The Attachment Page 18

  People said he would never have known; that it was instant; that he would not have wanted me to see him die. Friends sat with me, telling stories and listening to mine, helping me make sense. They bathed me when I was unwell and fed me—body and soul. I wasn’t easy. I held my emotions in because I felt I had no right to tears—I was here and alive, when Peter was not. My job was to get on with it; to do the work of a widow.

  Amid the mountain of paperwork and endless dealings with legalities and utilities, one task became a lifeline. Every day, I tended the flowers people sent. I’d start before dawn, trimming stems and re-filling vases. Some say sending flowers is a waste because they don’t last—but caring for them taught me, over and over because I am slow to learn, that even beautiful things must die.

  When they arrived, brought to my door by a succession of sheepish blokes in dented delivery vans, I’d imagine they were a gift from Peter, like the irises he would bring back from the corner shops. I kept them alive as long as I could, clipped and snipped them as they withered and died, ministering to them as I had not been able to do for Pete. And then, I let them go. I had no choice.

  The flowers gave me a ritual to shape my days in the first months. They were teachers. Rituals help, when words and people can’t. They express the inexpressible.

  Of course I had formal rituals in the aftermath. The funeral service was scripted and directed by me to the last second. The wake was a reconstruction of the country hall near our shack, and the afternoon tea at the local agricultural show. Friends and family helped me to make those remembrances perfect for him. It was something I could do, when I had not been able to care for his body because it was in the hands of the coroner. I’d had no chance to farewell his ears, his toes, his familiar eyebrows.

  One ritual I remember vividly was a humble, handmade one.

  My sister Alanna had stayed with me in the house from the first night, but she had to return to Perth the day after the funeral. She insisted someone be with me when she left, knowing another goodbye might prove too much. I told her not to be silly, but she held firm. She’s wise, my sis. She contacted Tony, who had not yet returned to Sydney, and asked him to come. My chest hurt as the front gate clicked behind her. Tony and I waved her off and then he asked what I would like to do.

  ‘Tea,’ I said, as I would countless times each day for months to come. We sipped it in silence, in wintry afternoon sun. Then he asked again what I would like to do. I didn’t know.

  ‘Tell me the story of this house,’ he said. ‘Tell me the history of you two, and your home.’

  So we walked up the hall to the front room, in which Peter and I had slept for our entire marriage, the room in which he had died, and I began to talk: about where we’d bought each painting; the chest of drawers that had belonged to his favourite glamorous aunt; the photos of our little wedding-present pup; the picture of our shack and how we’d found it, 25 years earlier . . .

  We moved into the next room, which had been Peter’s ‘snug’, made over by Alanna into a bedroom for me, because I couldn’t bear to return to our room. I told how Peter would sit through the night watching the Tour de France in that room, and how we’d rearrange the furniture for Wimbledon. How he would learn his lines there, escape from heat there, and chuckle at late night talk shows as I lay in our room reading . . .

  Next, the bathroom, where I pointed out the artworks by Alanna, and explained where we’d found the clawfoot tub and how we’d laughed when the architect who was planning our renovations said we were impossible because I wanted a tree-house and Pete wanted a cave . . .

  We climbed the stairs to my study where there was a banner Peter had made, and I recalled how he’d drawn up political signs for the back of his car, and how he once sat at a polling booth in our conservative electorate with a placard about the plight of refugees, and how people eyed him suspiciously and then ended up being charmed by him and chatting. I got out the albums and we looked at wedding shots and travel snaps and show photos . . .

  Suddenly, I was overwhelmed. It had been a tsunami of telling, and I’m sure Tony was exhausted. Listening is work. We went downstairs and had more tea. Then Tony asked, ‘Now what?’

  ‘I’d like you to pray with me,’ I said.

  I have no idea where it came from, but it was a deep need, and Tony didn’t blink. We sat on either side of the coffee table. I lit my meditation candle, and we were silent a while. Then I picked up the Buddhist prayer that friends were saying for Peter, and we read it together. It had a line I loved—‘Peter has taken the great leap.’ I wanted to believe he had leapt, and not fallen or been cut down.

  Then I said I wanted to say the Our Father. Again, I’ve no idea why. But we said those words, then Tony suggested we also say the Hail Mary, and so we did.

  He asked if he might offer words of thanks for Peter’s life, speaking about the feeling of the house, and of the man he had met at dinner and again, at a meal in Sydney the previous Christmas. He talked of the colour in our home, and of what Peter and I had created together. And then he fell silent, and I spoke. Things I had not been able to say.

  I asked Pete’s forgiveness for not having been with him at the end. I said how I couldn’t locate him in the house, and how it felt like he had gone so fast, so fast. I apologised for not having been able to care for his body after he died, and I told him how much I wished that his way was safe and clear. Whatever it had been. To wherever he had gone.

  Tony and I sat a little longer in silence, then I extinguished the candle, and we made tea. Finally I asked why he thought I’d wanted to say the Lord’s Prayer.

  ‘Because it’s the prayer of your childhood, from a time when everything was safe.’

  Childhood. Safety. Some god who could make everything all right.

  I so wanted to believe in Tony’s God, but I couldn’t. I was angry at the idea of a god who could take Peter too soon and too suddenly—even though I wanted any god for comfort. Perverse creature.

  But there was comfort, even when I wouldn’t see it—Tony, my stalwart brothers, sisters and father, Pete’s loyal tribe, and my many extraordinary friends—to step me through the shadow of Peter’s death. They were blessings, confirming that grace waits to be found, if we will just look. Sometimes it’s hard—but kindness always offset despair when I lifted my eyes. We can’t take away or undo pain, but we can sit with people, hear their stories, walk with them, bake bread, drop soup, or make tea. We can bear witness and be human. In that, there is grace.

  And in that everyday grace, I gradually came home. It has taken me a long time to reach the point where I can say, without feeling guilty, that I want to live—understanding deep in my bones that living means losing. There is no way around it. We must accept that there will be loss. But there are trees and birds, trails to walk and water to heal, and there is life-giving sun. With every breath, I want to be in it.

  Ailsa

  These days Ailsa lives in Sydney, and rides ferries to the city. When she pulls in to Circular Quay, there is the Opera House, and beside it, the Chinese restaurant where she met her new-but-familiar friend. She walks along harbour trails and sandstone cliffs. She is learning to swim! There is a seahorse colony near her home, and the resilience of those creatures, with their skeletons on the outside, inspires her. She is writing again. And speaking, teaching, convening, narrating audiobooks . . .

  She is coming home.

  Tony has undergone a significant shift in his daily work. From being in charge of two Sydney parishes, he has moved to what is described in the trade as ‘lesser duties’. He likes to call them ‘better duties’. Now free of the demanding administration of a large Catholic community, he lives privately, giving him more space for his preferred pastoral work of being with people as they find meaning in the ups and downs of their life journey—marriages, funerals, counselling—as well as assisting at Sunday Mass in the wider Sydney Church. More time for writing too, and for making sense of his own most fortunate life. Funny thing—le
ss time for golf but more time for cooking.

  The conversation between the Shanachie and the Priest hasn’t stopped. Nor has the laughter. Their friendship remains a surprise and support for both of them—even when they are arguing, which they still do. Often! They have not stopped hunting for that elusive Copper to complete their village . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you. Gracias . . .

  To our first readers, Keith Robinson and Vicki Hastrich. Without your encouragement we might never have felt emboldened to proceed.

  To Jane Palfreyman. Your ‘yes’ was a gift wrapped in red ribbon. We’ve been enriched by your insight, generosity, wisdom and laughter.

  To the Allen & Unwin family, and in particular to Genevieve Buzo, whose close attention has supported us so beautifully. Also to Romina Panetta, whose visuals delighted us, and to Julia Cain, who made us look again!

  To James Laurie. You’re the business!

  Ailsa’s three-week residency at Bundanon was invaluable at a time when the idea of a book seemed impossible. An earlier week at Varuna gave us both the opportunity to advance our thinking.

  From Ailsa

  Thank you to my remarkable ‘village’ of friends for guiding me home through the dark. To my Sydney writing chums, for conversations that sustained my energy for work, and a huzzah to Caroline Baum for title inspiration.

  From Tony

  For a lifetime of friends—believers and unbelievers—who have shared their stories and their profound life experiences with me over many years, I am grateful. You have shaped me with your questions, your insights and your conversation, towards a richer understanding of myself and my ministry.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  PHOTO BY WENDY MCDOUGALL

  Ailsa Piper is a storyteller and walker. She has worked as a writer, director, actor, teacher, speaker and broadcaster.

  One writing highlight was being named co-winner of the Patrick White Playwrights’ Award for her script Small Mercies in 2001. Another came in 2012 with the publication of her first book, Sinning Across Spain, the story of her 1300-kilometre walk along a less-travelled pilgrim trail. She also wrote and performed an episode of ABC Radio’s Poetica about the poetry that inspired her journey. In the same year, she co-adapted a version of Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi for Bell Shakespeare.

  Ailsa has judged the NSW and Victorian Premiers’ Literary Awards seven times, and regularly contributes articles to magazines and newspapers. An accomplished interviewer and moderator, she also performs Wordwalks —solo performances celebrating poetry, walking and the spirit of place.

  PHOTO BY WENDY MCDOUGALL

  Monsignor Tony Doherty has worked as a priest and educator in Sydney for over fifty years. His most recent ministry was to the parishes of Rose Bay and Dover Heights for twelve years.

  During five decades of pastoral work as a Catholic priest, he has been a hospital chaplain, adult educator and writer. He has designed strategies for renewing parishes, and contributed to radio and television, including the two TV series Echo of a Distant Drum (the story of the Irish in Australia) and the award-winning Brides of Christ.

  In 1995 he coordinated the visit of Pope John Paul II to Sydney for the special recognition of Saint Mary MacKillop. While Dean of St Mary’s Cathedral he led a conservation team in finishing the original 1865 design, which saw the southern spires completed at last.

  He is a frequent writer and commentator on religious and wider community issues, and in 2012 received an Order of Australia.