Papa was buried in Melbourne General Cemetery under a grey sky. It didn’t rain, but a bitter wind whipped the last dead leaves from the branches and whirled them in gusts around us. In our mourning black, we looked like a flock of crows alighted among the tombstones.
It was time for the gravediggers to begin shovelling dirt back into the grave. I let go of SP’s arm and walked up to the edge. I looked down. The gaping hole and the shining coffin now half-covered with clods of earth had nothing to do with Papa. My lovely old lion. That was what I called him to myself for he reminded me of those wonderful statues in Trafalgar Square. Papa was a deep fruity voice, rumbling laughter, twinkling eyes. Papa was the smell of cologne and cigars, immaculate evening clothes and a silver-topped cane. He was Russian proverbs and French exclamations. He was milk before bedtime and turning me into a young lady and letting me grow up to be who I was.
I had known him such a short time.
“Goodbye, Papa,” I whispered.
Della came up behind me and took my hand in hers. “Come on, Verity,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”