This is Gail by O'Brien Gail

Author:O'Brien, Gail
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2016-01-04T16:00:00+00:00

A State Funeral

When Sophia Loren’s husband Carlo Ponti died about two years before Chris, pictures of the glamorous Loren appeared in the newspaper. The widow looked dour, wearing a long black coat and black scarf tight around her neck and her eyes were lowered to the ground. Gail thought Loren appeared diminished by her grief. She silently swore to herself then, that if the same day arrived for her, she would not appear like that.

On the day of the funeral, Pam arrived at the door at seven in the morning to blow-dry Gail’s hair, just one example of a little physical attentiveness providing some help on this hard day. Gail went upstairs to her bathroom and began automatically selecting her make-up. She gazed hard at her reflection. ‘I am not going to be a victim to this,’ she said aloud. She dressed in the black suit and a beautiful, long, white coat lent to her for the day by Paul Cave’s wife, Carol.

The black official state cars arrived at the house to collect us. They lined up like train carriages along our driveway. We stepped outside into the freezing Thursday morning under a brilliant blue sky. Our front gates had been laden with flowers by mourners who did not attach their names to them. The line of cars, accompanied by police officers on motorbikes, proceeded down Woolwich Road. Locals on their morning walks stopped and observed; a couple of old men removed their hats and held them to their chests.

We cruised along Victoria Road and turned onto the Anzac Bridge. There, we looked up at the Australian flags flying at half-mast at the bridge’s peak. ‘Oh, Dad,’ Adam whispered. Uncle Phil later told Mum that all the flags at government schools were flying at half-mast also, and a friend sent us a photograph of the same on the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

We had always been proud of our father: when he spoke at my high-school graduation dinner and told us to avoid the cult of perfectionism, when he urged the boys at Parramatta Marist Brothers to understand that men of steel have compassion in their hearts, when he spoke to those at Riverview College of the importance of reading good literature to know more about other people’s lives and experiences. We were as proud when he gave someone lip or made an irreverent remark as we were when he received his doctorate of medicine. But to see those flags flying at half-mast, showing that the nation mourned with us, that today we had all lost someone great, was a moment of overwhelming emotion. I thought of Phil’s question again. When did this happen?

At the cathedral, we were shown into the chapter house. My mouth was dry and I felt exhausted. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I said, and started to weep.

‘No it’s not,’ Mum said firmly. She bent down and took my hands. ‘This is a wonderful day. We need to do this for Dad. All right? Do it for Dad.’ I was momentarily taken aback by her strong voice and reaction.

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