The Lightkeeper's Wife

34



The day of the funeral is grey and heavy with clouds. At first, there’s only a cluster of us standing mute and tense in the grounds of the crematorium. Then cars began to arrive, slotting themselves into neat rows in the carpark. People in sombre clothing emerge and approach slowly across the grass. Some faces are familiar to me, but most are not.

Jan, Gary and I stand beside each other as if someone has placed us there, lined up like garden gnomes. My face feels rigid, almost as cold as Mum’s. Soon, there are people milling everywhere. Some are crying. I’m hugged by old ladies I’ve never met before. People reach out to express sympathy. I feel like a rock in a storm, struggling to find stillness within, while waves wash all around.

Jacinta, who was probably closer to Mum than any of us in recent years, stays locked to Alex’s arm, her face white and drawn. Judy keeps close to Gary, watching out for Jan. Anyone would think this was Jan’s day, the way she pours out grief. She’s like a well overflowing. Alex carefully steers Jacinta away from her. The swelling mood of sorrow in the gathering crowd is overwhelming. There are so many people here who knew and admired my mother. People I’ve never met from parts of her life I’ve never known. How little we understand of our parents. How little credit we give for their achievements.

I knew your mum from the opportunity shop. She was a fine lady. A great contributor.

Your mum and I did Meals on Wheels together years ago. We didn’t see each other often, but we kept in touch. She was very proud of all her children.

I’ ll miss Mary terribly. She was a good friend.

We played bowls together till her arthritis became too bad. She still helped out, though. Making cups of tea and serving cakes. That’s what she was. A real helper.

She was a community person . . . A strong lady . . . Helpful . . . Unselfish.

I’m from the bridge club and your mother was a fearsome card player. She always thrashed me. I don’t know how she did it.

I didn’t know Mum had so many friends and admirers. Despite the years of isolation at the cape, she still had a strong community spirit. Seems she must have involved herself in everything when she and Dad moved back to Hobart. I guess she was never one to sit around, until her arthritis incapacitated her.

At one point I notice Leon at the edge of the crowd, waiting to speak to me. He manages a brief smile when our eyes connect, but he looks terrible. We shake hands and he grips my arm firmly. Memories of the last time we saw each other are thick between us; Mum lying dead in the cabin. Now, both of us struggle to speak and Leon’s eyes fill with tears. I choke out a thanks for his presence and then the celebrant sweeps us into the crematorium.

Gary presents an excellent eulogy summarising Mum’s life, especially her bond with Bruny Island. His observations on Mum and Dad are astute and it’s a surprise to realise that he has understood them and known them better than me, despite his distance from Mum in recent years. A demanding spouse can force a degree of distance into family relationships, I suppose. But today, Judy’s behaviour is faultless. She’s there to stand by Gary in his role as the male head of our family. Not for the first time, I appreciate being the youngest. Little is expected of me. And I certainly wouldn’t have been able to deliver the eulogy with the passion and confidence that Gary manages to muster.

Jacinta somehow holds it together to read from Kahlil Gibran’s book The Prophet. At the podium she stands, tremulous, and reads with a quavering voice, rich with emotion.

This is when I am reminded how grief can be like a tsunami—how it can rise and rise and then swell and collapse over you, rolling and tumbling you beneath its weight while you struggle to resurface. I’m unable to look at Jacinta as she leaves the podium, and I’m glad she has Alex to give her love and courage, because I’m incapable of anything.

The celebrant moves with polished calm and practised compassion to complete proceedings. Gary has put together a computerised slide-show of Mum’s life set to music selected by Jan. It begins after the celebrant’s final sympathetic words.

Mum’s face, young and fresh, topped with a mass of tousled curls.

Her wedding photos, with Dad. My father tall, straight and serious. Mum is radiant.

Then at the lighthouse. Mum’s arms wrapped around Jan and Gary, my siblings squinting in the raw light. Mum is taking it on her face, smiling and unfazed. The tower at the top of the hill behind them.

Mum squatting on the grass with a naked infant me. Chooks pecking beside us. The tails of washing dangling from the clothesline in the background.

Mum beside the lighthouse door with Dad. Their faces closed and unreadable.

Baby Jacinta in Mum’s arms, delight dancing in their eyes.

The sequence of photos continues. It’s beautiful, but it destroys me.



We gather at Jan’s house for tea and recollections. Rain crowds us into the lounge room and the air is thick with voices. After initial awkwardness, the stories begin to flow. This, finally, is the celebration of Mum’s life.

Leon mingles with the group, and I notice him often, chatting with various old ladies who were Mum’s friends. Before he leaves, he comes quietly to my side.

‘Thanks for the wake,’ he says, smiling kindly. ‘I was going to go home straight after the service, but I’m pleased I came.’

I grip his arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here. She would have been touched.’

‘Life on Bruny has changed since she died,’ he says. ‘There’s a new emptiness. I can’t drive past the cabin without choking up.’

I nod.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ he says. ‘I want to do a memorial walk up East Cloudy Head. For her, given that I couldn’t take her there. And I’d like you to come. I’d like to share it with you.’

Emotion threatens to overwhelm me, but I hold it together. ‘That’d be good,’ I say.

We choose a day, and then I watch his bright head disappear among the crowns of grey.