Her death has necessarily rescheduled the family meeting, September in lieu of November. Dad’s solicitor is politely moving around the room, a cold fish dispensing insincerity, whispered condolences! Sadness, some tension and a distinct chill best describes the lounge atmosphere!
Elizabeth, the youngest sibling, is acting as ‘mother’, liaising with the housekeeper on the refreshments and generally fluffing around the room. Lachie sits in one of the corner chesterfields, his Cuban cigar threatening to trip the fire alarms: silent, brooding, disregarding the increasing discomfort of his asthmatic brother James, who, in an adjacent armchair, is sucking deeply from his medical turbuhaler!
Dad’s wheelchair is positioned at the unlit fireplace; his legal honcho, now seated beside him. Dad’s stony-faced expression says everything about the meeting’s anticipated, predetermined outcome. He has donned his favourite Perry Mason’s Ironside costume – pompous, oratorical, egotistical: a ‘my way or the highway’ persona to both his family and his business dealings. God how I hate these gatherings.
But I determine this time will be different. She was closest to me, she used to cower from his morning rants, it was me who accompanied her on the morning walks. How we loved the tranquillity of the ramble, the open fields, the wildlife darting off, the creek at the bottom of the hill, the birdsong. Always such a restorative escapade that we both thoroughly enjoyed. And when she started to lose her mobility, it was me that was at her side.
“Would you put that infernal cigar out. And Elizabeth, for God’s sake, stop running around, sit down!” The meeting starts. “OK. I have decided that her cremation will be next Monday. No service, no fuss, just a simple family acknowledgement. Agreed?” Lachie and Elizabeth both automatically start to nod. James focuses on his inhaler.
“No way. This is not the way she would have wanted things to be handled!” I felt my upper lip start to quiver, my eyes are filling, but … “This is not how we are farewelling her,” I hiccup. The family just sits there, staring at me in disbelief. James sucks noisily and from the corner of my eye I can see Lachie fumble with his lighter. I think Elizabeth is actually nodding her head slightly. Dad is turning puce, his blood pressure rising dramatically.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he bellows.
“Dad, this is not your decision. For once, just shut up and bloody listen.” I am shaking: not rage, but determination. My jaw is set, my eyes clear and I sniff, noisily. “We kids all loved her, and in our own various ways, drew enormous comfort from her companionship, her uncompromised love, her role as the actual matriarch of this household, ever since Mum died.”
“This is absurd. I’ve already …”
“Dad. No, not this time. We will make all the arrangements. I, for one, fancy her buried at the bottom of the garden, where she can chase the rabbits and birds forever.”
I can see Lachie and the others nodding agreement.