 |
 |
 |
| 'On his one visit to her city home, he was speechless when he saw that the only photo she had of the farm was of the two of them as kids in front of the shearers' quarters.' |
|
|
| The Shearers' Quarters, by Gabrielle Ann Bridges. |
|
 |
|
| The Farm on the Plains, 1982. |
|
|
| Photo by Ian Francis Watson. |
|
|
|
The crowd gathers slowly. New arrivals join others under the shade of the melaleucas, adding their opinions to the major topic of conversation, the drought. A frail, white-haired woman, sister of the deceased, is wheeled through the throng, acknowledging the many greetings with a gracious nod.
When she enters the church, the rest follow.
The coffin stands cross-wise to the aisle, folded Australian flag in centre position beside a well-worn Akubra hat. One end is draped with the State flag, while the Shire banner covers the other. Clearly, this is the funeral of a prominent country-man.
The immediate family walk slowly down the aisle to the reserved pews at the front, the only space left in the packed church. Over a dozen middle-aged adults, grown children with their spouses, take their seats, accompanied by the many grand-children – big families used to be common out here.
There are the standard prayers, and readings by different women from the family, then three people offer eulogies. The first, a politician, gives a sonorous address praising the late Ted Flanagan. A daughter whispers to her husband, with a smirk, 'He’s got his dates wrong by twenty years!' The eldest son, Paddy, talks of his illustrious father’s career in many rural organisations, followed by his twin sister, Therese, who speaks of family life on the farm. It’s noticeable that there’s nothing said about the deceased being a loving father or any personal tributes, just a record of his many public achievements.
As a soloist quavers through The Lord is My Shepherd, the youngest, Andrew, starts to tremble. His sister, Judy, loops her arm through his and holds it close against her side. A baby, the first great-grandchild, lets out a wail and is quickly hushed.
The sons and sons-in-law take their place as pall-bearers. Andrew is given the Australian flag to carry behind the coffin, and everyone solemnly files out to the hymn Faith of our Fathers. Outside, the women-folk hug each other, the men shake hands and reluctantly accept brief hugs from female relatives.
Paddy thanks the politician and sees him off, then marshals the family into cars. The funeral cortege winds around the outskirts of the small town, then crawls along the main street. In the third car behind the hearse, a young woman points to a section cordoned off for repairs, commenting in an amused voice, 'Grandpa would NOT have approved.'
Two white-haired men outside the RSL are standing rigidly beside the lowered flag. The city son eyes the tableau in disgust, muttering, 'he wasn’t a soldier - what a load of crap!'
As they turn towards the cemetery, Therese sees graders blocking the highway, council workers standing at attention beside them. Her vision blurs briefly at the tribute. Good roads are vital in the country and these men know how hard Dad had worked to improve them.
The still air of the cemetery smells of eucalyptus and tastes of red dust. The elderly priest reads the burial service as quickly as he decently can, eager to escape the sun’s dry, life-draining blaze.
 |
|
| The homestead, 1984. |
|
|
| Photo by Ian Francis Watson. |
|
Paddy stands with the others, solemn in their suits and dark-hued ties, letting the cord slide slowly between his hands – easy now, don’t want to stuff it up, let it down smoothly. It seems to take an eternity, but at last the coffin settles beside their mother’s final resting place. He can see that his sisters are crying as they throw flowers in the grave, and yet he’s heard them complaining hundreds of times about the old B.
Afterwards, the crowd presses around the immediate family. Paddy's cousin, from the next-door farm, claps him on the shoulder, then his father’s long-time rival on the council shakes hands, wordless, eyes suspiciously moist. He exchanges a few words with his aunt, greets cousins he hasn't seen in years and endures another hug from his twin, Therese.
The sons-in-law retire to the shade of the gums, eager to escape the horde of dimly-known relatives as well as the heat. The piercingly clear voice of the bereaved sister in her wheelchair reaches their retreat. They chuckle as they hear the self-satisfied comment that more nieces and nephews have turned up to this funeral than to that of her no-good brother-in-law.
Andrew quietly moves to the edge of the crowd. The unaccustomed restriction of a suit chafes, but he won't have to put up with it for much longer. The service is over, he’s carried off his bit as flag-bearer, all that is left is the wake, and a few beers will help that pass quickly.
He feels awkward with his citified brothers and sisters. He never knows what to say to them, so disappears for hours during their occasional visits back to the home farm he has worked with his father. He rarely sees Paddy, who farms a few mile away, and is grateful for that, as he can never forget how his eldest brother used to beat him up when they were kids.
Judy is OK … Andrew suspects she sat next to him in the church on purpose. She left the district straight after school, married a city bloke and now he only sees her a couple of times a year. She asks him what he’s been doing, then tells him about her job and her kids, but it feels like they live on two different planets. On his one visit to her city home, he was speechless when he saw that the only photo she had of the farm was of the two of them as kids, in front of the shearers' quarters. He remembered how they'd played together all the time, but hadn't realised that the memory was precious to her as well.
He hasn't married yet. It's hard to come up with the sort of chit-chat that women expect, and there aren’t too many girls around who want a farming life, anyway. Now the old man can't try to control every moment of his life, maybe his luck will change. His hand shakes as he lights a cigarette.
Later, everyone congregates in the local hall where trestles are laden with home-baked food. The women take cups of tea while the men head for the bar. Beer in hand, they slap the bereaved sons on the back before the talk returns to the weather and market prices.
It’s a while before the daughters can enter the room, so many people stop them to offer condolences.
'I’m so sorry.'
'He was a great man.'
'He was a legend in this area.'
'The district will miss him so much.'
Their responses are polite but brief.
Once inside, they huddle together with their milky cups of tea. The middle one grimaces. 'At least no-one said we’ll miss him.' Her shoulders sag, there’s a deep sigh. Several older people approach the sisters and they split up to respond to their civilities.
While talking to one of her father's bridge partners, Judy keeps one eye on Andrew. She'd left home as soon as she could, but her brother had worked with the old man all his life. His death was bound to be a shock to him, regardless of how much relief he'd feel. Their father had been a harsh disciplinarian, particularly hard on the boys; no wonder they were such an uncommunicative bunch.
Someone offers her a fruit scone and she continues to move through the crowd, gravely acknowledging expressions of sympathy and smiling as she once again meets cousins from around the area. Her other brothers and sisters are also circulating, while their city-bred children huddle together in one corner.
Andrew rapidly downs his first two beers. Many of his father’s old cronies come up to shake his hand, but he discourages any prolonged conversation. When one gets too persistent he says he has to talk to someone and drifts along the hall. An hour of that is enough; he knows family have to stay until the bitter end, but suggests to one of his cousins that they get a breath of fresh air. They stand outside beside an ancient peppercorn tree, talking about crops.
The three sisters meet up again by the urn as they refill their cups. The glances they exchange are fraught with meaning, but there's a long silence. It's Therese who breaks it.
'Paddy says we’ll have to work out who gets to keep a flag.'
'Which one?' Judy giggles. 'There were three on the coffin.'
'The State flag, which he’s entitled to as a retired Member of Parliament, and the Shire banner, because he’s a former Shire President.'
'Maybe we draw straws and the loser gets both?'
Therese frowns. 'Judy, he might have been a hopeless father, but some of us are proud of his achievements.'
'Yeah. Point taken.' She looks subdued for a moment, then brightens. 'Do you know why the Australian flag was on the coffin?'
At their puzzled looks she continues. 'Nell, the funeral director, presumed he was an ex-serviceman, so brought it along. I told her Dad didn’t join up because of a gammy leg, but she said she’d brought it over fifty miles – it was going to be used!'
One hand covers the grin which threatens to split her face. 'Poor Nell - the biggest VIP in the district dies while her husband’s away, and she has to manage the funeral on her own – she’s been like a cat on a hot tin roof. At the cemetery, when Andrew asked her what to do with the Australian flag, she grabbed it, saying it belonged to them – hubby would kill her if she lost it!'
The sisters all chuckle, then, erasing unsuitable expressions, start to dutifully circulate again.
See also Gabrielle Bridge's story Brown Eyes Smiling.
Copyright Gabrielle Bridges 2003
Posted 15 September, 2003
|
