Isabel, however, couldn’t which was why she’d changed her flight and was now heading home via a direct flight to the UK tomorrow instead. There was only one full moon a month, and it had been and gone. Helena had partied hard and staggered on board her Lufthansa flight the following day, texting Isabel to tell her she’d missed a fantastic night. She’d been unable to understand why her British friend wouldn’t leave New Zealand before the funeral. ‘You don’t owe the woman anything. She was a stranger.’
‘But I was there when she died, Helena. I saw the life go from her eyes. And I made her a promise before it did.’
‘Yes, yes it is very sad but she was not young, and there was no one else involved, Isabel. People live, and people die, and at least she did not die alone. As for this promise, she is dead—like I said you owe her nothing,’ she’d said in her clipped tones.
The thing Helena didn’t get was that from the moment the police officer who’d arrived at the scene with an entourage of ambulance and fire truck told Isabel the woman’s name was Ginny she’d become a real person. She was ninety-one according to her driver’s license which had expired five years earlier, he’d gone on to tell her with a sage shake of his head. Ginny was a person who’d had a life and a family and who thanks to a moment’s misjudgment was now gone. She was also a person to whom Isabel had made a promise. It was that promise that was haunting her no matter what Helena said.
She’d continued to tell her to put it behind her, as she set about making the most of her last couple of days in Christchurch. But Isabel couldn’t. Instead of heading out to admire the street art the city was becoming renowned for post-earthquake, her hungry eyes had scanned the paper the hostel supplied in the foyer each morning for the next few days until the obituary appeared. She’d torn it carefully from the page and had read it so many times over the last week that she knew it by heart.
HAVELOCK Virginia May (nee Moore)
Death Notice
In loving memory of Ginny who passed away suddenly on Wednesday afternoon aged 91 years. Dearly beloved wife of the late Neville, much–loved mother and mother-in-law of Edward Henry and Olga Havelock. Cherished grandmother of Tatiana. The family would like to acknowledge the support of Father Christopher Joyce of St Aidan’s, Timaru who looked after their beloved Ginny in life and in death.
A celebration of Ginny’s life will be held at St Aidan's, 160 Mountain View Road, Timaru on Saturday 15 April next at 11 a.m. In lieu of flowers donations to St Vincent de Paul Society, Timaru may be placed in the church foyer.
Isabel’s hand shook as she raised her cup to her mouth and a little coffee slopped over the side and down her front. She glanced down at her plain black shift dress bought specially for the occasion. The wearing of black was as foreign to her as was attending the funeral of someone she didn’t know. She was a girl who loved colour and the brighter, the better. That was another anomaly about a Kiwi funeral, she thought, wiping off the liquid. Not everyone was dressed in formal black. Satisfied no one would see her mishap she looked up and spied Father Joyce making his way toward her. He wore the white robes of an Anglican Priest, and despite his attire swamping him like a tent, it did little to hide his rotund frame. His wispy grey hair floated up with each purposeful step, and he had a serviette in one hand, cakes, a savoury and club sandwiches on a plate in the other.
‘The parish ladies have outdone themselves,’ he declared upon reaching her. The smear of cream on the top of his lip gave away the fact he was on second helpings. ‘It’s a spread our Ginny would have approved of. Have you partaken, my dear?’
‘Erm no, I haven’t had much of an appetite of late.’ It was true, Isabel had not been sleeping well and not just because of the comings and goings at all hours in the hostel dormitory. She’d been running on empty for the past week.
Father Joyce nibbled on his club sandwich, declaring ham and egg to be his favourite combination and that she really should try them.
Isabel smiled politely as he dabbed at his mouth with the serviette. She was pleased to see the cream was gone because she was afraid her gaze would have kept slipping toward it the same way it would a large pimple or such like. The more you tried to pretend it wasn’t there the more you stared.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met. In fact, I know we haven’t met. I’d remember meeting a young lady with green hair.’ He chortled. ‘Are you a relative of Ginny’s?’
‘No.’ Isabel’s hand had automatically moved to her hair which she tucked behind her ears, a nervous habit. She hesitated a tick and then decided to come clean. She couldn’t tell a lie to a man of the
