19

‘Is anybody else coming this morning?’ The funeral celebrant — Brigitte had forgotten his name — sipped tea from a mug with a kookaburra illustration on it.

She looked at him over the bowl of papier-mache fruit. He had floppy white hair, rosebud lips, and glasses. ‘My husband’ll be here soon.’ She glanced at her phone. No new messages or missed calls. She shifted in the uncomfortable chair and poured strong coffee into her blue bird mug, fairy-wren printed at the bottom.

‘No parents or brothers and sisters?’

‘My dad died when I was little, my mother couldn’t make it, and my brother is … not feeling well.’

The celebrant folded his smooth, white hands on the table, and said they should get started soon. His voice was modulated, comforting. He smelled faintly of lavender.

‘Could I just try my husband first?’ She picked up her phone.

The celebrant nodded and smiled sympathetically.

Aidan was never late. She held her breath and didn’t let it go until he picked up.

‘Can’t make it today,’ he said.

She felt like vomiting again.

‘Urgent work to do.’

She bit her bottom lip. ‘But …’ Not showing up today was something Sam would have done.

‘A development in the Carver investigation.’

‘I thought it wasn’t your investigation.’ Nothing. ‘Fine. I’ll just make all the arrangements myself.’

‘OK.’

‘And I’ll catch the bus back, so you won’t have to pick me up,’ she said, hoping he’d tell her not to be ridiculous. ‘Two buses. One to Bairnsdale and then another one to Paynesville.’

‘Good.’

Maybe Matt would like to come and help her? She was being unreasonable — finding Maree Carver’s killer was important. ‘See you tonight then,’ she said.

He hung up on her and she frowned at her phone. He knows.

The celebrant cleared his throat.

‘He’s a police officer.’ Brigitte held up her palms.

The celebrant nodded. ‘I usually like to see some photos of your loved one so I have a clear image in my mind. Do you have any?’

She was still staring at her phone. ‘What? Photos?’

‘Mmm.’

‘No, not with me, sorry.’ She poured more coffee with a shaky hand — a splash of sherry in there might not be a bad idea.

‘Never mind. If you’re feeling comfortable, could we talk about Edward? Did you call him Grandpa?’

‘Papa.’

He took out a spiral-bound notebook and a silver pen. ‘Would you like to start Papa’s life celebration with you or your mother coming forward in the chapel and lighting a Candle of Remembrance?’

‘I’ll do it.’ Joan being sober enough to stand up was the most she was hoping for. ‘And he wanted a graveside service.’

‘Sure you don’t want an indoor service?’

She shook her head.

‘Hope the weather’s all right, then.’ He made some notes and asked what Papa was like.

How could she articulate that? She rubbed her face, rested her chin on her hands, and tried to think. Her head hurt. ‘Sorry, late night, couldn’t sleep.’

The celebrant nodded, understanding; he could probably smell alcohol still on her.

Papa hadn’t travelled, hadn’t had any hobbies. ‘Papa liked a drink and a smoke,’ she said. ‘And watching Fitzroy play footy, before they became the Brisbane Bears.’

‘Not bears.’

What?

‘Lions. Fitzroy merged with the Brisbane Bears to become the Brisbane Lions.’

She nodded and sipped her coffee. How different would it have been for Maree Carver’s family arranging her ‘life celebration’?

‘And how about some things about Papa’s place of birth, places of residence, work, important events?’

It took them an hour or so to go through Papa’s early life in Fitzroy; his cleaning jobs; brushes with Squizzy Taylor; the war; meeting Nana at the dance.

‘Anything else you can think of?’ the celebrant said. ‘Special memories you have?’

Brigitte told him about her old flat at the rear of Nana and Papa’s house. Papa had built it with his own hands from materials collected in the back laneways of Fitzroy. God knows how he’d hooked up the plumbing and power. A wonder he hadn’t electrocuted them. He’d wanted to keep Brigitte close and safe after the car accident.

Once Joan and her sister had moved Papa into the home, they’d sold his house for close to a mil — a lot for a North-side house back in the early noughties. It was still keeping Joan in brandy, Chanel No. 5, and botox. Where Nana’s geraniums had once thrived, now stood four eggplant-coloured units, owned by people who had grown up in places like Templestowe and Doncaster.

‘And did Papa have any favourite songs?’ the celebrant asked.

‘I’m sorry, what was your name again?’

‘Kevin.’

‘He liked Bing Crosby and Glen Miller, Kevin.’ And there was this old folk song he used to sing — she was struggling to remember it. Something about a lady running off with a gypsy, but it escaped her. ‘But for his funeral, he always said he wanted “Rhinestone Cowboy”.’ She sang a couple of lines from the chorus.

Kevin smiled. Brigitte smiled; her lips trembled into a grin, and then she burst into laughter. She laughed until tears ran down her face and she put her head in her hands on the table.

Kevin sat quietly until she composed herself. He touched her hand gently, and she wanted to confess to him about Matt. He’d understand — he’d understand anything.

‘At the end of Papa’s life celebration, I’ll ask you to come forward and extinguish the Candle of Remembrance,’ he said.