Pink ribbons fluttered from the Kombi van’s side mirrors. Portia was spray painting ‘Just Married’ in big loopy letters on the rear window while Zack tied tin cans to the tow bar. They scurried away, laughing, as the grooms appeared on the balcony.
‘Get thee to a nunnery!’ Ted called after his sister. He’d changed out of his formal suits into a pale linen shirt. James was wearing a check shirt. It was no secret they were catching the ferry to Tasmania for their honeymoon. James was keen to visit the famous modern art gallery in Hobart.
Ted and James wrapped Lisa in their arms and kissed her cheeks. ‘Thanks for the best wedding in the world!’ Ted said.
‘My pleasure,’ she replied. ‘You did all the work.’
Jake hurried down the steps to shake hands with his son and new son-in-law. Then, after embraces and kisses all round, the happily married couple climbed into the Kombi van. As they rattled down the drive in a flurry of ribbons and tin cans, Lisa’s lips trembled. It was the best wedding she’d ever been to, including her own.
Guests were reluctant to say goodbye and retreat to their houses and motel rooms. As people began to leave, the band packed up their instruments while waiters cleared tables. Everyone agreed the wedding had been a cracking success. As well as dancing with James’s dad, the Grey Army and half of Castlemaine, Lisa had managed to sneak in a couple of extra waltzes with Scott.
A few partygoers lingered, sitting on the steps of the front veranda. Stella brought out a chair for Todd. Scott helped Heidi carry out plastic seats for those whose backsides were too soft or elderly to sit on concrete. He then joined Jake on the steps to continue their bromance.
Maxine’s attempts to lure Aunt Caroline back into her Golf had failed. The old girl was holding court on the sofa. Wedged between Maxine, Gordon and Dorothy Thatcher, she was wittering on about being on the royal yacht Britannia again. ‘As for that Colonel Gaddafi. My, he was a tiger between the sheets!’ she announced. It was sad to witness the decline of a once-intelligent woman into gaga land.
Lisa placed a cup of treacle-coloured tea at her aunt’s feet, but the old woman kicked it away, demanding a glass of port instead. At that point Maxine took Lisa aside and begged her not to give Aunt Caroline any more alcohol or she’d never get her home.
When Lisa returned from the kitchen to inform her aunt she was out of port, the old woman was stunned into momentary silence. Ron came to the rescue, saying he might have a bottle of dessert wine in the back of his van.
He returned from the car park carrying a brown paper bag.
‘That’s my lad!’ Aunt Caroline whooped.
The liquid tumbled into her glass and down her leathery old throat at a startling rate. After her third or fourth glass, the group was reduced to awed silence.
Aunt Caroline’s cheeks turned crimson. Her eyes took on an alarming sheen. ‘Come on you lot!’ she announced. ‘How about a singalong?’ She launched into a swarthy rendition of ‘Roll Out the Barrel’, using her glass as a baton. Stella and Heidi swung their champagne flutes in time and sang along. They were joined by Ron and Gordon, with Dorothy Thatcher singing the descant. Maxine was dug in the ribs until she, too, surrendered and sang along. Todd smiled and nodded obligingly in time.
‘Sing boom ta ra ra!’ Aunt Caroline warbled. ‘Wait a minute . . . STOP!’ The old woman pointed a manicured claw at Scott and Jake, who were sitting on the bottom step, engrossed in quiet conversation. ‘Don’t you boys know how to have fun?’ she said, accusingly. ‘Come here immediately.’
Scott loosened his tie.
‘Not you,’ she snapped. ‘The little one.’
Jake reddened, stood up and dusted down the back of his pants.
‘Come here, my boy,’ Aunt Caroline commanded.
Maxine appeared about to intervene but when she saw how humiliated Jake looked she stopped.
‘Actually, I was about to go to the bathroom,’ he mumbled.
‘Nonsense!’ Aunt Caroline took a walking stick from the floor and waved it menacingly. ‘Up you come.’
Jake ran a hand through his hair. He shrugged at the audience and made his way up the steps.
‘No need to be shy.’ Aunt Caroline looked like a shark about to snaffle a shrimp. ‘Now come here!’ The old woman seized Jake around the thighs and pulled him down.
He cried out as he toppled onto her lap. The sofa squeaked and groaned under the extra weight. Maxine tried to scramble to her feet, but the seat lurched like a sinking ship. With a tremendous crack it snapped in the middle and, in a flurry of shouts and dust, collapsed.
Lisa ran forward, grabbed her aunt and yanked her out of the wreckage. The old woman’s wig had slipped sideways.
‘Are you all right, Aunt Caroline?’ she asked, lowering the nonagenarian onto a plastic chair.
‘Fine, perfectly fine.’
Lisa retrieved her aunt’s walking stick and handbag and placed them under her seat.
Dorothy Thatcher, Ron and Maxine seemed shocked rather than injured. Worst off was Gordon, who’d softened the old woman’s fall. He was on his knees, reaching for support from the balustrade.
The sofa resembled a dead animal sprawled on the veranda, vomiting rusty springs and horsehair. From a fold of rotting fabric, Lisa saw what looked like a silvery chain. She bent down and tugged it. Attached to the chain was a heart-shaped locket. The silver case was blackened with age yet the engraving was still visible. Roses were etched around the outer edge of the heart to frame a pair of letters that were intertwined. They were difficult to decipher, as if written in code.
‘Who were A and M?’ Lisa asked slowly.
Aunt Caroline let out a cry and lurched forward.
‘She’s having a turn!’ Maxine said. ‘Where’s her puffer?’
‘H-h-handbag,’ Aunt Caroline gasped.
‘Gordon!’ Maxine barked. ‘Get her handbag.’
‘Where is it?’ Gordon asked.
Aunt Caroline raised a vein-roped hand and pointed between her legs.
‘I can’t go in there!’ he said.
Exasperated, Maxine dived under Aunt Caroline’s skirt and retrieved the handbag. The old girl grabbed the puffer, flicked the lid off and sucked for all she was worth.
As Aunt Caroline’s lungs resumed normal service, Lisa turned her attention back to the locket. ‘I wonder if it can be opened?’
Aunt Caroline lunged and grabbed the chain. Lisa refused to let go. The old woman summoned all her energy and gave a sharp tug.
The links of the chain stretched then broke, sending the locket spinning through the air. Lisa cried out as it clattered onto the mosaic floor. The impact split the silver heart in two. As she bent to pick up the first half she saw it contained an old sepia photo. The man’s face was long and sensitive, the eyes hooded and sad. ‘It’s Alexander, our grandfather!’ Lisa cried.
The other half of the locket had skidded under Todd’s chair. Lisa crawled over the tiles towards it, but Aunt Caroline’s stick blocked her path. ‘I doubt it’s even sterling silver,’ the old woman said imperiously. ‘Not worth your trouble.’
Lisa pushed the walking stick aside and seized the piece of silver. Standing up, she dusted it off and stood under the light. Inserted in the locket segment was a sepia photo to match the one of her grandfather.
It was of an Aboriginal woman and a baby. Alexander and a black woman? And who was the baby?
Lisa’s reverie of shock and fascination was interrupted by the irritating bleep of Maxine punching numbers into her phone and shouting. ‘Hello? Emergency services? We need an ambulance. Fast.’