Home Truths (11 page)

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.'

Nikolay slid a glance towards Boris. Except for his eyes, Boris kept his emotions firmly under control: he stood stiff and quiet. Nikolay wondered what this was really all about. He tiptoed through the chapel doors with Boris at his heels, into the cool dim interior. With all available seats taken, they moved away from the aisle to join others standing at the back. Nikolay thought that wasn't a bad thing. At least now they could remain unobtrusive while looking out over everyone's heads to see exactly what was happening.

* * *

But for the occasional cough or low murmur from mourners, the chapel was silent. Then a lone Highland piper, dressed in a kilt and gold braided jacket, entered and stood at the open door. Though he was silhouetted against the sunlight, Jennifer knew from his stance that it was Bruce, the fireman who'd carried her down the ladder.

Tall and proud, he began to play
Mull of Kintyre
.

A rustling of clothes and a shuffling of feet rippled through the congregation as they stood. Back straight, Bruce slow-stepped down the aisle followed by pallbearers shouldering the coffin that held their darling Uncle Bob. A lump in Jennifer's throat thickened and, quietly weeping, she manoeuvred Claudia between herself and Sofie. Arms interlocked they watched the six pallbearers, all dressed in the same black trousers and white dress-shirts, carry the simple pine coffin towards the altar. A wreath of purple irises, delicate petals fluttering, lay on top. On reaching the bier, they carefully placed the coffin down and moved away to sit with friends and family.

Jennifer, Sofie and Claudia placed their yellow roses on the coffin, and an extra rose for Bret.

‘Sorry, Uncle Bob,' Jennifer whispered. ‘The little shit should be here.' Turning, she caught Calum's tender smile, then he gave her a slight nod in understanding.

‘We are gathered here, friends and family…' Father Thomas's warm gaze turned to Jennifer, her sister and her niece, then settled back on his congregation, ‘to pay tribute to a wonderful, generous man. But before I start, I am under Bob's strict instructions to uphold his wishes for, as Bob would say, his last hoorah. So you may find his requests — the music for instance — a bit odd.'

Jennifer smiled.

‘Odd?' Sofie whispered.

Father Thomas, eyes brimming with tears, smiled, cleared his throat and continued.

Throughout the service, Jennifer kept looking down the aisle to see if Bret had somehow made it, but no he hadn't. Typical
.
She heard her name and looked up. Father Thomas smiled at her with his hand out, an invitation to come up.

‘Bob's niece Jennifer Dove would like to say a few words.'

Nerves fluttered in Jennifer's stomach. She had to do this and keep her emotions under control. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the microphone and looked out over the sea of expectant faces. Among them all, one stood out: Calum; his direct gaze and hint of a smile gave her the strength to go on. What she had to say was from her heart and Sofie's. She got through, keeping her voice steady, with Calum's help. She concluded with, ‘I can see how many friends Uncle Bob had — has, and how well you all looked after him. On behalf of my sister, my niece, and myself, thank you.'

Holding hands, Jennifer and Sofie watched as Claudia stepped up to the microphone. She took a moment to survey the crowd. Then slowly, and with a surprising amount of dignity, she began her eulogy. ‘My great-uncle Bob taught me that it was okay to be different. He told me, “Nothing matters more than caring for others, especially those who are different and unaccepted by family and community.” I know great-uncle Bob was loved, um — is loved, and accepted. You made him very happy.'

A few tissues and hankies fluttered out of pockets and handbags.

‘He always made me feel special. A few months ago he said —' Claudia paused and fought for control. ‘He said, “You'd better not be wearing black at my funeral.” And then he laughed.'

Claudia waited for the chuckles to fade, before she continued. ‘That's why I love him. He was always honest, kind, and the dearest man I have ever met. What he gave us was unconditional love.'

‘Honey, that was beautiful.' Sofie kissed Claudia's cheek.

‘You are amazing,' Jennifer told her. ‘And your eulogy was beautiful, Uncle Bob would've been so proud,' she whispered.

‘Please stand and we'll all try and sing Bob's requested songs.' Father Thomas said, urging his flock with a palms-up hand signal. ‘You'll find the words in that folded piece of paper tucked into the hymn books.' A rustle of paper and a wave of muttering and chuckles rippled through the congregation as he continued. ‘Right, now everybody put your hearts into it so Bob can hear you up there in God's own garden.'

The music started up from a stereo. Jennifer opened the folded piece of paper, then laughed so hard tears ran down her face. Uncle Bob's request that they sing
Stayin' Alive
by the Bee Gees had people cracking up. It was almost impossible to sing and laugh at the same time.

‘That's it!' Father Thomas raised his voice over the crescendo, a broad smile on his face. ‘That's exactly what Bob had in mind. Now, sing it loud!' And the rafters vibrated with Wham's song,
Wake Me Up Before You Go Go
.

Jennifer, Sofie and Claudia stepped into the aisle to follow Bruce and the pallbearers as they slowly walked outside. The glare was dazzling and Jennifer shielded her eyes so she could see the gleaming gold Cadillac hearse with fins big enough for take-off. All it needed was a runway.

‘Hectic!' Claudia exclaimed and sniffed back her tears.

Sofie leaned into Jennifer and asked, ‘What
is
that?'

Jennifer laughed quietly, despite her grief. ‘That's a Cadillac Deville, hearse.'

The driver, wearing 1940s livery, was a perfect match to the Caddie. He tipped his hat and slid behind the wheel, shutting his door with a hushed click. Engine rumbling, the hearse, carrying their uncle Bob, crept forward with a profusion of purple flowers trembling on the roof. A second, classy, black car followed close behind with speakers blaring music hidden among more flowers. A soft crunch of tyres, and the slow-moving cortege rolled out of the churchyard and down Grey Street. Jennifer tore her eyes away from the many people who lined the street to glance at Sofie, who was surveying the scene, lips trembling. The town had come out to pay their last respects as they watch the cars on their way to the cemetery and Bob Feldman's last resting place. But Jennifer thought her uncle had outdone himself with the last piece of music. Holding Sofie to one side and Claudia to her other, Jennifer watched her uncle's coffin descend into the ground while the Pointer Sisters belted out,
Jump (For My Love)
.