorium had stained glass windows, two of them on either side of the door. Each showed a lighted candle in a red holder. Each with a yellow flame, like a thick lick of blond hair. A symbol of eternal life. The coffin lay on a raised platform, on rollers. There were two little double doors ahead of it, closed now, but doubtless at the flick of a switch they would flip open and the rollers would start to turn, and the box would glide off into whatever place it was back there, with its oven and its men in overalls.
Tom alone, stood there looking, wondering why he had come here, wondering why he had not just done as the others and gone through the motions at Chapelgate. Waste of time really, standing here, trying to say goodbye, trying to think of words, of thoughts, that would move you on to somewhere else. A girl on her bicycle, with her library books strapped to the carrier, cycles off into the afternoon. That was goodbye, that was the chance, if only he’d known it.
— Bye, Dad. I’m off now.
— See you later, sweetheart. Take care.
So she rides away and you look at the sky and think that it might rain.
And in the end it all just gets packed up into a box, less than two metres long and a fifth as high and a quarter as wide at its widest point. A box of shiny wood veneer with fake brass handles. A box that’s heavy with the dead weight of waste and loss. You can cry over it, this box, standing here for the second time in six months, with your hand on the smooth, cold surface and your shoulders shaking. Tears; these are tears. He doesn’t know why he is crying, unless it’s for his little girl. He has to turn away.
The door opens. He doesn’t notice. He doesn’t see Lisa step inside and close it behind her.
She stands there, looking at him. He is facing the wall, with his head bowed. She sees his misery from a long way off. She doesn’t go to him, she doesn’t touch him. She can’t bring herself to touch him. She is not sure what she feels. The pity and the sadness and the rage have gone. But she can’t find the love either, not just now. Nothing but the circumstance, the being here.
‘Tom,’ she says.
About the Author
Chris Else was born in the UK and came to New Zealand age thirteen. He was educated at Auckland Grammar School, University of Auckland and Auckland Teachers’ College, none of which fitted him for a settled career. He has worked as postie, storeman, publisher’s rep, bookseller, computer programmer and information consultant. He also teaches both creative and technical writing and, with his wife Barbara, runs TFS, a literary agency and manuscript assessment service. He has, for many years, been active in literary politics through such organisations as the New Zealand Society of Authors.
Chris has published three novels and two collections of short stories. He can be contacted through his website: www.elseware.co.nz
Other books by Chris Else
Novels
Why Things Fall
Brainjoy
The Beetle in the Box
Short Stories
Dreams of Pythagoras
Endangered Species
Copyright
National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Else, Chris, 1942-
On River Road / Chris Else.
ISBN 1-86941-623-6
I. Title.
NZ823.2—dc 22
A VINTAGE BOOK
published by
Random House New Zealand
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
www.randomhouse.co.nz
First published 2004
© 2004 Chris Else
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 77553 093 0
Cover design and illustration: Matthew Trbuhovic, Third Eye Design & Graphics
Design: Katy Yiakmis
Printed in Australia by Griffin Press