Michael Templeton was a hero, an Adonis, a star. Truly a hero, a much-decorated bombardier in the RAF. When he returned to Chile after the war he had been a star rugby and cricket player for the Prince of Wales team. He raced his BSA for the British motorcycle team and had been the champion for three years. Never lost a race. He even won the last one before he spun out and hit the wall.
He had arranged for Johnny and me to have seats in the press box. Johnny was Michael’s little brother and my best friend. He idolized Michael as much as I did. Johnny and I felt disdain for everything then and a contempt for most people, especially our teachers and parents. We even conceded, with some scorn, that Michael was a cad. But he had style, cachet. All the girls and women, even old women, were in love with him. A slow, slow low voice. He gave Johnny and me rides on the beach in Algarrobo. Flying over hard wet sand, scattering flocks of gulls, their wing beats louder than the motor, than the ocean. Johnny never made fun of me for being in love with Michael, gave me snapshots and clippings in addition to the ones we helped his mum paste in scrapbooks.
His parents didn’t go to the race. They were at the dining room table having tea and bickies. Mr. Templeton’s tea was rum, really, in the blue cup. Michael’s mum was crying, sick with worry about the race. He’ll be the death of me, she said. Mr. Templeton said he hoped Mike would break his bloody fool neck. It wasn’t just the race … this was pretty much their daily conversation. Even though he was a hero, Michael still had no job after three years back from the war. He drank and gambled and got into serious troubles with women. Whispered phone calls and late-night visits from fathers or husbands, slamming doors. But women just became even more fascinated with him and people actually insisted upon loaning him money.
The stadium was crowded and festive. The racers and pit crews were glamorous, dashing Italians, Germans, Australians. The main contenders were the British team and the Argentines. The English rode BSAs and Nortons; the Argentines Moto Guzzis. None of the racers had Michael’s panache, his nonchalance or white scarf. What I am saying is that even with the shock of his death, even with the bike in flames, with Michael’s blood on the concrete wall, his body, the shrieking and the sirens, it all had his particular throwaway insouciance. That it was the last race, and he had won it. Johnny and I didn’t speak, not about the terror, nor about the drama of it.
The dining room at home was buzzing and crowded. Mrs. Templeton had frizzed her hair and powdered her face. She was saying that it would be the death of her but in fact she was very lively, making tea and passing scones and answering the telephone. Mr. Templeton kept on saying, “I told him he would break his bloody neck! I told him!” Johnny reminded him that he had said he wished Michael would.
It was exciting. Nobody but me had visited the Templetons for years, and now the house was full. There were reporters from the Mercurio and the Pacific Mail. Our “Michael album” was open on the table. People were saying hero and prince and tragic waste all over the house. Groups of beautiful girls were upstairs and downstairs. One of the girls would be sobbing while two or three others patted her and brought her tissues.
Johnny and I kept up our usual stance of mirthful scorn. We had not actually realized that Michael was dead, didn’t until the Saturday night after the funeral. That was when we used to sit on the rim of the tub while he shaved, humming “Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week.” He’d tell us all about his “birds,” listing their attributes and inevitable, very funny, flaws. The Saturday after he died we just sat in the tub. We didn’t cry, just sat in the tub, talking about him.
We had fun, though, watching the flurry before the funeral, the rivalries between the mourning girlfriends. Most amazing of all was the way the entire British colony of Santiago decided that Michael had died for the King. Glory to the Empire, the Pacific Mail said. Mrs. Templeton was peppy, had us and the maids beating rugs and oiling bannisters and baking more scones. Mr. Templeton just sat with his blue cup muttering how Mike never could take direction, had been hell-bent.
I was allowed to leave school for the burial. I wouldn’t have gone at all but there was a chemistry test second period. After that I took off my school apron and went to my locker. I was very solemn and brave.
There are things people just don’t talk about. I don’t mean the hard things, like love, but the awkward ones, like how funerals are fun sometimes or how it’s exciting to watch buildings burning. Michael’s funeral was wonderful.
In those days there were still horse-drawn hearses. Massive creaking wagons drawn by four or six black horses. The horses wore blinders and were covered in thick black net, with tassels that dragged dusty in the streets. The drivers wore tails and top hats and carried whips. Because of Michael’s hero status many organizations had contributed to the funeral, so that there were six hearses. One was for his body, the others for flowers. Mourners followed the hearses to the cemetery in black cars.
During the service at Saint Andrew’s (high) Anglican church many of the sad girls fainted or had to be led away because they were so overcome. Outside the gaunt and jaunty drivers smoked on the curb in their top hats. Some people always associate the heady smell of flowers with funerals. For me it needs to be mixed with the scent of horse manure. Parked outside too were over a hundred motorcycles which would follow the cortege to the cemetery. Gunnings of engines, splutters, smoke, backfires. The drivers in black leather, with black helmets, their team colors on their sleeves. It would have been in poor taste for me to tell the girls at school just how many unbelievably handsome men had been at that funeral. I did anyway.
I rode in the car with the Templetons. All the way to the cemetery Mr. Templeton fought with Johnny about Michael’s helmet. Johnny held it on his lap, planned to place it in the grave with Michael. Mr. Templeton argued, reasonably, that helmets were hard to come by and very dear. You had to get someone to bring them from England or America, and pay a stiff duty for them too. “Sell it to some other sod to race in,” he insisted. Johnny and I exchanged glances. Wouldn’t you know he’d only care about the cost?
More glances and grins between us in the cemetery itself with all the tombs and crypts and angels. We decided to be buried at sea and promised to attend to that, for each other.
The Canon, in white lace over a purple cassock, stood at the head of the grave, surrounded by the British racing team, their helmets crooked in their arms. Noble and solemn, like knights. As Michael’s body was lowered into the ground the Canon said, “Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.” While he was saying that Odette tossed in a red rose and then so did Conchi and then Raquel. Defiantly, Millie stalked up and threw in a whole bouquet.
It was lovely then what the Canon said over the grave. He said, “Thou shalt show me the path of life. In Thy presence is the fullness of joy, and at Thy right hand there is pleasure for ever more.” Johnny smiled. I could tell he thought that was just what to say for Michael. Johnny looked around, to be sure it was the end of the roses, stepped to the rim of the grave, and tossed in Michael’s helmet. Ian Frazier, closest to the grave, cried out with grief and impulsively threw his own helmet on top of Michael’s. Pop pop pop then, as if mesmerized, each member of the British racing team tossed his helmet upon the casket. Not just filling the grave but mounding it up with black domes like a pile of olives. Most merciful Father, the Canon was saying as the two grave diggers piled earth upon the mound and covered it with wreaths of flowers. The mourners sang “God Save the King.” Upon the faces of the race drivers were expressions of sorrow and loss. Everyone filed sadly away and then there was a clatter and roar of motorcycles and an echoing and clatter of hooves as the hearses galloped off, careening dangerously, whips cracking, the tails of the drivers’ black coats flapping in the wind.