Epilogue

I’m often asked who I got my singing voice from. The answer is, quite simply, Mum. Growing up in Northern Ireland, she was known around the small town of Lisnaskea as ‘the singer’, performing in school productions and on the many stages around County Fermanagh, accompanying herself on the piano accordion. She certainly instilled the joy of music in Lisa and me, and seeing us fall in love with singing and performing filled her with pride.

In October 2016, Mum and Dad travelled to Sydney to see My Fair Lady. I was beyond excited to have them in the audience to see the show I had fallen in love with. Their visits to my performances in Australia were precious. They left the theatre on a high, and as we were walking away from stage door, Mum asked if we should stop and have a wee drink at the Opera Bar to celebrate. But with it being late and knowing the bar would soon be closing, we decided to have a drink at home. I often think about that night. If only we’d allowed ourselves a moment to sit and enjoy the view, I think Mum would have loved it. This is the last time Mum ever saw me onstage, and I have regretted that decision to this day, wishing I could turn back the clock. I should have cherished that evening we spent together much more than I did. Whenever I think back to that night, it always makes me cry.

It’s the phone call or text message we all dread, and when Lisa messaged me one morning during a music rehearsal in November 2021 to say Mum had been taken to hospital, my heart sank for two reasons – because she hadn’t been doing so well, and I knew I couldn’t just jump on a plane to be by her side. With Covid still creating havoc for travel, I knew I had more than one battle in front of me. While I tried to attempt the impossible – it felt like I would never get home in time – I would send my sister small snippets of my chorus music rehearsals, or sing songs into the voice recorder on my phone for Lisa to play to Mum.

It’s difficult to describe the stress, complete helplessness and frustration I felt during this time. I knew Mum’s health was declining as she lay in a hospital bed in New Zealand, and yet to have to prove that my mum appeared sicker than anybody else’s loved one, just to secure a spot in managed isolation, felt cruel and inhumane. The support I received from Opera Australia was beyond anything I could have imagined, and this continued throughout my stay in New Zealand until I returned home to Sydney in March 2022. I remember the chorus master, Paul Fitzsimon, saying to me one day on the phone, ‘It’s okay, Kath, take the time you need, be with your family, and when you return, we’ll welcome you home.’ I will never be able to thank him enough.

When I finally left managed isolation in early January 2022, and drove down to Hamilton to be with Mum and my family, all the emotion of the last two months overwhelmed me. Every day I would sing to Mum. Being Irish, she loved the folk song ‘She Moved Through the Fair’. At times she would try to join in, and it filled my heart with a love I can’t put into words, but also extreme sadness; we all knew, as she did, that time was running out. Despite this, Lisa, Dad and I continued to make her laugh as we cracked jokes, played her favourite music, reminisced about her many cats and their hilarious antics, and danced Irish jigs around her hospital bed to the songs of The Dubliners.

On the afternoon of her passing, I sang ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, along with Gounod’s ‘Ave Maria’, and ‘O mio babbino caro’ by Puccini. Even though Mum couldn’t communicate anymore, I believed she could still hear me. Music had played such a huge part in her life. My darling mum entered her eternal slumber in the early hours of 2 February 2022, while I lay awake in a bed next to her. Shortly afterwards I climbed into her bed, finally being able to hug her without drips, pumps and cannulas attached. And as I held Mum close, I sang to her for the last time.

A few people asked if I would sing at her celebration, but I knew it would never happen. The day was about honouring my mum and her wonderful life. My family sang to Mum when it felt important to us, and these moments were shared in private. They meant much more to me than standing up in the church trying to sing.

Mum is still one of the most selfless people I have ever known. She never wanted for anything, continuously telling us not to spend our money on her, but we always did. She had the most fitting send-off. She lived a life full of laughter, music and love. Staunchly loyal to a fault, she was also a great advocate for justice. Mum left this earth with the grace, dignity and honour she deserved. There were no words left unsaid and we know that she returned into the arms of her own mum, who she had lost 66 years before, but who, as Mum told us, was waiting for her.

In my eulogy for Mum, I said, ‘Now, as I walk out onto the stage every night, I know Mum will be right beside me, and we will continue our musical journey together.’ I like to think that Mum is watching my shows from a seat somewhere in the theatre, out there in the darkness. I know that during a recent performance of Boito’s Mefistofele, at Arts Centre Melbourne, I felt her presence. Sitting on the stage after singing a chorus number and looking out to the vast auditorium, a feeling of warmth engulfed me and tears started falling. It only lasted a few moments, but it felt beautiful.

Before the burial, I carefully placed an early draft of this book into my mum’s casket. I hadn’t really planned to, but when we were gathering a few precious items, I found myself rushing to the printers to get a copy. I made a promise to Mum in that moment: that I would try my hardest to one day tell my story. This gave me the incentive to put pen to paper and see this passion project through to the end.

So, if you’re reading this, our dream became a reality. I know Mum would be, as she used to say, ‘as proud as punch’.