Mum, Adam and I took our seats. Paul opened the meeting, inviting everyone to introduce themselves, and, in his calm and measured way, outlined the details needing agreement and points of logistical challenge. As he spoke, with his tall frame leaning back and long fingers motioning through the air, it was obvious that he had a preternatural ability to consider and foresee the most intricate details. The discussion wove its way through issues such as how many people were expected and numbers that the cathedral could hold. Paul insisted on screens throughout the nave and speakers outside in case the numbers swelled beyond capacity. Given that perhaps two thousand people might want to take communion, which could take up to half an hour, it was agreed that there would be helpers and volunteer ushers. The placement of television cameras and media was discussed, as well as flowers and Lifehouse donation envelopes.
We had already discussed eulogies and made our decisions. When planning the service, Dad had asked me if I would speak. Mum wondered whether she should also but he thought it would be too hard for her. In the days after he died Mum told me, ‘I knew him better than anyone. I need to say something.’ We had made plans for four others to speak at the cathedral: Dad’s friend since childhood, Mark Malouf, would talk about schooldays and university life; Paul Cave would speak as his patient and Professor Michael Boyer as his colleague. Given the circumstances and their genuine friendship, it was appropriate for the prime minister to say something. Eventually a provisional order of service was agreed upon and, after two and a half hours, the group dispersed.
As Paul walked with us back to the car, he took a phone call on his mobile. ‘We were just in there discussing it,’ he said. He was raising his voice. ‘We’ve just spent two and a half hours going through every single detail. If there was any possibility of an issue, then it should have been raised in the meeting.’ Paul’s voice was not calm and measured now. His face creased with frustration.
He pulled the phone away from his ear. ‘Cardinal Pell has said that he won’t permit six eulogies.’
‘What?’ Mum snapped. ‘How many will he allow?’
‘Only one.’ We were shocked, not having contemplated the possibility that the head of the Catholic church in Australia would issue a command about something as personal as the eulogies for my father’s funeral. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen,’ Gail said. ‘If that’s the way it is, we’ll take ourselves elsewhere.’
Paul seemed incensed. ‘We were just in there. I asked if there were any concerns from the church’s point of view and we were told no.’
‘I’ll go and see the cardinal,’ Gail said.
The meeting was arranged in the offices of the Catholic Archdiocese of Sydney on the evening two days before the funeral. Gail was matter-of-fact about it, not inclined at this particular point in time to worry much about protocol or institutional demands.
The night before the meeting, Margaret Rose telephoned to offer her condolences. Margaret and her husband, Bob, an unpretentious property developer, had been generous benefactors of the Sydney Cancer Centre when Chris became director. They had insisted that our family spend a week at their palatial Palm Beach residence in January 2007, after Dad’s first operation, moving themselves out so that we could stay there.
Gail told Margaret about the exhausting funeral arrangements and the issue with the eulogies. She said she was going to see the cardinal the next day.
‘Darling, I think someone should go with you. I’ll speak to Bob and see what he thinks.’ She called back a short while later saying, ‘Bob will go with you.’
It hadn’t occurred to my mother that she should take someone more familiar with Catholic protocols than she was. As Bob and Gail made their way along the dark street towards Polding House the following evening, Gail felt a rush of gratitude that she was not doing this alone. Bob’s fatherly manner, calm wisdom and experience in negotiations made her feel at ease. She was glad he was by her side.
They stepped into the large building and took the lift up several floors. They were greeted by Cardinal Pell’s assistant and left to wait for a few minutes in large armchairs.
Cardinal Pell entered, his statuesque build filling the doorway. He was wearing a dark suit and clerical collar, and was warm but subdued as he greeted them. After several minutes, the conversation reached the real reason they were there. In her contained, composed manner and soft, delicate voice, Gail explained the problem of his edict to have only one eulogy at Chris’s state funeral. Pell said that so many eulogies would interrupt the flow and reverence of the mass. Gail insisted that although six eulogists might seem excessive, we could not see how all the different facets of Dad’s life could be celebrated appropriately otherwise. As the negotiations continued, Gail felt they had reached an impasse. But then Cardinal Pell volunteered a suggestion: he could potentially allow three eulogies. If the eulogists were paired up, a single eulogy might consist of two speakers, allowing all six to speak. These three joint eulogies should be spread out before and after the mass so that rather than interfering, the reflections would bookend the service. Gail was satisfied, although Pell gave no immediate assurance that he would permit this arrangement. But they had seemed to have reached an amicable resolution that everyone could live with.
‘Eminence, Gail is a fairly feisty character,’ Bob said in a light tone. ‘Do you feel as though you’ve been hit by a bulldozer?’
‘More like a truck,’ Pell said drily, before inviting them to tour the new offices.
When Bob and Gail went to leave, Gail shook the cardinal’s hand and thanked him. Bob stepped forward and asked whether he could kiss the cardinal’s ring. Gail’s mouth almost fell open as she was completely unfamiliar with this custom. Bob and Gail left the building, hugging each other. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bob. ‘It’ll be okay.’ Bob was right. Overnight the request was authorised by the Catholic Archdiocese of Sydney.
The opportunity to see Dad again came on the day before the funeral. His body was now at the funeral directors’ premises in Newtown only a few hundred metres from the hospital room where he had died. It was disquieting to think of Dad’s body being moved around. My mother’s mind would drift to this thought. Where is he now? Where is he lying? What are they doing to him? This was the body she had lain next to for more than thirty years. The body that we had hugged and kissed. Somebody had him on level 10 of RPA or in the morgue, and someone else would have him the next day. Such thoughts indulge horror and are better not dwelt upon.
Mum drove Adam, James and me there and quietly manoeuvred the car into a nearby parking space on busy King Street. We were greeted by Patsy, the director of W.N. Bull who, along with her colleagues, could not have been more reassuring or empathetic. But nothing prepared us for what was to come. She showed us into the chapel, which was lit by a shaft of stark golden light from a small window. Even though there was an air of reverence, it felt eerie.
We had been told we could see Dad again, but he was not there. The face of the body we saw resembled that of our father but somehow it was different. The skin and eyes were sunken and the mouth was twisted into a grotesque smile. Stiff hands fell across his chest, with a red rose wedged between the fingers. Adam, James and Mum walked slowly down the aisle. Adam kissed the cold shiny forehead and Mum and James snipped off locks of hair.
‘Come on, sweetie.’ Mum held out her hand to me as I hovered between the pews. ‘Come and say goodbye to Dad.’
‘That’s not Dad. That’s not Dad,’ I cried, and left the chapel to wait for them in the antechamber.
At home I secluded myself in my room. I just wanted darkness, stillness and quiet. But Mum pushed on. With nothing appropriate to wear for the funeral, her sister Adele and close friend Di took her to a shopping centre. She had remained so stoic over those previous few days, matter-of-factly organising the funeral, welcoming people into our home, meeting the cardinal, supporting us, her children. But seeing crowds of shoppers scavenging bargains at sales made her emotions overflow. How could anyon
e care about towels? she thought. On an escalator in the shopping centre, surrounded by the noise and energy of shoppers as they secured all kinds of allegedly desirable material goods, she broke down. Adele and Di took control, leading her to a change room and bringing her outfits one by one. Gail inspected the items through tears, eventually settling on a black Simona suit with a satin skirt and tailored jacket.
As quickly as she could she escaped the soulless centre, hurried home and climbed the stairs to her room. Her heart stabbed with pain. A real, physical pain that made her clutch her chest and gasp for breath. Christie! Where are you, where are you, where are you?
A State Funeral
When Sophia Loren’s husband Carlo Ponti died about two years before Chris, pictures of the glamorous Loren appeared in the newspaper. The widow looked dour, wearing a long black coat and black scarf tight around her neck and her eyes were lowered to the ground. Gail thought Loren appeared diminished by her grief. She silently swore to herself then, that if the same day arrived for her, she would not appear like that.
On the day of the funeral, Pam arrived at the door at seven in the morning to blow-dry Gail’s hair, just one example of a little physical attentiveness providing some help on this hard day. Gail went upstairs to her bathroom and began automatically selecting her make-up. She gazed hard at her reflection. ‘I am not going to be a victim to this,’ she said aloud. She dressed in the black suit and a beautiful, long, white coat lent to her for the day by Paul Cave’s wife, Carol.
The black official state cars arrived at the house to collect us. They lined up like train carriages along our driveway. We stepped outside into the freezing Thursday morning under a brilliant blue sky. Our front gates had been laden with flowers by mourners who did not attach their names to them. The line of cars, accompanied by police officers on motorbikes, proceeded down Woolwich Road. Locals on their morning walks stopped and observed; a couple of old men removed their hats and held them to their chests.
We cruised along Victoria Road and turned onto the Anzac Bridge. There, we looked up at the Australian flags flying at half-mast at the bridge’s peak. ‘Oh, Dad,’ Adam whispered. Uncle Phil later told Mum that all the flags at government schools were flying at half-mast also, and a friend sent us a photograph of the same on the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
We had always been proud of our father: when he spoke at my high-school graduation dinner and told us to avoid the cult of perfectionism, when he urged the boys at Parramatta Marist Brothers to understand that men of steel have compassion in their hearts, when he spoke to those at Riverview College of the importance of reading good literature to know more about other people’s lives and experiences. We were as proud when he gave someone lip or made an irreverent remark as we were when he received his doctorate of medicine. But to see those flags flying at half-mast, showing that the nation mourned with us, that today we had all lost someone great, was a moment of overwhelming emotion. I thought of Phil’s question again. When did this happen?
At the cathedral, we were shown into the chapter house. My mouth was dry and I felt exhausted. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I said, and started to weep.
‘No it’s not,’ Mum said firmly. She bent down and took my hands. ‘This is a wonderful day. We need to do this for Dad. All right? Do it for Dad.’ I was momentarily taken aback by her strong voice and reaction. I nodded compliantly.
We had been given an order of arrangements with its minute-by-minute account of the dignitaries arriving:
9.40am Air Vice Marshal Mark Skidmore, representing the Chief of the Defence Force
9.46am representatives of the diplomatic corps
9.50am NSW Premier Nathan Rees
9.52am Prime Minister Kevin Rudd
9.54am Sir Nicholas Shehadie representing NSW Governor Marie Bashir
9.56am Governor-General Quentin Bryce
We entered the cathedral at 9.58am. Patsy and Father Paul, the dean of St Mary’s, greeted us at the cathedral entrance. As we walked down the long aisle that stretched out before us, I saw Mum’s steady gaze. She looked down the long nave to the altar where Dad’s coffin lay draped with the Australian flag and his favourite flowers, irises and white oriental lilies. The fragrance of the lilies reached us as we approached. Keith Cox hugged each of us and showed us to our seats. He moved back up to the altar, seeming to float as his white acolyte robes hid his feet.
Behind us, the pews were full and many people were standing. They were people from all over Sydney and even the world: Dad’s former trainees and fellows, past patients, colleagues, friends and people who had not known him personally but who had come to pay their respects.
The introductory hymn rang out. ‘Praise my soul the king of heaven’, boys from Parramatta Marist Brothers and St Ignatius’ College, Riverview sang. Their resonant voices boomed through the nave as more than a dozen priests and Cardinal Pell made their way down the aisle. I caught Father Kev’s eye and he gave me a wink before they all moved around the altar. Cardinal Pell presided over the service.
The national anthem followed the hymn. Father Kev welcomed everyone, his words echoing through the great space that felt warm from all the bodies. He moved around the casket, blessed it and sprinkled it with holy water. Keith Cox floated in front of us to collect the first eulogists.
Cardinal Pell had requested seeing the text of all the eulogies before the day. ‘As far as the cardinal is concerned, my talk won’t be ready until the day of the service,’ Kevin Rudd had responded. But Mark Malouf had obliged and was subsequently asked to shorten his speech. Professor Michael Boyer spoke, describing Chris as a ‘surgeon’s surgeon’. Paul Cave shed tears as he said that he would have gone in Chris’s stead, had he been given the choice.
The mass began. My father’s aunt Alison Healey stepped out of her seat and approached the altar for the first reading, from the Book of Proverbs. She had suggested this reading, which I’d not thought much about until this moment. She read purposefully and deliberately, pausing at words and phrases, allowing them to hang in the air.
A perfect wife is far beyond the price of pearls;
her husband’s heart trusts in her;
from her he will derive no little profit;
advantage, not hurt, she brings him
all the days of her life.
She works with her hands in delight;
she gives food to her household;
she puts her back into her work;
and shows how strong her arms can be;
she finds her labour well worthwhile;
her lamp does not go out at night.
I looked at my mother. Her face was almost serene, her lips turned up at the corners in the most pleasant neutral expression anyone could have. She sat with her feet square on the floor and hands folded in her lap. No pretences. No acting. She just sat and listened.
The second reading was given by the governor-general, Quentin Bryce, and Her Excellency made her way up to the lectern, looking strikingly elegant as always. She read from the First Letter of Paul to the Corinthians. Though her voice was not strong, her slow and deliberate reading commanded the cathedral.
Though I command languages both human and angelic — if I speak without love, I am no more than a gong booming or a cymbal clashing. And though I have the power of prophecy, to penetrate all mysteries and knowledge, and though I have all the faith necessary to move mountains — if I am without love, I am nothing.
The voices of the combined choirs boomed through the cathedral. Alleluia, Alleluia. Aunt Alison stood, the centre of expanding concentric circles as everyone around her copied each other. Father James Collins read the Gospel and Father Kev gave a personal and emotional homily, having walked closely with us on this path. Young women and men whom my father loved — my cousins and dear family friends — offered gifts as Mozart’s ‘Ave Verum’ filled our ears and hearts.
Father Kev caught my eye again. He upturned his hands and pushed upward like a shelf. Stand. I stood. He said the Eucha
ristic Prayer. The organ shattered the air. I looked intently at Father Kev as he pushed his hands down. I bent towards the pew. Later he would tell me that from the altar it looked like a wave moving through the sea as row after row of people joined those in front.
Finally it was time for communion, with a precious moment to sit quietly while the choirs sang. Out of the many faces emerged individual friends who collected by the altar and dispersed to the corners of the cathedral to act as eucharistic ministers. It was beautiful to see friends from our dear parish helping us in that gentle way, a hint of the support and organisation that had gone on behind the scenes, a lot of it without our knowledge. Not many people took communion after it was announced that non-Catholics should approach with their arms folded to indicate that they be blessed instead. Most people seemed content to watch the flat screens that had come alive with images of Dad’s life. People chuckled at old pictures of furry moustaches and orange tans.
As I returned from taking communion and knelt onto the soft knee rest at our pew, I wanted to let the music carry me away. Villa Maria musicians, Harrison Collins and Lee Liao, sang Andrew Lloyd Webber’s ‘Pie Jesu — Requiem’. Then Harrison picked up his violin and, accompanied by Lee, Rolf Lovland, Brendan Graham, Thomas De Angelis and Bernadette Galea, sang Dad’s favourite hymn, ‘You raise me up’. Sublime and laden with symbolism, the ‘you’ in this song is supposed to be God. But for Adam, James and me, the figure who raised us up was our father. For Mum, it was her husband. And for others in that cathedral, it was their brother, nephew, son-in-law, mentor and friend. Chris, Christie, Dad, had always raised us up. He had worked so hard in his life. In death, he would keep raising us up.
This is Gail Page 12