Robyn Hogan

Mrs Dunne’s funeral. Del meets up with an old school friend.

It was a warm afternoon, a little shy of two o’clock, when Fidelma parked her car outside the church, uptown from Davy’s four-wheel drive and Anne’s sedan. St. Finian’s, the church of their childhood. Where Margaret O’Toole and David Dunne and O’Tooles and Dunnes, stretching back to the first white settlers in the district, had prayed and received the sacraments. Baptisms, confessions, communions, marriages and requiems reaching back well beyond the century. Today, within its faded white timber walls, rested the last of the generations that had crossed the mountains to settle on the plains. The empty hearse was parked in front of the gates and an attendant was setting up a small table under the camphor laurel trees in the churchyard.

‘Ah! Fidelma!’ An elderly man, in baggy, pinstriped trousers, white shirtsleeves and braces, stepped from the shade. As he ambled towards her, she realised he had to be the undertaker, funeral director Anne had called him, last remembered as middle-aged, now quite elderly. She had been eighteen then, her father the one lying in a coffin in front of the altar. Her father? She winced at the thought and forced herself to walk towards the man and, accepting his outstretched hand with a firm shake, murmuring his name. ‘You’ve become more and more like your granny – no, I tell a lie. She was your dad’s granny, the old Fidelma, your great-granny.’

‘I never knew her.’

‘No. Coming so late as you did.’

Whatever does he mean? Del found herself thinking, but warily. Anne had mentioned the memory this man seemed to have. When she had telephoned him with the news of their mother’s death, he had been able to recall, instantly, her maiden name, her mother’s maiden name and the death years of siblings. Could tell her, Anne, details of people she had forgotten if she had ever known them. ‘I wonder if he has a file in his head on the whole town’s population,’ she had mused to Del.

‘Of course, she was a bit older than you are now when I first knew her.’ His gaze ran over Del causing a shiver along her spine; she suddenly felt he was laying her out as he had her mother a few hours earlier. ‘Not as full in figure either, but I’d say you were definitely a chip off the old girl, as it were.’ This man, and his father before him, had been the town’s undertakers for a century and, it seemed, as Anne had hinted, he knew a century’s secrets.

Del wanted to be free of him. ‘Are the others in the church?’

‘Not yet. There’s no need to go in yet.’ He continued to assess her, nodding to himself, positioning himself between her and the steps into the church.

‘But where are they?’ She turned away, opening her arms. ‘The cars are there; where are they if they aren’t in the church?’

‘With Father. In his office.’ He gestured towards a newish building hidden in mature trees between church and presbytery. ‘They built the priest a small home and office some years ago now; sold the rambling old presbytery. It’s been renovated into a smart bed and breakfast.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Couple of sisters bought it, nieces of the Russells. Remember them?’

A hot breeze, smelling of the dry plains, picked up, eddied round them. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She twiddled with the strap on her shoulder bag. ‘Perhaps I should go and join Anne and Davy.’

‘No. There wouldn’t be room for you.’ He chuckled briefly. ‘Five of them plus Father in that little office; best you wait here, Fidelma.’ And he seemed to angle himself around her again, cutting off any escape, insisting she catch up on some town news. ‘Old Mrs Russell, Sarah that is, was a Lee and great friends with your granny. These young ones, of course they’re older than you, they inherited. Bought the old building with the proceeds. Yard runs down to the river, you know.’

‘Yes.’ She remembered the river, the sluggish stream meandering through the willows. Except in the flood times. She recalled the carcass of a cow, bloated, four feet in the air, being whisked past.

‘Nice to see some families returning to the town.’

‘It must be.’

‘Well, here comes your family. I’ll leave you to chat a bit while I get my coat on, then I’ll escort you in.’ He strolled towards the street gates and Del shot a look of gratitude towards Anne and Michael, their son, George, and Davy and Sarah as she walked swiftly to meet them; greet them.

Anne was wearing a heavy black suit, lightened only by a glimpse of cream blouse and a soft, rose-coloured scarf floating round the brim of a creamy straw hat. She looked strained, her age showing in the tautness of her skin, the weariness in her eyes. Michael, George and Davy wore conventional dark suits — their regular office wear. Easy for them, thought Del, taking in Sarah’s, electric-blue pants suit. A statement if ever there was one. But a complementary style to the bright blond hair cut very short at the back, most modish. Del had agonised over her own choice of clothing, settling on the tawny two piece Kevin had said made her look monochromatic, tied her thick hair back with a tortoise-shell clip and fastened the amber pendant, her father’s last gift to her, round her neck. People were milling past them, signing the register – do families really need these things? – for the attendant under his tree and strolling up the steps into the church.

‘We should go in,’ said Anne.

Del shook her head. ‘The old boy said he would ‘escort us’: I think we have to wait for him.’

He had his coat on now, a long morning coat, and was pulling his shining white shirt cuffs free of the sleeves. ‘I’ll take you ladies first, then come back for the men.’ Anne seemed unperturbed by the old-fashioned attitude; Sarah and Del exchanged quick looks before dropping their eyes. He ushered them up the steps then hurrying, but treading softly, seemingly unhurried, ahead of them, up the aisle to the front right-hand pew. Anne genuflected deeply and, as she rose, he took her elbow, propelled her into the pew. Sarah chose to stand and direct a brief nod towards the altar before she, too, was handed into the pew. Del took in the shiny darkwood coffin, mounted on its silver stand, a bowl of full-blown Peace roses catching the sunlight streaming through the high, north-west windows. Nice touch, Anne, she thought and felt again the familiar stab of envy Anne’s best actions could often rouse in her. The undertaker’s arm was across her back; she genuflected swiftly before he propelled her, in a far too familiar manner, into the pew. Silently he padded back down the aisle and returned, seating the three men, despite the long pews, in the one behind. Del could feel Sarah’s amusement at the segregation, heard the soft hoot she could not suppress, and her mood lightened, too.

The organist began playing as the priest entered. The words of the hymn flashed onto a screen by the pulpit and the congregation sang solemnly.

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee;”

Anne, who had always had a good voice, took the lead.

“Be of sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and power.”

Guilt. And the power of guilt. She passed it on to me, thought Del, her mind sliding away from the service. Only, close to the end of the Mass, as Davy began the eulogy, did Del bring her thoughts to the present, aware she needed to know how her sister and brother would recall their mother. Their eulogy was a litany of praise for a worthy, seemingly unblemished life and Del felt herself slightly shocked at the lack of humour. Had it been a life of toil and triumph but not much fun? A life overpowered by guilt? As a student living away, Del had not had much to do with her mother. That she had not been sent for in time to farewell her father caused a rift; the fight to marry Kevin, a chasm.

Then the requiem was being said, the men led from their pew, positioned as pallbearers, the undertaker’s assistant making a fourth. As they shouldered the coffin, the funeral director took the lead and, with the priest chanting, walking behind the coffin, they began to process down the church. Anne brushed a tear away and, forgetting to genuflect, stepped into the aisle and followed the priest. Sarah glanced quickly at Del. ‘I’m not walking down there alone,’ she hissed and grabbed Del’s hand. They almost stumbled from the pew and, when Del righted herself, her eyes met cheeky blue ones in a familiar, grinning face. Then other faces, smiling, heads nodding, acknowledged their sympathy.

Outside, the March wind had freshened, warmer and drier, but the sun had moved enough to allow the church building to cast some shadow. It was not a large funeral but, even so, the Dunne family seemed to shake a lot of hands, receive a large number of cheek pecks before they were ushered into the funeral car and driven to the cemetery. It all became a blur, particularly for Fidelma, who certainly remembered far fewer people than Anne and Davy. By the time they arrived back at the church hall, where the ‘ladies’ had arranged afternoon tea, she felt totally drained. But after a long, cool glass of water and, with a cup of strong, black coffee in her hand, she began to feel she could handle the conversations that now seemed to be expected of her. Del realised there was some order, recognised by the townspeople, in the approaches. Mostly the women talked to Anne first then moved onto her; men monopolised Davy but included his son, George; while Sarah and Michael were left on the crowd fringe, fending for themselves. She was slightly surprised that Sarah seemed to have few friends, that she sported an air of aloofness; a snobbish attitude. The order, if such it was, gave Del a fleeting chance at catching names and that seemed to shorten the process; they did not feel the need to explain themselves but, rather, could launch into some memory concerning her.

Hazel Watts she truly remembered. Her mother’s childhood friend, the friend through all the stages of Margaret Dunne’s life, as spry as ever. ‘It’s a sad day, Fidelma, but I said good-bye to your mother months ago. When you took her away.’

‘I’m sorry we had to but she couldn’t manage. And there’s no nursing home here.’

Hazel patted her hand. ‘I know dear. Old Billy Jones has been up in the hospital for three years now. There’s no where else for him; he’s bedridden, of course.’

‘At least Mummy could get around until just recently.’

‘Yes,’ tears drizzled down her cheeks, ‘and we managed to telephone each other three or four times a week.’

It was Del’s turn to offer sympathy. ‘I know, Aunty Haze, and it meant a lot to Mummy.’ She stroked the old woman, wondering what more she could say.

‘She loved you, you know, in an incredibly private and possessive way. She and Anne were always close, complemented each other as it were, but you, you she doted on.’

‘Maybe.’ Del laughed nervously then threw her head back defiantly. ‘I was Dad’s girl.’

‘Oh, yes. And it was Maggie that made sure you were. Your coming saved your father’s life.’

‘It did indeed,’ George Watts boomed as he joined them. ‘After all, he’d had his balls shot off but there was just enough juice left to make you.’ He winked broadly and Del remembered her mother had always considered him rather coarse. ‘When I got back, cos Dave was discharged early, Maggie was as pregnant as a cow and old Dave was a broken man, whingeing and weeping in a corner.’ He reached past her and grabbed a couple of sandwiches, pushing them into his mouth. Del tried to move away, separate herself from him, but he caught her arm, swallowed hard and continued, ‘But the day you were born and he saw ya, he reckoned you were the image of his granny. I can see ’im now, ’is skinny old dial comin’ to life and he smiled,’ Watts leaned closer to Del, his heavy jowls nodding in agreement, ‘first time he’d smiled for months and it was you what brought it on.’

He took his arm away and reached for a lamington so Del made her escape. Aunty Haze she would have liked to talk to more but not George Watts. She knew he’d been a good friend to her father, an apparently decent husband to Hazel but she, Del, had to agree with her mother: he was coarse. Why ever had Hazel, gentle little Hazel, married him in the first place? Staying with him she understood, one did that, but— she shrugged and decided it was time to talk with her own age group. The end of war babies. Del was aware she was a little older than the others but she’d been in the same school class. And she wanted to catch up with the cheeky grin she’d met coming out from the service. He must have been watching for her; he strode across the room as soon as her eyes met his.

‘Delly Dunne: you’re as lovely as ever!’ and he enveloped her in a great and shameless bear hug .

‘Hello, Barry Jackson,’ she laughed, suddenly remembering his name and pulling away from his embrace. ‘And what have you been doing with yourself. Mischief, as usual?’ It was a casual, throw-away comment.

‘Yeah. You know me. We got up to some capers, didn’t we?’

‘Did we?’ She projected an innocence as she tried to think.

‘Sure. Remember the fish?’

‘No.’ Del shook her head.

‘You don’t!’ he guffawed, ‘it was your Dad’s birthday and a Friday. You wanted to catch him a fish for his tea.’

It was suddenly all before her: the river, the sunny afternoon, the wagging from class, the pal baiting her hook, waiting with her, talking her in when the bait was taken.

‘We caught three—’

‘Yeah. Three yella-bellies that arvo. And the old bugger was up on the bank watching us.’

‘Father Byrne.’

‘The same. “I’ll hab dem fish ye young rascals”.’ Barry roared a laugh. ‘Accent thick as molasses. Pure Irish! He waited there, watching us and he took them, all three of them, the mean old bugger, for himself.’

‘You stood up to him, Barry, if I remember correctly. Quite brave you were. But the Bishop was coming and, as they say, his need was greater than ours.’

‘And your dad missed out on his birthday present.’

Yes; she remembered. She had wanted so much to give her father a fish for his birthday. When they went to confession each month, her father always confessed to eating meat on Fridays. Everyone in the pews waiting outside the confessional box would hear Father Byrne declaring ‘but eggs is nourishin’, Dave,’ and her father responding, ‘eggs make me sick.’ And they undoubtedly did; he, with his colostomy, had to be careful.

A soft look of sadness settled across Del’s face as she began to move away, towards the familiar figures of Sarah and Michael. Barry would not let her go, catching at her hand. ‘And the miracle? The miracle of St. Luke.?’

Pulling her hand out of his grasp she said, ‘You’ve got me there, Barry’, and tried again to dismiss him.

‘You don’t remember?’ He shook his head in disbelief. He was going bald forward of the crown and grey on the temples but his jaw was clean and firm, skin, tanned.

‘The sun — it shone directly into the ‘Sacred Heart’.’

‘Oh, yes. I do remember!’ Del, despite herself responded. She was once again sitting in a dusty classroom, the lesson droning on as she, as usual, dreamed. Then Sister Pascal was calling for them to pray, to praise the Lord, her calmness shot to pieces as a shaft of sunlight pierced the heart in the framed print of Jesus mounted on the dark east wall. The light wavered a little but mostly kept its focus.

‘A miracle! A miracle!’ Sister Pascal ran from the classroom, across the dirt playground, hardly hampered by her heavy habit, beads and badly fitting shoes, and nuns the children had never seen poured from the convent doors. One, pale and frail, was carried by two lay sisters, kitchen staff, their arms forming her chair. The partitions between the classrooms were folded back, the classes blended and all, were there twenty? thirty? pupils, ordered to kneel before the sun-pierced picture. But the sun was wavering, moving on in its orbit.

Del, doubting the miracle – why would a great god come into her little country classroom? – and, while kneeling in a devout manner, glanced round for a cause. Barry Jackson! He had a new ruler. Rulers had always been thin and wooden but his, his birthday present, had inlaid timbers and a metal edge. And the metal edge had picked up the sunlight, projected it across the room, accidentally honed in on the bleeding heart exposed in the picture. As she looked at him, prepared, in a goody-goody manner to dob him in, he shot her a look of almost despair; begging despair. The school, one great room now, was filling up with nuns chanting praises and the sun was sliding away, moving on. And Barry Jackson did not understand what he was doing. Del understood his problem though she could not have said how, and, moving her hand beneath the desk, guided him into the correct ruler tilt to maintain the spotlight onto the exposed heart in the picture. Then, gradually, gradually, communicating silently, by will, as the prayers rang louder and louder, she had him alter the angle, drawing the sunlight away before the sun itself went behind a large pine tree. And the miracle passed.

‘I think that was the finest moment in all my life,’ Barry said, ‘I had caused a miracle beyond my control and you, wondrous Delly Dunne, the love of my life, kept it going, preserved it. You know, they talked about it at the closing of the convent.’

‘They—what?’

‘Yes, to be sure. They had a do to close the convent — you know it was moved holus-bolus to the wine country somewhere? — and the miracle, the Miracle of St Luke they called it, was mentioned. The whole scene described — except they didn’t know it was me, me ruler and the brainy Del Dunne what did it. I had to laugh!’

Del wasn’t sure she liked being part of the deception now she knew it had passed into folklore, as it were. ‘They don’t still believe it was a miracle, surely?’

‘Too right they do. Think they’ve had the picture stored in some vault somewhere.’

‘That picture stored? I don’t believe you! ’ Barry laughed loudly and Del could not resist smiling. ‘They were dreadful pictures! Totally without artistic merit.’

‘Yeah. But we all had them on our walls.’

‘We didn’t! But come to think of it, most Catholic families had had a Sacred Heart and an Immaculate Conception somewhere in their homes, usually the parents’ bedroom, when I was little. And a crucifix above the bedhead.’

‘And the Dunnes didn’t?’

‘Not that I recall.’

‘Would have been a bit off-putting, I reckon,’ he winked, his smile leering.

Del didn’t care for his familiarity. She recalled that they were close as children, much to her mother’s disgust, but she had gone to school in Sydney when she was twelve then directly onto university. She actually couldn’t recall him as an adult at all. ‘I guess you’re married. Is your wife here?’

‘Yeah. I’m married,’ he sounded quite unenthusiastic, ‘but the little woman’s not here.’

‘Pity. I would have liked to have met her.’ Hypocrite, she thought, as she tried again to move away from him.

‘Yeah. We sold up. And she’s opened this,’ he changed his voice to a mimic, ‘little fashion boutique.’

‘Sold up? Sold the farm?’

‘Sure did. Can’t sell your wool, lambs down, bottom out of cattle. Kate and me decided to cut our losses. But I didn’t know she had these other plans.’

‘Still whingeing about the dress shop are you, Jacko?’ George Watts’ booming voice rescued Del. ‘Boring Fidelma rigid, no doubt. Jeez, mate, if you ask me—’

‘—I didn’t.’

‘If you ask me, you should get yourself a job.’

It was obviously an on-going argument and Del slid away towards Hazel. ‘It was lovely to see you again, Fidelma,’ Hazel said, taking Del’s hands in her papery feeling ones, ‘are you planning to stay a few days?’

Abruptly Del decided. ‘No. I can’t Aunty Haze. I must get back. Indeed, it’s probably time I left.’

‘Are you by yourself?’ Del nodded, fiddling with her pendant, drawing the little piece of amber back and forth on its chain. ‘Then, my dear, stay a couple of days with us. We could talk about dear Margaret.’

Del was not tempted. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Some other time, perhaps?’ In your dreams, she thought. ‘It looks as if Anne and Davy are ready to leave too.’ Del edged towards the other five, her family, with a sense of relief. The hall, she noticed, was practically empty and the ‘ladies’ had almost finished clearing the tables. Their laughter, as they washed up, drifted through the doorway behind.

Yes. It was over. They could leave. Margaret Dunne had been laid to rest.