The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,138

share it with me—the love of that place that I could feel growing in you . . . And then there was this thing growing in me. A baby we hadn’t planned . . . and there was all that distance. The silences. The empty days. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go through with it alone.’

Her face was white and strained. ‘I terminated the pregnancy, Tom. It was the best thing for both of us. I couldn’t ask you to come back. And by then, I didn’t even know whether I wanted you. I felt like I didn’t know you anymore. You were so lost to me down there. So lost.’

Her words fell like stones. I hear them now. My mother’s death. My father’s death. Debbie telling me she destroyed our baby.

Death so many times over.

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