As we walk, my mother releases affection in short bursts along the footpath, pausing to stroke every pet we pass. ‘Good girl,’ she coos to each one as they dissolve into an excited mess at her feet. This means it takes an age just to go a few hundred metres, but I don’t mind.
‘I forgot to say that Jennifer’s parents have dropped off some photos for reference.’ She sighs. ‘As usual, they’re useless. Both smiling. Both taken from far away.’
‘And her make-up bag?’ I ask.
‘I had to wrestle it off the dad, but it’s on the bench in the prep room waiting for you.’
I focus on the irregular mowing that the council has performed along the side of the median strip, as my mother takes hold of my hand.
‘Remember, the clients look like themselves in the same way that a dugong looks like a mermaid, which is not at all,’ she says.
We have this conversation regularly—often on this walk.
‘The sailors need the mermaids, though. Why? Because they were sad and lonely and …’
She lets go of my hand to squeeze her fingers between the slats of a gate to tickle a whimpering labrador.
‘Mourners,’ she continues, ‘desperately need the body to look like the person they knew. They need the same clothing, same colouring, the same expression.’
‘I get it.’
‘I’m just reminding you—some cases are trickier than others.’
Aurelia’s Funeral Parlour is heralded by a low blond-brick fence, six apricot trees and a large illuminated sign. We are well known in this town full of retirees and clumsy tradespeople, and we only have to compete with one other mortuary—but it’s a chain, and townspeople here like locally owned businesses. We walk up the pebbled driveway and through the double doors that open to reception.
Our receptionist, Judy, trots in from the back office and plants herself behind the long desk. She’s chewing but seems frustrated by the amount of chews needed to get whatever’s in her mouth down. She flaps one hand in the air in a bid to quicken the pace, and her amethyst rings flash as they move in and out of the sunlight.
‘You’ve made it so lovely and cool in here,’ says my mother. ‘What’s it on? Nineteen? I can feel each breath hit the bottom of my lungs.’
Judy smiles at her while masticating wildly before swallowing.
‘Last week’s marzipan fruit,’ she says, looking relieved, as I hand her the new batch.
Judy and I are extremely close, having bonded over our common interest in dating. She let me set her up an online profile. Under a bio listing Zumba classes and chick-lit novels, outlet shopping and bonsais, there are some beautiful photos of her looking poised by the Memory Pond. I did her make-up, and my mother lent her a cream pashmina for the shot. We all think it has a Renaissance tone to it. There’s another pretty photo of her laughing while leaning back on the settee; she got a lot of new hits after adding that one.
Her weekly affirmations pepper the desk in front of her. On a yellow post-it note stuck to the dial pad of the phone, she has written, Be present in your fury.
‘How is your fury today?’ I ask, and she takes a short breath and places a hand on her chest.
‘I am present and I accept it. I have made peace with my fury,’ she says, and we all know she’s talking about her ex-husband and his jet ski company.
Like most funeral homes, the foyer has been made to look like a formal sitting room. Boxes of tissues punctuate the corners, and hidden away beneath chairs and shelves are wicker baskets full of face wipes and small packets of complimentary chocolates. Nestled among the lounges and armchairs is an antique table displaying silk flowers trailing like comets from a cut-glass vase. From here, I can see through to the viewing room, where the services are held, and to the mourners’ nook, a curtained area off to the side. The bereaved are welcome to recline here, relaxing on the velvet settee while recharging their phones and inhaling the sweet smell of the floral carpet deodoriser.
We take it in turns to have breaks in the nook when there are gaps between the services. Simon uses the space for midday naps and I like to eat the chocolates and look at my phone. Judy and my mother use the space as their personal lunch room, chatting loudly enough for all of us to hear, which dispels any feeling of privacy that a closed curtain would usually bring.
Judy leans over to the photocopier and pulls a stack of memorial programs from the printing tray. On the front cover is a photo of Jennifer wearing sunglasses and smiling, photo-shopped into an oval frame with scalloped edges. Her name and today’s date is typed in an ornate font, and as I trace the small circle of her face with my thumb I feel the first edge of sadness for the day. Over the years I have learned that grief is contagious. You can catch it if you get too close. Before I knew better, I would go to each service and sit in the back row, staring at the families as they stared into the casket, the low thrum of sadness circling the room until it reached me, where it would spread through my body like shrapnel.
Vincent bounds through the office door, mop in hand.
‘Ah, I see my daughter thinks it’s appropriate to arrive late to one of the biggest funerals of the year.’ He rests the mop against the wall. ‘And her mother too.’
There are already rings of sweat on his paisley shirt and the large checked cravat around his neck looks damp as
