It was her sister whom Cass was concerned for at Warwick’s funeral, rather than being overwhelmed at the loss of a sometime lover, and her solicitude seemed genuine. That coupling years before may well have been a single and impetuous thing, meaning little against the love they both had for Belize. Or it may have been the one glimpse of an affair that for a time at least was the focus of their world. It was no one else’s business now, and most certainly long over.
‘I can come down for as long as I’m needed,’ Cass volunteered. ‘I’ve told Belize that. Or she can come to us, can’t she, Norman?’
‘Absolutely. As long as she likes. Absolutely,’ affirmed Norman.
‘She’s always been so strong,’ said Cass. ‘She doesn’t like to ask for help.’
‘It’s kind of you,’ said Sheff. Cass hadn’t been to see Warwick in his last weeks. That could be explained in all sorts of ways, and there was no profit in surmise. And Nelson was a long drive.
‘Anything we can do,’ said Cass, squinting slightly into the sun. ‘Anything.’
People seemed reluctant to go into the chapel. They clustered in the outside brightness, turned to each other and the plots searching for acquaintance. Sheff noticed Belize pointing him out to a small, upright man in a good suit, who then came across and introduced himself as Simon Pask, Warwick’s partner. Belize had asked him to be one of the pallbearers. Despite their being unknown to each other, Simon gripped Sheff’s arm with some familiarity. ‘Sorely missed,’ he said. ‘I saw him on almost a daily basis for nearly fifteen years. I visited him several times before you and your sister came home, but didn’t like to bother you all towards the end. Yes, sorely missed. In all that time never a cross word, you know that. Quite remarkable in business.’
‘He didn’t like arguments,’ said Sheff.
‘Never a cross word. Fancy that. And punctilious to a fault, if that’s possible.’
‘I suppose it’s that sort of profession.’ Sheff remembered his father saying his partner was lazy, that he was one of the few men who still smoked cigarillos, and had to be asked not to do so in the office. There did seem an emanation of tobacco fumes from him, and even his complexion had a teakish quality. ‘Dad often worked late at the office, but as a matter of principle rarely brought work home,’ said Sheff. ‘And he was a quick, focused worker, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, indeed, and never a cross word. Sorely missed. And where is Georgie, your sister?’ Pask was already looking about, having done his duty as far as the son was concerned. He stood very straight, making the most of what height he had. From the sleeve of his dark suit a cuff-link gleamed silver. Once Georgie was located, he was briskly away to pay his respects there. He and many others had shared life to some degree with Warwick, but Sheff felt little connection with them, having the selfish conviction that the essential man was unknown to them.
A woman with a slash of cherry lipstick materialised before him, shifting until she was absolutely square on. ‘Remember me,’ she said. He did, of course, although she wore a lemon dress, not the jeans she had on when she’d accosted him in the café, or the red shorts when she breasted him on the bridge walkway. He recalled the firm restraint of her hand on his shoulder, the flowers somersaulting gracefully towards the river.
‘I remember. Did you know my father?’ he said.
‘Never met him, but I knew the name,’ she said. ‘I came because of you. You’re still hanging around Jessica like a bad smell, even though I told you it’s not a good idea. I reckon you’re a slow learner.’
‘What the hell is it with you?’ Sheff found it preposterous that he was again being confronted by this dumpy woman, and given orders. He still half expected the whole thing to be a joke: for her to break into laughter and say he’d fallen for it, that she was a friend of Georgie’s, or Jessica’s, and they were having him on. Except that she bore somehow an authentic hostility.
‘What have you done to your face?’ Her satisfaction in referring to the minor injury was obvious.
‘It’s no business of yours.’
‘Been poking it where it doesn’t belong, I bet.’
‘Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ he said.
‘Believe me, I’ll cut your balls off if I have to. Understand?’ And she made a snipping gesture. ‘It’s a sad time for you and all that, but you need to pay attention to what I’m saying. I’m not kidding.’ She made no effort to lower her voice.
‘Who made you the bloody ringmaster?’ said Sheff. ‘It’s pretty sick to come to a funeral and carry on like this. I bet you’ve got some crush on Jessica yourself. Well, she can look after herself. She doesn’t need a minder. Grow up, for Christ’s sake.’
She seemed to come a step closer without moving her feet, and glared up into his face. ‘No more warnings,’ she said ominously, ‘so it’s up to you. Jessica’s off-limits. She’s a lovely person and she’d had enough of pricks like you. You’ve done your family duty down here, and now you should just piss off back where you came from. I’m done with warnings.’
They stood in silence for a few moments, quite close, scrutinising each other while more amicable conversations went on around them. The woman wasn’t embarrassed. She had a pugnacious righteousness and met his gaze. Her face was a doll-like one of reduced features and smooth surface. A bumble bee hung droning between them for a moment, resembling an animated and brightly banded small fruit, but she wasn’t distracted.
‘What’s your name?’ Sheff asked, but she fronted up to that, too, without hesitation.
‘Pamela Rudge.’
‘Well, Pamela, don’t tell me what to do.’ A weak response, but the best he could come up with. He’d failed to gain the initiative in a situation that should have ensured it – accosted at his father’s funeral by a strange woman with demands to end a reciprocated friendship. When he said no more, Pamela gave a slight smile, accentuated by the brightness of her lipstick, drew a finger significantly across her throat, then turned and walked towards the cars. Her lemon dress seemed brighter than the clothes of the other women, but unsuitable nevertheless, in a way Sheff was unable to determine: maybe it was just that she had seemed more comfortable in jeans or shorts. He tried to think of some crushing statement to make to her back, but came up with nothing.
He thought about her as he sat with Georgie and their mother in the chapel. The woman’s powerful sexual jealousy seemed strange, but was no more bizarre perhaps than any of the other emotions that blazed forth in relationships. Even as he gave his eulogy he looked along the rows for a woman in a lemon dress, in case she’d come back prepared to break into his speech with further threats, or stride to the coffin and denounce him. People had crowded in, standing at the back, even in the small foyer and overflowing into the sunlight. He was almost certain she wasn’t present, but Jessica was, and her smile enabled Sheff to dismiss the other woman.
Because he’d feared he might be overcome with emotion while speaking of his father, he’d written it all down, and he read it word for word. The precaution was needless, for he felt quite calm, partly because he had no sense of Warwick’s presence, but more because he refused in public to reveal a depth of love, or sorrow. There was nothing of genuine intimacy in what he said. Apart from Georgie and Belize, perhaps Cass, the people sitting there surely had no real knowledge of his father, no share in his inner life. They had no entitlement to share the grief of family.
None of the other speakers, save Georgie, caused him to change his opinion. Simon Pask repeated his truisms of the sorely missed, and told of Warwick’s equanimity when he made his sole hole-in-one. ‘Completely unruffled. Totally,’ he said, lifting his teak face, giving a theatrical chuckle, more interested in his own oration than any sincere tribute. Neighbours spoke of unobtrusive support and helpfulness as neighbours do, clients extolled his husbandry on their behalf, and an elderly woman with dyed hair and a self-induced plum claimed an acquaintance since they were both three years old, as if that alone gave her b
oth precedence and privilege.
Georgie’s tribute was the only one that touched Sheff at all: far more personal and affecting than his own. She said Warwick was a man of undisclosed ambitions, a hidden idealist who took refuge in benevolent cynicism. She spoke of his equanimity, his love of walking and detestation of rap music, his liberalism within the family and repression of the garden. Sheff’s vocation was words, and he was impressed by her insight, but thought it wasted on the gathering, though he knew very few of those who had come, and had no evidence to support his disparagement. To himself he admitted that maybe the unwillingness to credit others with a true affection for his father arose from a selfish need to foreground his own relationship.
The burial was short and simple. Warwick wasn’t a believer. After the dutiful stand at the open grave, Sheff looked for Jessica among the people spreading out on the lawns among the headstones. A few folk had headed for the car park immediately, but on such a fine, still day most preferred to stand in groups and talk. Jessica was in conversation with a couple she introduced as the Tanes, wine growers from Cromwell who had been Warwick’s clients. After making that clear and giving their commiserations, they moved away, leaving Sheff and Jessica together as they wished. For the first time he saw her dressed up. The frock was slim-cut and sleeveless, the colour a deep blue. She had a sapphire ring on her left hand, a slim gold bracelet on the same wrist, and her lips were lightly glossed. An understated glamour that suited her and the occasion, yet Sheff preferred her as she had been at other times – casual, with little make-up, and shoes she could wear into a paddock. He was reminded that she was a professional woman, divorced and with a child. The dress had no collar and the small birthmark on her neck was visible. She had made no attempt to hide or disguise it, and Sheff liked that: it expressed something of her nature.
‘I knew there’d be a lot of people,’ she said.
‘Well, he was an accountant in a small town for a long time. Pretty much everyone got to know him, and he had a knack for getting on with folk.’
‘I prefer cremations. It’s sad to have the eulogies, and then have to go and look down into a grave.’
‘I think he felt much the same,’ said Sheff, ‘but Mum wanted more of a memorial than a name among many on a wall.
‘How is she?’
‘Coping bloody well. Andrew North has offered her pills, but she’s okay. Mind you, when all this is over and she has time to herself, things could be different. She hasn’t said much about immediate plans.’
‘I won’t come to the house if you don’t mind,’ said Jessica. ‘I’ve got a fair bit on and can’t be away long. But I’d like to help in any way I can. You know that.’
‘Any way at all?’
‘There are limits.’
‘Joking,’ Sheff said. ‘You don’t mind me coming round? Your friends don’t mind?’
‘Why should they? I’d like to see Georgie again before she goes back, too.’
Sheff wondered if Pamela Rudge was one of those friends, but Jessica was obviously short of time, and he needed to get Pamela sorted in his mind before mentioning her. Instead they talked about Georgie. How complete in capability she’d become, how suited she was to the profession she’d chosen.
‘Anyway,’ Jessica said finally, ‘I must go. Get in touch, okay? I hope things get better soon.’
Sheff wished he could leave with her, that they could both put on casual clothes and walking shoes, head off somewhere together through the dry hills of rock, tussock and thyme, feeling at ease, talking casually of things that were of more than casual significance. Instead he watched her leave, waited for Belize to say when she wanted to return home. Georgie had already left to take the role of preliminary hostess.
Lucy came unobtrusively to talk to him. She and Nigel had waited for the opportunity, waited until most who offered condolences had done so, and then drifted away. ‘Thanks for coming,’ Sheff said. They made no move to exchange a kiss, and that wasn’t an expression of any antagonism. To touch their lips together was too sad after all that had happened between them. Sheff shook Nigel’s hand, and they gave each other a civilised nod and smile. ‘Good trip?’ Sheff asked him.
‘Well no, actually. Seemed to be some reunion day for big rigs, nose to tail,’ he said, true to his rebuttalist practice. Nigel didn’t know Sheff’s family, or any of the other mourners. He was out of place, but there to support Lucy so that she wouldn’t be left standing alone among strangers. His assertiveness was an unconscious justification of his presence.
‘I really wanted to come,’ Lucy said. ‘They’ve always been good to me.’
‘He liked you. He never seemed to quite cotton on to us not being together any more.’
‘I liked him, too. There was a sort of protectiveness about him, just in the way he was. Maybe I should’ve come down before to see him, but it’s not an easy situation.’
‘We want you both to come back to the house,’ said Sheff. He took care to look at Nigel as he spoke, for although he had no positive feeling for him, he respected his reason for coming. And Nigel showed surprising sensitivity by saying that he’d go and sit in the car for bit while Sheff and Lucy had a chance to talk.
‘It’s a long way to come,’ said Sheff when he had gone.
‘We’ll have another night in the motel here, and head off in the morning. See a few of the sights on the way. What will you do? Still plan to go overseas?’
‘I might stay here for a bit, until things settle for Mum anyway. Georgie’s been great, but she has to get back for work.’
‘That’s good of you. What’s happened to your chin?’
‘Don’t ask. A skateboarder crashed into me on the main street. I’ve been having one of those runs when everything goes wrong. If I slice an apple it’s rotten in the middle. If I join a queue the slide goes down. Insects fly into my mouth. I don’t know. Even birds shit on me.’
‘Murphy’s Law,’ said Lucy. ‘Everybody has a bad run sometime. There’s days you shouldn’t get out of bed.’
How well they knew each other, yet the former closeness was beyond them. They looked into each other’s faces as they talked, and in that eye contact expressed a sort of hopeless acknowledgement, part sympathy and part despair, and quite distinct from the conventional sentiments they offered in conversation. She’d grown thinner, and was probably pleased with that. She was still attractive, but Sheff was sorry that she’d changed. Her face was tighter, her shirt loose on her shoulders. She asked about the house, and laughed at his story of offending Janice Wallace while tidying the garden. He asked about her tours, and was pleased things were picking up. ‘You didn’t tell Belize I got rid of a lot of her brass and silver things, did you?’ she asked.
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Thanks. She might be hurt, but it’s just keeping all that stuff clean and polished.’
‘I don’t imagine she ever thinks about it,’ said Sheff.
‘We won’t stay long at the house. We’ll have a coffee in town beforehand, take our time coming so that hopefully most people will have gone. I’d just like the chance to talk with Georgie and your mum for a while without too many other people about.’ Sheff wondered if she and Nigel had hoped to have a baby in the time they’d been together, or if Lucy was too fearful to try. The clock must be ticking also. He wanted happiness for her, while doubting she had found it.
There was awkwardness on parting, as if they wished for the absolution of the touch of flesh between them, but a kiss had become foreign to them and a handshake ridiculous. ‘I hope things work out for you. I really do,’ Lucy said.
‘I hope everything goes well for you too. I really do,’ he replied, and the deliberate repetition drew a slight smile as she turned away.
He could imagine no agony and sadness greater than his own had been, yet Lucy must have suffered more, for she had carried the baby within her, accepted the pain of birth, suckled her, had all those connections and more of which Sheff could never be part. Standin
g in the cemetery with Lucy, he saw clearly for the first time what had gone wrong, and that neither of them was culpable. They had once briefly and wonderfully been three and afterwards could no longer live as two. Nobody was at fault. Whenever he and Lucy were together there was a gap, an empty ache, and it was impossible to live that way. A single grief could be forced down in the company of people unperturbed, but the shared knowledge was too great, too pervasive, no matter what else they did, or talked about. They would manage for the time they spent together in the summer warmth and with others of the family not far away, but each knew that beneath the extended and genuine goodwill, loss still mouthed unbearably.
To be with Lucy was to think, inescapably, of Charlotte. Even as they stood with the sun like a warm iron on their backs, Sheff remembered the brief, happy arguments they sometimes had if both were home when Charlotte woke from her daytime nap, and he was usually allowed first into the room to lift her from the cot. The pleasure and recognition on the little girl’s face was a reward no other love quite equalled. He would lift her up in the darkened room, high towards the ceiling, and then hold her to his shoulder and carry her out to Lucy.
It was Sheff who had found her dead that Sunday, lying face-down on the blankets, scalp pale beneath her hair. Cot death, people said, as if there should be some consolation in such fatuous and generic description of loss of life. For Sheff and Lucy it was something that had happened only once in the world, and it had happened to them. And whenever they were in each other’s company, it stood between them so that they could never again be whole and generous together.
CHARLOTTE HAD SHOWN A WILL OF HER OWN from the first. Sheff had been amazed by the expression of it in both affection and defiance. She was decided in her preferences for baby food, even though to Sheff they all looked and tasted much the same. She would take a spoonful or two, bulge it in her mouth for a time in assessment, then swallow it all, or eject it with furled tongue. Her decisions were irrevocable, and Sheff and Lucy learnt not to oppose them unless they wanted a fight.
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