Chapter 38

Beth

We had opted to drive ourselves to the funeral, refusing Nora the funeral director’s offer to organise a limo. We were perfectly capable of driving ourselves, we thought. And turning up in an ostentatious fuel-guzzler seemed at odds with the environmentally friendly, modest but tasteful farewell we’d organised for Gran.

However, after Elijah discovered he had barely enough petrol to get him to the nearest service station, let alone the funeral, and six sets of keys to three different cars had disappeared from the face of the Earth, we all regretted our decision. When Nora said ‘the last thing you want to be worried about is whether you’ll get held up by road works or where to park the car’, she had obviously assumed my family were capable of first getting their cars out of the driveway.

We loaded as much of the music gear as we could into my car, which Dad and Elijah drove ahead to the cemetery so they could begin setting up. The rest of us followed in an Uber. Wedging Nick in between Mum and Jarrah in the back of a car was definitely a way to expedite the ‘getting to know the family’ segment of our relationship.

After a tense journey that was indeed delayed by road works, we pulled up to the chapel to find Nora anxiously pacing the threshold.

‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘We only have an hour before the next funeral begins, and they need time to change over the flowers between services. We have to get moving.’

I scoffed at her lack of compassion.

‘They’re not my rules, of course,’ she offered quickly by way of defence. ‘They run a tight ship here.’

We entered the chapel to find a smattering of wellwishers seated already. Dad and Elijah were connecting amps and arranging microphones on the stage next to a giant portrait of Gran that was balanced on an easel. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes landed on her coffin. Of course, I knew it would be there; I had been part of the committee that chose it. But to actually see it, knowing her body was inside it, rattled my already tenuous state.

Seeing her hat perched on the coffin, next to the bunch of flowers that contained some cuttings from her garden, brought me to tears. I felt Nick’s hand depress the small of my back as a moist sob escaped my body.

I recognised a few of the people already seated. Some of the other volunteers Gran worked with were huddled together, and two-thirds of a throuple that Mum and Dad had been friends with for years were seated in the back row.

Geoff and Alannah arrived and waved solemnly as they took their seats. I was equally touched they had made the effort to come and grateful they hadn’t approached me to chat; small talk felt completely beyond me at the best of times.

People continued to file through the doors at the back of the chapel, every second one clutching an order of service (‘one between two’, Nora had insisted; additional copies would have involved an upgraded funeral package).

Jack and Emily approached me.

‘G’day, Beth,’ Jack said, smiling warmly and holding out his hand to shake my own. I noticed he was holding a brown paper bag in the other one. ‘I’m so sorry about Elise. She was one of a kind, that one. A true gem.’

He opened the neck of the paper bag and removed a mason jar half-filled with dirt.

‘We went back and collected some dirt from the boundary of the reserve and Woodside Ridge,’ he said, handing me the jar. ‘Thought she’d like to be cremated with some of her Country.’

I was so touched by the gesture that my heart physically ached. I tried to stop the tears, but they came anyway.

Emily stepped forward and handed me a perfect red-tailed black cockatoo feather.

‘And when we got there, we found a Kaarak had left this for her, right where she …’ her voice trailed off.

‘Thank you so much,’ I managed to splutter before I scurried off to place the feather and precious dirt on top of her coffin. The loud squeal of a speaker interrupted the poignant moment.

Nora touched her mouth on the microphone and, in an excessively breathy voice, announced to those of us still standing that it was time to take our seats. She then instructed us to silence our mobile phones and pointed to the location of the toilets. While I knew it was necessary, it felt like an intrusion of normalcy into a sacred ceremony.

The white-walled chapel was lined with pine beams, and the pews faced large windows, which looked onto a deep garden bed planted with native plants. Wattlebirds and wrens darted in and around the foliage, wholly and blissfully oblivious to the gravity of what was happening inside.

My family and I took our seats in the front pew, while Nick and Gerry sat immediately behind us. I gestured for them to join us, but they both shook their heads, softly, wordlessly communicating they would be more comfortable one row back. I understood completely.

The eulogy was perfect. Sharon and her husband Mike had known Gran and Grandpa since the 1970s. They spoke of her love of her family and of her tenacity and spirit. They also shared a story of when their families went camping. Gran had insisted they go hiking, but no one had packed a map. When they became lost, Gran shared her plans for how they would establish a new society and allocated everyone’s roles within it. Apparently, she seemed genuinely disappointed when they stumbled across their campsite a few hours later.

My stomach was in knots as it came time for me to make my way up to the lectern to read the poem ‘Colour’ by Dorothea Mackellar – one of Gran’s favourite Australian poets.

As I read the stanzas that referenced Australia’s boundless plains, I thought about how Gran had enjoyed a childhood of freedom and had then returned to a state of liberty when she reconnected with Gerry. The colours of the country that Mackellar described spoke to Gran’s love of Australia’s bush, and how she cherished her work and being in natural areas.

Mercifully, I made it through the reading without faltering.

Next, the rest of my family rose to perform. And it was perfect.

Jarrah had put together a slideshow of photos that rolled through as the lyrics, and my family’s voices, washed over me. Old black-and-white photos of Gran as a girl on Woodside Ridge and one of her and Gerry at uni depicted her full of wonder and optimism. Her marriage to my grandpa and life as a mother were captured in shots of weddings, birthdays and family holidays. Snaps of her in various natural settings, including the one of her and Gerry she’d sent the day she died, spoke of her professional accomplishments. And more recent photographs, where the resolution was crisper and fewer people were blinking, showed her in my favourite of her roles – as grandmother.

As my family reached the song’s crescendo, and a photo of Gran I’d taken on my last trip out to Woodside Ridge with her hung on the screen, I allowed my tears to fall.

I felt so proud watching my family. Their performance was perfect, and I understood it was the best way they knew to honour Gran and all that she meant to them.

One by one, those who’d gathered in the chapel took it in turns to place a sprig of rosemary on Gran’s coffin. Holding the herb between my thumb and forefinger, I rubbed the spiney leaf with the fingers on my other hand to release the fragrance. The aroma reminded me of Gran’s lamb roasts: she would place sprigs of rosemary in the baking tray so the flavour would permeate the meat and the roasted spuds. I willed myself to keep the association of its scent with those fond dinner memories, and not with the time that I farewelled her with Nora the funeral director looking on.

When the celebrant wrapped up the proceedings and invited people to stay for greetings on the lawn across the path (‘we’ll need to vacate the room since we were late to start,’ he added pointedly), I felt relieved the funeral was over.

‘That was lovely,’ Nick said as I walked with him and Gerry up the aisle, and towards the back of the room and the midday sun.

I nodded, not yet sure I could speak. We wandered up the path and stopped in the shade of a Moreton Bay fig tree. Its magnificent, exposed root system ribboned across the ground for metres.

‘So, Nick,’ Jarrah said, appearing by my side. ‘Tell me all about yourself. I want to hear everything about the person who managed to steal Bethie’s heart.’

I scoffed indefensibly. It was true; he had.

‘I need to make sure you’re up to standard for this one. She’s one in a million.’

She flashed me a broad smile before turning to Nick and examining him through narrowed eyes.

‘What star sign are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m a Gemini,’ Nick replied.

‘I see,’ Jarrah said thoughtfully, caressing an imaginary beard. ‘A Capricorn and a Gemini …’

‘But I’m not a Capricorn,’ I said. ‘Remember? I’m now a Sagittarius. Because of the new thirteenth star sign. An Ophi-something.’

‘Ophiuchus. No, apparently that wasn’t true,’ she said, rolling her eyes as though she was disappointed in the universe for providing her with misinformation.

‘What?’ I squawked.

My mind flashed over the events of the last few months. I thought of Jarrah telling me about the new star sign, and how I’d bought a lotto ticket to prove there’s no such thing as fate. I recalled Leo the lotto CEO’s big white smile as he congratulated me on my win, which had led to my conversation with Gran when she first told me about Gerry.

‘What do you mean there’s no thirteenth star sign? You said there was.’

A group of Gran’s herbarium colleagues standing nearby looked around to determine the source of my raised voice.

‘Calm down, Bethie,’ Jarrah said softly. ‘Why are you getting so upset? You don’t even believe in that stuff.’

I looked at Nick, who was studying me intently.

‘Of course I don’t. It’s just that …’

My head was swimming as I thought about what Gerry had said on the night Gran died, about her and Gran being star-crossed lovers, and that maybe their relationship had to happen so I would meet Nick.

‘NASA tweeted about it,’ Jarrah continued with a casualness that belied that she had no idea that her announcement about the thirteenth star sign had set in motion a series of life-changing events.

‘Apparently, rumours of the extra star sign surface on social media every few years. You were right about the Babylonians. They did divide the zodiac into twelve segments and lined it up with the calendar. But, according to NASA, it’s not that simple; the constellations are different sizes and shapes, and the sun spends different amounts of time lined up with each one.’ She traced her foot in an arc in the dirt. ‘The sun actually passes through thirteen constellations. Not twelve. But those crazy Babylonians just ignored the last one because it didn’t neatly fit with their calendar. It’s been there all along.’ Jarrah nodded, as if this explanation should settle it once and for all.

My mouth fell open.

‘But none of that really matters, does it, Nick?’ Jarrah posed, squeezing him in a side hug. ‘Sometimes, the universe has a plan for us, whether we like it or not.’

Jarrah wandered off towards Mum and Dad who were surrounded by a crowd of people congratulating them on their performance. This didn’t irk me, though; they deserved the praise being showered upon them.

Nick stepped towards me, put his hands around my waist and drew me towards him. And, despite everything that had happened, I felt an unequivocal sense that everything was just as it should be. Celestial even.