Homes Is A Strange Country - Chapter 39

THIRTY NINE
Sydney, Australia, September 1912

  

   George seated himself back in the overstuffed armchair in the living room of the house on Phillip Street in Neutral Bay, his eyes falling on but failing to focus on that day’s edition of the Sydney Morning Herald. On page seventeen within the Family Notices he eventually read again the insertion he had paid for just the previous day.

   'LOWE. The Funeral of the late Mrs FLORENCE LOWE will take place in the Church of England Cemetery, Gore Hill, THIS AFTERNOON at 3.30.

WALTER BRUCE,
Funeral Director,
380 Lane Cove Road

                                                           Tel: 253 N.S.'

  

   The conversation he had had with Mr Holden from the funeral directors office came to his mind. It was concerning the cost and payment for the funeral. Although George had witnessed death and burials before during his life thus far, he had never been so closely involved with one which would trouble his mind with the cost and the payment. Mr Holden, quite properly, had asked who he should forward his account to at the conclusion of the burial at Gore Hill Cemetery. George had been at something of a loss to answer him. Although he had enough in his savings to cover the cost he was unsure of who had the obligation to pay.

   'I feel it should be Mrs Lowe’s estate which covers the cost' Mr Holden had said helpfully.

   'I think you are right,' George had replied not certain at that point what her estate would amount to. He knew that Florence had a Government Savings account into which she regularly paid the maintenance from Skidmore, but in the heat of the day at the funeral directors office, he was unable to guess what that amount would have been.

   'I’ll pay the invoice from her savings account' he said.

   'Oh I don’t think you will be able to do that Mr Kent'

   'Why not?'

   'Well, it isn’t your money is it?' replied Mr Holden gently, trying as kindly as he could to explain the intricacies of the legal situation. 'Does Mrs Lowe have a will, do you know?' he asked.

   'I don’t think she does. Er, did.' George replied correcting himself. How difficult to now think of Florence in the past tense. Mr Holden considered for a moment and then said,

   'In that case I need to inform the office of the Intestate Estates about her death. They will arrange to pay our account and will probably be in touch with you in due course. It’s a straightforward thing for them to do.' George nodded his head, grateful at that moment that the problem was taken from his shoulders and would not be troubling him again.

   He lingered over the death notice, reading and re-reading it several times before eventually, he folded the paper and placed it down on the floor by the side of his chair. He reached to the small table at his side and took his pipe. He sat with it cradled lightly in his hand for some time before lighting it.

   Outside in the street the sounds of people passing by and the nearby trams ferrying people to and from Neutral Bay were nothing more than an almost imperceptible hum. The weather had been quite as hot today as yesterday, in the high seventies or maybe eighties, he thought, though the stiff breeze coming off Sydney Cove had made the funeral service and burial of Florence at Gore Hill Cemetery almost bearable. But nothing could keep the memory of that short, very sad, service from his mind. He had refused to take Clyda to the graveside. For a child of almost five years of age he felt that it was something she would not remember and besides, he knew it would be difficult enough for him to be there. So in the end, other than the Vicar from St Peter’s church, the only other person standing by his side at the grave had been Mr Holden from the funeral directors. Just the two of them stood by the side of grave number 193 as the woman he had loved and lived with for such a short time was lowered into the ground for the final time. As hard a man as he was, he could not prevent tears flowing down his cheeks and into his moustache. The growth which Florence had always complained ‘tickled’ her.

   The wind had increased during the day, as had the temperature, until, by the time of the funeral the temperature was in the mid seventies and the wind had grown to almost thirty miles an hour. His coat had been caught by the wind, and brushed aside several times during the walk from the mortuary at the Royal North Sydney Hospital to the cemetery, behind the hearse drawn by two sleek black horses. The black plumes the horse’s had decorating their manes had been blown sideways in the slow painful walk to the grave. The small sad procession walked up the slight hill from the back of the hospital building to the main entrance road on the Pacific Highway. The wheels of the hearse kicked small pieces of gravel to one side from the ruts in the roadway, and dust blew sideways across the road from the wheels and the horses hooves. People walking along the roadway stopped and stood with heads bowed and hats held in their hands as the hearse passed by. At the junction with the Pacific Highway the hearse had to stop for a short time until the traffic on the main road stopped to allow the hearse to exit the hospital. It turned right up the hill to the short drive to Gore Hill Cemetery. Several people on the pavements of the road they drove along stopped and faced the hearse as it moved slowly along the road, men took off their hats and women bowed their heads at the small sad procession in the heat.

   As they turned off the Pacific Highway and entered between the two stone pillars holding high wrought iron gates of the cemetery, both horses stopped through habit outside the small stone gatehouse, gently moving their feet on the spot until they stood neatly and quietly to attention, and then waited patiently until Mr Holden had come out of the door of the gatehouse. His brief formalities in the gatehouse concluded, he joined George behind the hearse and the horses started off again at their normal doleful pace. The journey from the Royal North Shore Hospital had not taken long. The wind blowing from the north west onto their backs, was, all the way, hot and dusty, but when they at last had turned into the driveway of the cemetery the wind was muffled by the quiet overhanging avenue of trees lining the sides of the road. George followed a few yards along the roadway behind the black hearse until the horses were brought to a gentle halt beside a stone archway on the left hand side of the road, the entrance to the Church of England section of the cemetery. As though sensing the solemnity of the occasion the horses stood quietly in their traces, not moving a foot forward or backwards, so that the carriage behind them kept motionless in the heat.

    George stood back from the hearse as the men in the drivers and passenger seats stepped down and walked to the back door of the vehicle to open it and expose the coffin to view. As he waited for them to draw the coffin from the back of the hearse, he glanced sideways into the plots laid out in neat lines in the cemetery. Almost every grave had either a slab of stone laid out on the ground or a headstone engraved with the names of the body interred below. Some of them were ornate and flamboyant, whilst others were simply plain slabs of local stone or granite with the name of the deceased chiselled coldly into the face of the stone. His eyes sought out and finally rested on the freshly dug grave six rows back from the entrance and half way along the right hand section. George gasped gently at the sight of the open grave. The vicar stood waiting at the side of the grave whilst four pallbearers stood in two rows along the edge of the pathway leading to the graveside, their heads bare and bowed, their hands resting lightly on the spades they had used to create the hole into which the coffin would be lowered. George took in a deep breath and then swallowed as he saw the grave.

   Mr Holden, the director of the funeral company, stood by and helped the minister as he read the words of the funeral service, listening closely to the words as some of them were snatched away from his mouth by the wind blowing off the sea. The small coffin was eventually lowered into the earth; then Florence was covered over with soil from the pile at the side of the grave.

   The ceremony was over. George could go home now. So much had happened so quickly during the past forty eight hours since Florence had died. His walk back home to the small house on Phillip Street was mostly done in a dream-like state. It was only as he turned into the street and he saw the drawn curtains of houses in the street that he became aware again of the loss and the respect being shown by his neighbours to his loss, and their loss. Florence had been well known and loved in the area.

..............................................................

   George was shaken into wakefulness by the sound of someone knocking at the front door. He rose slowly from the chair, the rheumatism aching in his legs, and walked across the room to open the door. Standing in the glaring sunshine was the woman who lived next door, Iris Shepherd with young Clyda at her side. 'I’m sorry Georgie,' she said. 'She saw you coming home, and she’s been that upset while you were away,' she paused and glanced down at the child with a knowing look. 'When she saw you she just ran to the door.'

   'It’s alright Iris,' George responded quietly. 'It’s nearly time for her tea now anyway. Thanks for looking after her.' The woman released Clyda from her hand, who looked up at George and smiled then stepped past him into the room. Mrs Shepherd looked down at the floor and apologetically folder her arms across her chest. She glanced down at the floor for a second then looked up at George.

   'I’m so sorry Georgie' she said. 'If there is anything I can do to help you out you only have to ask. Just ask.' George gave her a small smile of thanks.

   'I will' he said. 'Thanks again for looking after the child.' Mrs Shepherd turned and walked with her head down along the short path to the street, closing the wooden gate to the garden as she went through it. George watched her go back to her home next door at number eight and silently glanced up and down the street. It appeared that the world was continuing turning on its axis as normal and the rest of the world was going about its business, none of the people in it aware of the terrible pain imposed on him in the past two days. The sun was shining and the breeze had dropped slightly as the clock wound around to darkness sometime in the near future.

   George went back into the house, closing the front door behind him quietly. 'Pa. Why has Ma gone to stay with Jesus?' Clyda asked quietly. He looked down at the dark haired four year old stood at his side. She was a pretty child, her hair cut to her shoulders and as dark as her mothers' had been. Her round face was swollen and blotched red with the tears she had obviously shed during the time George had been obliged to leave her in the care of Mrs Shepherd whilst he went through the painful business of the funeral. Although he and Florence had shared the house with two other men, William Saunders his business partner, and his ‘housekeeper’ Grace, together with  Alexander Campbell who worked in another boatyard, neither of them had been able to come to the funeral with him, and in truth, he had preferred that they had not. His relationship with Florence was personal and he wanted no group of mourners other than the manager of the funeral company, and the pall bearers. He took hold of Clyda's hand and walked her over to the chair he had been using. Sitting himself into the chair he pulled the child gently onto his knees and wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest, whilst trying to find a way to explain to her that she would never again see her mother. He struggled for the right words, taking one deep breath after another, but eventually turned his head down to face her upturned gaze. 'Your Ma was very poorly, and had been for a long time.' He paused to let that sink in. 'She was so poorly that the doctors could not find a way to make her better again, so Jesus said that he would look after her from now on, and she’s gone to heaven to live with him.' The child blinked and her look back into his eyes told him that his simplistic and simple explanation had been accepted. She nodded her head briefly and looked down at her hands clasped together in her lap. 'I’ll miss her though Pa,' she murmured gently. George rested his head on top of her hair and replied, 'Me took love, me too.' The child snuggled in closer to George and made mewling noises as she tried to curl herself more into a ball, her breathing became deeper and slower, she was soon asleep.

   How had this happened? George thought to himself. In his mid thirties, never before married, and now being responsible for the upbringing and wellbeing of a four year old child, for how long?  What did a girl of her age eat? What would she need to wear? What happened if she became ill? What about school? How was he going to hold down a job and still take care of her?  Would her grandparents want her back? How would he get her back to England if they did? What about Florence’s husband?  Who was the man Skidmore who paid her maintenance, and was he still around? Was he still interested in the girl and would he want to care for her? Could Florence's husband take any care of the child if he was still in the Royal Navy somewhere in England? They had never been divorced, so what was the legal situation? His mind became befuddled with the barrage of questions which kept appearing and rolling through his mind. He sat quietly with the child in his arms listening to the occasional tram going along the nearby main road, the sound of people passing by the house on foot, and the sound of the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The soft sounds of breathing coming from the child snuggled in blissful ignorance in his lap. Slowly he too drifted into a light sleep.

   About an hour later George started to move restlessly in his chair as the end of his moustache was ticked gently by the child in his arms. Slowly, without altering his deep breathing he partially opened one eye and saw the small hand of Clyda sneaking from her curled position to twitch the end of the moustache. He pretended to groan in his sleep and felt her small body shiver in his arms as she tried to suppress a  giggle. After a moment he suddenly opened both his eyes and growled softly at her. She yelped and struggled to free herself from his arms amd jump down onto the floor from the chair. George opened his arms and Clyda stood looking at him as he stretched out his arms and yawned. 'What are we having for tea Pa?' she asked. George smiled at her. Trust a child to concentrate on the here and now. 'What would you like?' he asked. 'Don't know' she said. George rose from the chair and walked through into the kitchen followed by the child. The late afternoon sun was shining horizontally now though the kitchen window illuminating the far wall with a bright almost blinding light, causing the painted wooden wall to shine and reflect the light back into the kitchen. The whole room was ablaze with light. Even the wide redwood floorboards shone in the light, polished so recently with floor oil by Florence. He stood by the sink looking out through the window into the garden of the house next door. Suddenly a wave of sadness swept over him as he realised that he would no longer see Florence working in the back garden as he had done that year, watching her as her figure grew fuller with the child she was bearing. He gulped back a sudden lump in his throat and busied himself with preparing a meal for them both.

   After they had eaten George bathed the girl and put her to bed, saying her children’s prayers as usual, with her hands clasped gently together and her eyes tightly closed, but this time including a special one for her Ma. George tucked the sheet around her as she settled down to sleep, tears welling up in his eyes. Finally he left the bedroom and settled down once more in the easy chair in the living room, alone with his thoughts and the memories of the past two days. He settled back into the easy chair resting his head on his hand. Everything had started to go wrong just ten days ago.