Home Truths

by Louise Forster

  ‘I did, and the coffee was heaven. I must remember to thank your grandmother again. She’s doing so much for —’

  Calum held his hand up to stop her. It was a strain not to move in closer and touch her soft mouth with his fingers. ‘Gran was a good friend of Bob’s. She’ll do anything to help.’

  ‘By the way, where can I get some flowers?’

  ‘Give me a minute and I’ll take you to meet Trudy, the florist. But first I’ll disconnect the power points, then it won’t matter if you plug something in by mistake.’ Calum strode off happy that he was going to be in her company a little longer.

  When he re-entered the room, he stopped and stared. Muted morning sunlight filtered through the newspaper-covered shop window and touched Jennifer’s skin, making it glow. She had no idea how beautiful and bright she looked surrounded by dusty shelves, and an old display case in an empty room.

  She must have sensed he was there; she turned to face him. ‘You don’t have to lead the way, just point me in the right direction.’

  Oh no, now that he had the chance, he wasn’t leaving her alone. He intended to stay by her side for as long as it was seemingly possible. ‘It’s okay, I’m headed for the bank and the flower shop is on the way.’ Not quite the truth, but he’d walk the extra mile to enjoy her company a little longer.

  *

  As they walked along the footpath, Jennifer felt Calum’s solid presence beside her. It gave her an undefinable feeling and it irritated her that she couldn’t label it exactly. It felt nice, only better. Like an itch — no, more a tickle — in the stomach that reached up through her chest and sat at the hollow of her throat. Similar to butterflies, but more like bats. She let go a long sigh.

  Calum looked at her. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Ain’t that the truth? ‘It’s such a beautiful day.’

  ‘It’ll be a scorcher. Round lunchtime you’ll be able to fry eggs on the road.’

  ‘Yum.’ Jennifer pulled a face.

  She felt relief that Australian shop awnings stretched across the footpath and gave them shade from the blazing sun. Jennifer caught the smell of steamy hot tar thanks to the previous night’s rain. All that remained from that summer storm were a few puddles. The raindrop prisms on trees and flowers from earlier that morning had long since evaporated.

  ‘I s’pose you wouldn’t find anything like Tumble Creek in Europe?’ Calum asked.

  ‘Not even remotely. But what Europe lacks in space it makes up for in history and charm.’

  ‘Charm hey?’ Calum nodded.

  ‘Yeah, charm.’ She stressed the word charm with a look. ‘For instance, I live in a beautiful eighteenth-century building. Fortunately, the electrics and plumbing work.’

  ‘Yeah, Bob let that go. Something will have to be done about it soon.’

  ‘How could he live like that?’

  ‘Don’t know. We tried,’ Calum shrugged. ‘Here we are.’ Calum stopped in front of a purple shop with painted vines and flowers over the picture window. ‘Trudy will look after you.’ He paused, eyes penetrating hers with…she wasn’t sure, except for one thing, it was deep and it was hot. ‘Got to go.’ A tick flicked a muscle above his jaw. ‘See you later, Jen.’

  He took her hand in both of his and leaned towards her. For just a moment, his gentle expression changed to a frown, then in a flash it was gone. Had she blinked, she would’ve missed it.

  ‘Later,’ he said smiling, and left.

  Jennifer’s knees felt weird, she sighed and entered the flower shop.

  ‘Isn’t he a doll,’ the ponytailed, doe-eyed young woman behind the counter said with a smile. ‘He’s not married, you know. Every single woman within two hundred miles has tried to get him to the altar.’

  Something about this conversation disturbed Jennifer enough to ask, ‘He’s dated plenty of times, though?’

  ‘He did for years and then…’ Trudy brushed leaves and twigs off the counter into a small bin.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Never mind. What can I get you?’

  Okay, not a gossiper. That’s good, she supposed. ‘We’re in town for Bob Feldman’s funeral, he’s our uncle.’

  ‘Bob was a wonderful man.’

  ‘Do you have any purple irises? They were his favourite.’

  ‘I ordered some in for Mrs McGregor and Mrs Jarvis and they took all I had, I’m sorry.’ Trudy shrugged. ‘But he loved roses, too. In fact, he used to put yellow roses and blue irises together, a perfect combination.’

  ‘Okay, could I please have four long-stemmed, yellow roses, thanks.’

  Trudy selected four beautiful roses, the best from a large bunch. ‘A lovely choice. They have a pink tinge along the edge of the petals, is that okay?’

  Jennifer leaned over the counter to see. ‘They’re perfect.’

  A lump in her throat, Jennifer blinked away her tears as Trudy wrapped the roses in cellophane and purple tissue paper. She cradled them back to Uncle Bob’s. Their delicate scent and lovely petals nearly brought her to tears. This was it, the reality of her Uncle Bob’s death, flowers for his coffin.

  Chapter 7

  After the heat outdoors, it was a pleasure to be back inside her uncle’s home and feel cool air on her skin. Never mind the goose bumps, Jennifer thought. She hurried upstairs into the kitchen and placed the roses in the sink with a little water.

  Sofie had left a note on the kitchen table. ‘Didn’t know how long you’d be, wink-wink. Gone for a walk and then back to the motel to get ready. See you later. Hugs, Sofie.’

  There is no wink-wink. ‘Well, maybe just a little,’ Jennifer muttered. She went into Bob’s den, hoping to find something that would tell her more about her uncle and why he had sent them that mysterious message about meaning no harm. She made herself comfortable in his studded leather chair and opened drawers, looking for papers or a personal journal. She found handwritten notes in his daily schedule. Her uncle had helped raise funds for the high school hockey team, for hospital equipment and other local charities. He had done so much for the community, much more than he’d ever let on. Jennifer felt a surge of pride, but with that came a sense of pressure to do the right thing by him.

  Engrossed in the papers around her, she didn’t realise how much time had slipped by. She glanced at her watch: it was three in the afternoon. ‘Shit!’ She had less than half an hour to get ready for the funeral. She ran across the hall into the pink bedroom, peeled off her clothes, aimed a few squirts of deodorant at her armpits and wriggled into her slightly wrinkled black dress. She slapped on a little make-up and grabbed her matching black shoes, then hurried down the hall to the kitchen. Yanking the dripping roses out of the sink she rewrapped them. Barefoot she headed downstairs, slipping her shoes on when she reached the bottom.

  As she ran through the shop a teasing, little voice in her head said, someone should fill this space with drapes and furniture. Someone like you. Bugger off! She yanked the front door open and waited on the pavement for her sister and niece. The dry, afternoon heat almost made it difficult to breath. She pulled out her mobile to ring Sofie and say she’d be waiting inside, when she noticed the text message. We tried to do the right thing and attend this funeral, but we’ve been let down again — by Bob, and you, Jennifer. I’m so disappointed in you. Mother.

  Anger rose inside her until she thought she would scream. She looked up from her mobile and saw her sister’s battered green station wagon barrelling down Grey Street, and the sting of her mother’s crap message vanished. Almost.

  Sofie brought the car to a stop at the kerb in front of the shop, its doors opened and her sister and niece piled out. ‘But you always wear black,’ Sofie was saying to Claudia, making hand gestures an Italian would envy. She was wearing her simple black dress cinched in at the waist with a wide belt. ‘Now all of a sudden you want to wear a kaleidoscope of colours to Uncle Bob’s funeral?’ Jennifer met her sister’s eyes with a meaningful gaze of her own. ‘Wha
t, Jen? You don’t think I’m right?’

  ‘Think about it, Sofie.’ Jennifer slipped an arm around her sister’s shoulder. ‘What does it really matter?’

  ‘Our argument was on a roll.’ Sofie shrugged and turned to face her daughter. ‘I just wish you’d wear colour at home occasionally.’

  ‘Well, she’s wearing it today.’ Jennifer smiled at her niece.

  Claudia was wearing a red and green tartan miniskirt, a red figure-hugging T-shirt, red and green striped socks long enough to cover her knees, and ankle boots. She’d put her hair up in a sloppy ponytail that had red spiky bits sticking out from the top.

  ‘Claudia’s outfit is quite appropriate considering we’re in Celtic country. But maybe your mum’s right, a little colour now and then?’ Claudia’s eyes narrowed in on Jennifer. ‘Then again, maybe not. Come on, let’s go, I’m melting. And I’d like to get to the chapel before everyone else.’

  *

  It was twenty to four when they walked into St Mary’s. The scent of incense and burning candles took Jennifer back to her childhood, when she and Sofie, under duress, had to attend Sunday Mass without fail. Nevertheless, today she felt comforted as she gazed at the sunlight beaming through tall stained-glass windows. A kaleidoscope of vibrant colours fell on arrangements of purple irises and the dazzling white lace-trimmed altar cloth. Her uncle would have loved the atmosphere surrounding them.

  Although they stepped lightly, their footfalls echoed on the rich, timber floors. Jennifer smiled and led her sister and niece to the front pew, talking in whispers.

  ‘Why are we here so early?’ Sofie asked, nervous fingers fidgeting with the strap of her handbag.

  ‘I’m hoping Father Thomas will be here. I’d like to have a quick word with him.’

  A flurry of white vestments caught Jennifer’s eye, and she turned to see a priest stride in through a side door. He carried a vase of penny gum sprigs and looked to be in his late sixties, a stout man with a bald pate gleaming under rays of amber light. Mesmerised, Jennifer’s thoughts strayed. He’s got a halo. He placed the vase in front of the organ, then walked towards them.

  ‘Hello there.’ His round freckled face broke into a warm smile. ‘You’re Jennifer, Sofie and Claudia,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to finally meet you all. In case you’re wondering, it’s not a divine connection, Bob was always showing me photos of you.’

  Jennifer extended her hand: Father Thomas led a soft life; tending his flock hadn’t caused any calluses. For her uncle to have befriended him said a lot about the priest.

  ‘My condolences, I know Bob loved every one of you dearly and felt loved in return. I’m sure you’ll miss him, I certainly will.’ He smiled again and his bright blue eyes disappeared in folds and wrinkles. ‘I understand Connie informed you about your parents as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jennifer answered.

  ‘I must say your parents are persistent.’

  ‘They’ve called you?’ Sofie asked.

  ‘No, they came by yesterday, insisting they would attend the funeral, despite Bob’s request that they not come anywhere near him — dead or alive.’

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause as Father Thomas looked at each of them in turn. His gaze lingered on Jennifer; being the tallest, she supposed he’d decided she was their spokesperson.

  ‘And?’ Claudia asked impatiently.

  ‘As I told your parents, I will stand by Bob’s request to the letter. I had to swear on the bible and promise not to deviate or be bullied by them. Are any of you going to give a eulogy?’

  ‘I am,’ Jennifer said. ‘And so is Claudia.’

  ‘That would make Bob very proud. You look worried — is there something else?’

  ‘Well yes, but I don’t know whether I should talk to you or his doctor?’

  ‘You can start with me if you want.’

  ‘Okay, what was wrong with Uncle Bob? And how long was he sick? The police officer, Brock, told me the shop’s been empty for about eight months.’

  Father Thomas tucked his hands into his sleeves and raised his eyes to the chapel ceiling. Perhaps he was hoping for divine guidance as he paused in thought. His eyes shifted back to her and he said, ‘That would be about right.’

  ‘What!’ Jennifer’s voice echoed through the chapel. Guilt flashed through her. Mother would not have approved of her raising her voice in church — unless she was singing.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Father Thomas chuckled. ‘St Mary’s is used to a bit of noise.’

  ‘But he was with me in Paris last July, why didn’t he tell me he was sick? We could’ve been here for him. He needn’t have been alone.’

  ‘Oh, he was never alone.’ Father Thomas shook his head. Was that a wicked grin? He looked like a cheeky cherub. ‘And, I might add, quite active until the very end.’

  Jennifer blinked in confusion. ‘But the pharmacy,’ she asked. ‘And how could he live in a house that tried to electrocute me twice?’

  ‘Bob knew the wiring needed replacing, but…’ Father Thomas shrugged. ‘When he found out his time was limited, he didn’t want the fuss or mess. The townspeople insisted on helping. Bob complained of course, but we wouldn’t take no for an answer. The other chemist in town bought his stock and Bob was finally able to relax. We played golf every Thursday until the week before he died.’

  ‘Still, he should’ve told us. The trip to Paris…he was…’ Jennifer’s mouth trembled, she pressed her lips together and, with a deep breath, pulled herself back in control. ‘He came to say goodbye.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with him. He loved you too much to have you drop everything to nurse him.’

  ‘That should have been our choice,’ Jennifer insisted, hot tears welling, threatening to tumble down her cheeks. ‘Stubborn old fool,’ she muttered, pulling a wad of tissues out of her bag, she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

  ‘Ah, he was that. Forgive him for sparing you.’

  ‘It’s going to be hard,’ Jennifer told him. ‘I’ll be angry for a bit first.’

  ‘I think you’re entitled, I’d be miffed too.’

  Claudia said, ‘I think he lived and died the way he wanted to. You can’t be upset about that, Aunt Jen.’

  ‘Please don’t concern yourselves about the service, it will be quite simple, but a little unusual.’

  A whisper of voices and a shuffling of feet alerted them that it was time.

  ‘That’s my cue,’ Father Thomas said with a gentle smile.

  *

  Nikolay paced in the country air terminal twenty minutes from Tumble Creek. He glanced at his watch; if the plane didn’t come soon they would miss the funeral. He scanned the runway and distant hills. A flash of reflected sunlight signalled a plane was coming. A young woman’s voice announced over the speakers the flight from Sydney was about to land. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his brow, thanking God the building had air-conditioning.

  Nikolay watched as eight passengers emerged from the plane. Boris, immaculately dressed in a dark suit, crisp shirt and expensive blue silk tie, was the last to come down the narrow steps. Nikolay greeted his friend with a hearty hug: not wanting to draw attention to them, he refrained from kissing Boris on both cheeks.

  ‘Come, Boris, or funeral will be over,’ Nikolay said as he escorted Boris to his car. ‘I park in shade, but inside will still be hot.’ He stopped at his ute and rammed the key into the lock.

  ‘What is this?’ Boris asked.

  ‘My tin-can car. You wait until you are inside my-you-beaut-ute.’

  Boris looked around. ‘Where is the car hire place? We’ll get a real car.’

  ‘Don’t be wimp. There is no car hire here at little airport,’ Nikolay grumbled.

  Boris’s lip twitched as he curled his long frame and slid into the passenger side. ‘Quick, drive so we get air in here, I am suffocating.’

  ‘Look,’ Nikolay began, ‘you want to slide in with crowd and not be like two blobs of cream on plate of borscht, then
we go to funeral in this lovely Australian oven, good thing it has wheels.’ He backed out of the parking spot and turned the ute onto the road that would take them into town.

  Boris groaned and mopped his brow.

  Nikolay tried to keep his irritation under control, but it wasn’t easy. ‘I have baked in this car too many times — you only have to do it once.’ He gave his friend the eye.

  Boris pressed his lips together and nodded gravely.

  Nikolay parked his ute in the shade of a tall gum tree next to the chapel. Boris hurriedly swung open the car door and pushed himself out into the afternoon heat.

  ‘Here.’ Nikolay rounded the hood and shoved his silver vodka flask at his friend. ‘Take a drink, but leave me some.’

  Boris gulped down several mouthfuls and handed the flask back. Nikolay turned away from the crowd, emptied the flask and shoved in his back pocket.

  ‘Boris, we are nearly only ones in suit and tie. We look like doorak penguins.’

  Boris studied the people around them. ‘Okay, we can fix this.’ He shrugged his jacket off, its red lining flashed in the sun. The high pitched sound of silk sliding against silk was next as he slipped his tie through its knot.

  Nikolay followed suit, throwing his jacket and tie in the ute. ‘This is better.’

  ‘Come, we should join, mix in with the people going to the doors,’ Boris said.

  Nikolay still thought they looked out of place. The large gathering of locals heading for the chapel milled about and seemed reluctant to go in. Most mourners wore black, but in a casual, practical style. A few women wore floral summer frocks, while others had snatched a few moments away from work, and waited in their overalls or uniforms.

  ‘I cannot believe we are waiting here in hot sun,’ Nikolay grumbled. ‘But now you see what I have to do here.’

  ‘Bob was very close friend,’ Boris whispered and pulled his stiff shirt collar away from the back of his neck. ‘This is for me. I want to pay respect to a very good man.’

  ‘I know this,’ Nikolay said, resignation in his voice. ‘They close doors soon, stay with me,’ he ordered. ‘Look around, find Veronica. She must be here too.’