I slept in, pulled out the outfit I brought for the event, added one of my grandma’s triple strands of pearls. They looked beautiful.
I am drawing on some eyeliner when the doorbell rings and I hear the flurry of Patrick and Isabella arriving. They are wearing black and we hug.
They play with Matilda and give her some beautiful gold shoes, handmade in a part of Melbourne’s little Italy, and a great book called Llama Llama Red Pajama. It contains the excellent line:
Llama llama, what a tizzy, sometimes Mama Llama’s busy! Baby Llama, don’t you know that Mama Llama loves you so?
The shoes are fantastic. Matilda loves them and tries to eat them immediately. We have some coffees and coordinate plans. They are going to the graveyard after the funeral but I don’t think Matilda will hold up for a long drive.
My mum’s friends know that it is a strange day for her and have planned their own wake across the road at the Bowling Club . A new chef has taken over the restaurant and there has been a write up of his garlic prawns. Mum looks great and is cheerfully chain smoking and drinking coffee.
I walk into St Patrick’s in the city. I am late and take my seat next to Patrick and Isabella in the front row, as though we are the most bereaved. The hymns are beautiful and celebratory, the theme running through the readings and hymns is solidly Irish. Matilda goes mental and we move down the back where she can wriggle and squawk. particularly enjoy belting out How Great Thou Art. It ends and I stand by the door and say farewell to everyone leaving. It feels like a marvellous charade.
All sorts of characters come out of the woodwork.
The erstwhile business partner engaged in some life long legal dispute.
The mad daughter of a family friend who bears four handwritten letters from Jesus.
The Balmain neighborhood gossip who saw the obituary notice and wanted to know what was going on.
The erstwhile friend of the family who always wondered how things turned out.
There are lots of nice sane people to. Old friends, former clients and colleagues, judges and barristers. I say nice things and engage in a peculiar social dance with nice people whom I will never see again.
There are some pleasant surprises. I see Patrick’s Jewish friend Zavik who was fascinated with Catholic rituals. He has just finished his Phd in shamanic trance, it turns out. My cousin Nicky popped down the road from his office in a gesture of support in between negotiating intellectual property licences. I meet the cousin I met once 30 years ago. He thinks I look like his daughter. It is all so nice I would like to crack into some more Irish song. Alas, Matilda is bored and it's time to head home.
I didn’t attend the cemetery. Matilda and I met mum and her wake at the Bowling club with some flowers, packed quickly and departed for the airport. Mum looked great.
The garlic prawns are fantastic.
The garlic prawns are fantastic.