by Jenni Ogden
When the taxi drew up outside the church I almost told the driver to keep going—to take me anywhere but there. Groups of well-dressed people were disappearing through the church door and others stood about outside, conversing seriously. I clambered out of the taxi, tasting the sour air rising from my stomach where the tiny bubble of confidence that had formed as I gazed in the mirror was rapidly deflating. Holding my head very still, I walked carefully through the crowds of Scarlett friends, these people who had a right to be here, imagining them whispering as I passed, Who is she? What does she think she’s doing here? I nodded to the young man at the door, who smiled solemnly and handed me a program. For a moment I wondered whether I’d got the wrong church, or the wrong time, and this was an organ recital or some other churchy thing. But then I glanced at the folded page and saw Tom’s face, older and not quite the same, smiling at me. Thomas Lloyd Scarlett, 1944–2009. In Memory was written below it. He was only fifteen years older than me.
The church was already nearly full, a sea of dark clothes, the organ playing in that quiet, lamb of God way that comes before an almighty crescendo. I was about to weave my way into an empty space I could see halfway along one of the back pews when a second young man appeared in front of me and led me down the aisle to a pew only four rows from the front. Everyone in the pew obediently moved along and I sat down quickly on the blue cushion, smiling my thanks to the man I had displaced from his prime aisle seat. I would have gladly changed places with him. He nodded at me but thankfully didn’t speak, and I looked at Tom’s father’s picture and folded it back and read the order of service. Three eulogies, Tom’s name against one of them, and “The Irish Blessing” to be sung by the Blues Point A Cappella Male Singers. I was already on the edge of tears. My experience of funerals was limited to two non-sectarian services in chapels attached to crematoriums, both for parents of work colleagues. They had been draining enough and I didn’t even know my work colleagues very well. I read the short biography of Tom Scarlett senior: A competitive yachtsman in his youth, a boat designer, and the founder and past CEO of one of Australia’s largest boat-building companies. A music lover, a fisherman, a man who spent his Saturdays coaching young sailors, a son, a husband, a father, a grandfather. An entire part of Tom junior’s life that I knew nothing about.
The three front pews on the other side of the aisle were empty, waiting for the family, and at the front of the church the coffin sat, a single wreath of golden flowers and delicate greenery its only decoration. It was a beautiful old church with a high, beamed, wooden ceiling. The intense Australian light mellowed as it filtered through the stained glass in the arched windows, painting the pale stone walls with splashes of rainbow.
I started as the impressive pipe organ at the front of the church changed key and from a side door hidden from my view a silver-haired man in a dog collar appeared. My stomach settled down—no cassocks and robes here in this spartan Scottish kirk.
The dark-haired woman who led her family through the side door looked serene, and I had no trouble recognizing her from the photo in Tom’s bedroom, taken close to thirty years earlier. I supposed I’d been thinking she’d look elderly and gray. The other family members were a blur—I saw only Tom, tall and solemn, so handsome and strange in his dark suit and blue tie, his hair brushed almost smooth. I did notice one other: dearest Morrie, his wheelchair pushed by a young boy.
The minister’s welcome, a prayer, “The Lord’s My Shepherd,” some more words from the minister about the man lying in the coffin. An invitation to everyone to go back to the family home for refreshments after the service. I swallowed. How would I get to that? My eyes kept straying to the back of Tom’s head, sitting in the middle of the front pew between his mother and an elderly lady who must be his grandmother. Tom’s sister bravely stood up to give the first eulogy, her two children with her, and talked movingly about her dad before bending and kissing the wreath on his coffin.
The pain that gripped my heart brought my hand to my chest and I took in some deep breaths, not daring to move. The pain disappeared and I tried to swallow, but my throat was blocked with tears. I’d never had the chance to tell Dad how much I loved him, and to say goodbye. He’d simply disappeared, and no one had been allowed to show him they cared about him, and that his silly faults didn’t matter. Goodbye Dad. I love you, I whispered in my heart. I’ll always love you.
Tom’s sister was saying the same words to her father, and then she stepped back and her daughter, no older than eight or nine, a yellow butterfly amongst the black, read a poem for her granddad that had everyone scrabbling for a tissue. And now Tom was walking to the front. He stood for a moment, his hand on his father’s coffin, his struggle to speak more potent than words. The stillness in the church was immense, and I wanted to look down, to shield myself from his grief. But I held steady, silently sending my strength to him, loving him more than I thought was possible. He looked up and, after a wobbly start, soon had everyone laughing as he recounted amusing stories about his father that clearly reverberated with many of the people there. He talked about his grandmother and his mother, and their dedication to their families; he thanked the hospice nursing staff; and then, looking down again at the coffin, he thanked his dad for loving him.
“Dad was a bit of a mixture, as most of you know. In many ways, he was a true-blue Aussie, but he never let us forget our heritage. His dad came from Edinburgh and his mum from Belfast. Long before he died he made sure we knew what music he wanted at his funeral. ‘None of that “Waltzing Matilda”’ he said. ‘Send me off with an Irish blessing and the swirl of the bagpipes.’”
Eight men sitting in front of me had risen and moved around to stand on the other side of the coffin. “May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be ever at your back …” Their harmonies sent shivers up my spine, and I looked at Tom standing there so alone. “May pure be the thoughts that surround you, May true be the hearts that love you.” I saw the pain in his eyes before he looked down at the coffin. He stood silent for a long minute in the hushed church, and when he finally looked up, his eyes were clear. He blinked as if the world had suddenly returned, and he glanced around at all the people there, sharing his goodbye. Then, as his gaze moved to my side of the church, I saw his eyes widen, and I smiled at him through my tears.
A final prayer, the benediction, and then the mournful sound of a sole bagpipe. The congregation turned as one to see ten or more kilted Scotsmen striding down the aisle to stand behind the coffin. As the single pipe was joined by all the others and “Amazing Grace” filled the church, Tom and five other men moved over to the coffin, lifted it to their shoulders, and walked slowly down the aisle, followed by the family. As Morrie wheeled past he saw me and, twisting his head to one side, gave me a huge smile. Chased by the bagpipes, we all walked outside into the bright sun and watched as the hearse moved away. Before I could feel awkward, Morrie was beside me, and I bent down and hugged him, my words of greeting lodged soundlessly in my throat.
“Anna.”
I turned around and was in his arms. He hugged me tight and then stood back, actually grinning. “Look at her, Morrie. She could almost pass for a Sydney chick.”
I blushed scarlet, I am quite sure, and glanced around to see who was watching. Nobody was, and Morrie’s flailing arm smote me on my side.
“Sorry,” he croaked. His eyes were twinkling. “You l-l-look l-l-lovely.”
“How did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” Tom asked.
“I got back to the island on Saturday, and heard about your father. I’m so sorry, Tom.”
“Poor Dad. If he could have gone sooner, he would have.” He touched my face. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Is it okay?” My heart was pounding.
“It’s okay, Anna. More than okay.” He grinned again. “I suppose I’ll have to introduce you to Mum and Hilary now. No telling tales out of school.”
Now my heart was leapfrogging. “Nothing to t
ell,” I said, and heard Morrie’s sudden deep laugh.
THE FAMILY HOME WAS A GRAND OLD LADY NOT FAR FROM the church, with views across a reserve to the sea. Tom introduced me to Gwen, his mother, and to his grandmother and Hilary and her husband, and after that I couldn’t take in any more names. “My friend from Turtle Island,” he called me.
Tables covered in savories and sandwiches and cakes rested under giant old trees. The atmosphere was almost festive. Inside the large entrance hall there was a display of photos of Tom Senior, and when everyone had eaten, after a toast to his memory and another to his family, the stories flowed as fast as the wine. The soft grass made it necessary to slip my high heels off, and the grass felt so good under my feet, even through my silk hose. At five o’clock, clearly guided by some secret sign invisible to me, everybody said their goodbyes en masse and walked out the gate to their cars and taxis.
“Can I phone for a taxi?” I whispered to Tom when I managed to get him alone for a minute.
“We’ve got the burial now,” he said. “You’re welcome to come if you like.”
“It’s for family. Thank you, but I should go.” I was feeling more and more flustered. Hilary was herding her children into the house to get their faces washed, Morrie was somewhere inside, and I felt like I shouldn’t still be there.
“I’d like you to come. You’re my family from the island.” His eyes darkened as he held my gaze, and I reached up and touched his face, so strained, so sad, so like the father who only a day ago I hadn’t known.
“If you’re sure your family won’t mind a stranger there,” I whispered.
He kissed me quickly. “Of course they won’t mind. You’ve come all this way for me.”
TWENTY - SIX
I stood behind the family as they said their final goodbyes, each throwing a handful of earth onto the coffin lid as families have done for generations. In spite of the never-ending graves stretching in every direction, Waverley Cemetery was a good place to lie, looking over the sea.
After dropping his grandmother and mother back at the house, Tom took me back to my hotel, promising to pick me up around five the next evening. Gwen had insisted that I come and have a quiet dinner with them, so they could get to know me better. Hilary had chimed in, saying that her lot would be leaving the day after that, so it was her only chance to tell me what an annoying brother Tom had been.
I spent the day in a dream, wandering around Crow’s Nest, sitting in cafes, tired and sad and hopeful. The evening with Tom’s family was very pleasant, and I was made to feel welcome. Encouraged by Tom, I told them about Unst and the puffins and my otters.
“What’s an otter?” Zac, Hilary’s five-year-old, asked.
“It’s sort of like a platypus,” eight-year-old Beth informed him.
I tried not to smile at Zac’s withering look of disbelief. “Is it, Uncle Tom?” he asked.
“We-e-ell, sort of, I suppose,” said Uncle Tom. “Like a platypus without a beak or a pouch.”
Zac caught my smile and I blushed.
“Uncle Tom knows everything about animals and sea creatures,” he told me sternly.
By nine o’clock everyone looked exhausted and Hilary shooed her mother and grandmother off to bed.
“Come on, Anna, I’ll take you back to your hotel,” Tom said.
Hilary hugged me. “Look after our Tom on that island of his. Thanks for coming. It meant a lot to us all.”
Outside the hotel we sat in the car, the silence feeling to me like goodbye.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked, not daring to look at him. “For a cup of tea.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. You need your bed, and so do I.”
“When do you think you’ll be home?” My voice rose to a squeak. “To the island.”
“I don’t know. Two or three weeks, perhaps. There’s a lot to do here. I want to make sure Mum’s all right.”
“It was a beautiful funeral. You’re so lucky to have a family like that.”
He didn’t speak and I turned and looked at him. He was gazing straight ahead, out the window, but I knew he was crying. I reached over and took his hand and he squeezed mine back, not letting it go.
I LOVED THE SMELL OF MY CABIN. IT HIT ME AS SOON AS I unlocked the big glass doors and slid them wide. I knew I would never forget it as long as I lived. Everything on the island was just the same, yet so different. The days were long because I was waiting for Tom to return and short because I wanted to hold on to every moment, in case this was my last first day of October, my last second day of October, my last day there. One minute I felt a little glimmer of hope—Tom was happy that I came to his dad’s funeral, surely that must mean something—and the next, certain that nothing had changed for him. One minute I was confident I’d be able to convince him that my love was deep enough for both of us, and the next I was shaking with the very thought of even telling him.
I looked at my e-mail daily, or even three times a day, to see if he’d sent me a message. And he did, quite often, but just short updates on his mum. I was losing hope that he’d be back before Jeff returned in the last weekend in October. Pat could see my turmoil and understood without my saying a word.
“You’ll stay with me,” she said, “until Tom comes home.”
“What if he never comes home?”
She laughed. “What if turtles could fly?”
TEN DAYS BEFORE JEFF’S RETURN AND MY PLANNED departure, I took the long way around the beach to Tom’s house. I hadn’t had an e-mail from him for days. And there he was, sitting on the sand, gazing out over the lagoon, as if he’d never left. Joy, anger, hurt, pain, relief—all of it and more—vied for space in my poor head.
“How did you get here?” were the first words out of my mouth, as if that mattered. Tom knew it didn’t matter and didn’t answer.
“Are you all right?” I tried.
He nodded. “Just getting myself balanced again.”
“You’re not all right.” I sat down and tried to hold him, but he shook his head, and I pushed myself away a little in the sand.
“I know I’m hurting you, but I need to be alone for a bit,” he said after a while.
“I’m meant to leave here in ten days. Do you want me to?” My stomach was somersaulting.
“I do want to talk, but not yet.”
“Will you tell me when you—when you are ready to talk?”
He nodded and I stumbled back to my cabin, my eyes too blurred to see the half moon rising over the reef.
A MISERABLE WEEK LATER, TOM APPEARED AT MY CABIN.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“Do you want a drink? Have you eaten? I could make you something.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said.
It was dark, with only stars to light the way. We walked in silence until at last Tom stopped at Shark Bay. We sat on the sand looking out at the ink-filled lagoon.
“I want to tell you how Dad died.” His voice cracked.
My heart slowed a little. This is not what I had been expecting.
“Mum had to feed him three times every day with a teaspoon. Each feed took about an hour, and he spent most of that time choking.”
“Why didn’t they insert a feeding tube into his stomach?” I whispered.
“They wanted to but then he might have lived for weeks—months, even. We decided as a family that we wouldn’t agree to that, and we couldn’t let him starve to death—it’s illegal, anyway. So Mum had to feed him. The nurses didn’t have the time.”
My heart was aching for him as I sensed him struggling to go on.
“Mum was so tired that sometimes she would start crying at the dinner table when she got home. But she refused to let me help. The day he died, I was with her. I begged her to let me feed him a little. I tried to make her believe that I wanted to, to show him how much I loved him.”
Tom turned his head and looked at me, and in the starlight his face looked haunted. “She finally said yes,
and I sat there by his bed trying to force that yellow baby food into his sore mouth, holding his head up so he wouldn’t choke.”
I wanted to close my ears and not hear any more.
“But he did choke, and this time we couldn’t stop him. Mum rang the bell and the nurses came running in and took over, but he went blue and then he was still.”
“Oh, Tom,” was all I could say. “Tom.”
“Thank god it was me who was feeding him when he choked to death. I only wish Mum hadn’t been there, watching.” His gaze returned to the sea, and after a while I put my arms around him and held him so tight he couldn’t push me away. He started to shake, and we sat there, crying.
A long time later, it seemed, we managed to separate. My eyes were dry and sore and my insides felt as if they’d been scraped out with a file. Tom took my hand and stroked each of my fingers. “Why so many tears, Anna?”
I knew what he meant. He could see inside me. My tears started again, coming from some bottomless pit. “I never said goodbye to my dad. I never had the chance to tell him I loved him. He had no funeral, no memorial service even.”
“I know, love, I know,” Tom’s voice murmured as he cradled me and rocked me, until at last I had nothing left.
“And now I know he lied about his parents, and Tom, it hurts so much.”
“He never lied to you. He was a teenager who made a mistake, that’s all. He was ashamed, that’s why he blurted out that lie to your mother. Poor guy, he was scared she would leave him too if he told the truth. Then he would lose his baby—you—as well.”
“You would never do something like that.”
“Oh Anna, how innocent you are. Give your dad some slack. Getting a naive girl pregnant when abortion was illegal. It was one understandable mistake and then he had to live with his mother’s suicide on his conscience. Isn’t that enough?”