The Wake - Chapter One

You learn a lot about a town at a wake.
Mostly that people will eat anything if it's cut into
triangles and put on a white plate.
Dad would've hated that line, by the way. He'd have
called it smart-arse rubbish and told me to stop trying to
be funny at funerals. Fair enough. He also would've hated
the hall, the speeches, the battery candle near his photos,
and the way people kept saying he was one of the good
ones like they'd only just worked it out now he'd died.
He was one of the good ones.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was hearing it over and over from people
balancing curried egg on paper napkins while the hall
smelt like sliced ham, lemon cleaner, old curtains, and
too many bodies packed in under bad air con.
Mum wanted it there. Proper send-off. Memorial hall.
Tea urn. Lamingtons from the bakery. Sandwiches.
Photos on a folding table near the front. Mia straightened
the frames three times because when things go bad she
either starts organising shit or starts yelling, and this was
an organising day.
I'd been back in Marrin Creek four days, which was
enough time to sleep badly in my old room, stand in
Dad's shed looking at tools with his hands still on them, and remember exactly why I left in the first place. It
wasn't enough time to get used to being back.
People kept finding me.
That's the other thing you learn at wakes.
Nobody lets you grieve in peace if they liked the dead
person more than they ever liked you.
A bloke from the hardware told me Dad saved his arse
one winter when a pipe went under the slab. Mrs Talbot
grabbed my wrist and told me Dad fixed their hot water
on Christmas Eve and wouldn't take payment. One of the
old cricket blokes patted my shoulder and said I'd have to
look after the girls now.
The girls.
Like Mum and Mia were two pot plants somebody had
left on the verandah for me.
I nodded because I couldn't be bothered starting on
him next to the sandwich table.
By then I'd been making the same expression for so
long my face hurt.
Polite. Tired. Not talkative enough to invite follow-up.
Funeral face.
I was standing near the back wall with a beer I'd
barely touched when Jonah Pike came over and looked at
the cup.
"You planning to drink that this side of winter?"
"I'm pacing myself."
"At a wake?"
"Especially at a wake."  He snorted and leaned his shoulder against the wall
beside me.
Jonah still looked like Jonah. Broader now. More solid
through the shoulders. Hair still doing whatever the hell
it wanted. Shirt sleeves rolled. Hands that still looked like
they belonged inside an engine bay. He was wearing
black because normal people wear black to funerals, but
on him it looked less like mourning and more like he'd
made a rare effort not to get grease on a decent shirt.
I said, "You clean up alright."
"You look rooted."
"That's grief. Very fashionable this year."
"Don't start."
That nearly got a smile out of me.
Nearly.
Across the room, Mum was stuck near the tea urn with
three women all wearing the same concerned face. You
know the one. Mouth a bit soft. Brows up. Voice low, like
they're trying not to upset a horse. Mia kept trying to get
to her and getting intercepted by someone else first.
Mia looked good, which annoyed me on principle.
Black dress. Hair tied back. Jaw set hard enough to cut
glass. She had Dad's temper and Mum's eyes and that
horrible skill some people have where the worse things
get, the more put together they look.
I said, "How's Mum doing really?"
Jonah looked over. "About how you'd expect."
"Useful."
"What, you want a chart?" "I'd take one."
"She's not sleeping. Mia's worse. Mrs Keating's brought
over enough casseroles to feed the RFS. So. Mixed
reviews."
That sounded about right.
I looked down at the beer. Warm already. Flat too.
Bloody pointless.
There was a photo of Dad near the front in that stupid
paper crown from Christmas, grinning like Mia had just
told the best joke he'd ever heard.
I kept not looking at it.
That was working brilliantly.
I drifted over to the photo table under the excuse of
straightening one of the frames. Really I just needed half
a minute where nobody was talking at me like I'd
personally discovered grief at quarter past six.
There was one of Dad and me holding a cod when I
was about twelve.
I picked it up.
Bad move.
I remembered the whole day straight away. Him
dragging me out before dawn. Me whinging the whole
drive. The smell of old bait and thermos coffee. Him
telling me the weather lies in the morning and you've got
to give the day an hour before trusting it.
I put the frame back down too fast.
"Careful," Mum said behind me.
I turned.  She was in black and looked smaller in it, though I
think that was just grief stripping the edges off her. Her
lipstick had worn off. Her hair was pinned up badly. One
of Dad's old handkerchiefs was folded in her hand.
"Sorry," I said.
She looked at the photo. "He liked that one."
"Yeah."
She looked at me for a second too long, then somebody
called her name and she was gone again.
I stood there feeling useless.
Jonah wandered over.
"You need five outside?" he said.
"No."
"That sounded like yes."
"If I leave the room, Mum'll think I've driven back to
Newcastle without telling anyone."
He looked at me sideways. "Wouldn't be out of
character."
I turned and looked at him.
He shrugged. "Too soon?"
"Massively."
"Still true though."
Because it was true.
I'd got good at leaving. Towns. Jobs. Conversations.
Blokes. Anything that looked like it might ask too much of
me. Dad called it restlessness when he was being kind.
When he wasn't, he called it the family weakness.
I was about to tell Jonah to get stuffed when a laugh
went up near the side door and the people around the  kitchen hatch went quiet in that fake way people do
when they suddenly want to hear every word.
I looked over and saw Talia Voss standing near the
exit with a cigarette tucked behind one ear.
That'll do it.
Ellie Voss's older sister at my father's wake, looking
like she'd driven in out of pure spite and found it worth
the petrol.
She was older, obviously. We all were. Dark hair
pulled back badly. Black clothes. Thin in a way that
looked worn down more than tidy. Like she'd spent years
living on coffee, nicotine, and bad sleep and found it
mostly manageable.
Three of the women near the hatch started pretending
very hard not to watch her.
Jonah saw her too.
"Ah," he said.
"Yep."
"You want me here?"
"That'll make it weirder."
"It's already weird."
He moved off anyway, giving me room without going
far.
Talia looked around once, saw me, and came over.
No smile. No hesitation. Just straight at me.
I felt my stomach go cold.
She stopped in front of me and looked me over like she
was checking I was worth the drive.
"Luke Barlow." "Talia."
"You came back."
"My father died."
She gave a small nod. "Yeah. That'll do it."
Her voice sounded rough as gravel.
I said, "Didn't think you'd come."
"Didn't think half this lot would either, but there's free
food, so."
A few people close enough to hear suddenly found
other things to stare at.
Talia folded her arms.
"You look awful," she said.
"Good to see you too."
"No, I mean really awful. Like shit left in the sun."
"There she is."
I thought she might laugh.
She didn't.
"You ever going to tell the truth about that night?" she
said.
That put a stop to everything else.
I said, "Not here."
"Why not?" She glanced around the hall. "Whole
town's here. Might save time."
"This isn't the place."
"Funny," she said. "Ellie didn't get a place."
I didn't answer because there wasn't one that didn't
sound cheap.
She stepped a bit closer.
"You saw her," she said. "Didn't you?"  There are lies you tell once because you're scared.
Then there are the ones you keep telling because after
enough years they stop sounding like lies in your own
head. They just become part of how you walk across a
room.
I heard myself say, "I told police what I knew."
Talia held my eyes.
"Did you."
I didn't say anything. That was enough.
She gave one short laugh through her nose.
"Thought so."
Then she turned and walked off before Mia got to us.
My sister arrived with her face already set for war.
"What did she want?"
"Nothing."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Lie badly."
I looked toward the side door. Talia had gone outside.
Mia followed my gaze and swore under her breath.
"Stay away from her."
That got my temper up fast.
"Why does everyone in this town talk to me like I'm
one bad thought from putting my head through a wall?"
"Because you are."
I looked at her.
She looked back.
That was the end of that. "Mum's barely holding it together," she said. "Nathan's
here. Talia's here. Half the year group's here because
word got around and now everybody wants to be seen
showing support. Just get through tonight without
making it worse."
"Making what worse?"
She gave me a look that said she wasn't wasting breath
explaining obvious things to a man in his thirties.
Then she went to cut off one of the tea-urn women
before they got hold of Mum again.
A moment later Jonah was beside me again.
"Well," he said.
"Get stuffed."
"Strong start."
I tipped the warm beer into a pot plant near the wall.
"I need air," I said.
He caught my wrist before I got past.
Not hard.
"You want me to come?" he said.
"No."
He looked at me for a second. "That wasn't convincing
either."
"I'm not doing my best work tonight."
His mouth moved like he nearly smiled.
Then he let go.
I went out the side door.
The air outside felt better straight away. Still warm,
but at least it wasn't full of perfume, talking, and foldedhand sympathy. Two blokes were standing near the bins smoking and talking footy like no one had died. The side
light over the path was yellow and miserable. Around the
back of the hall it got darker. Oval fence. Paddocks
beyond. Trees moving in the wind.
I put both hands on the brick wall and stood there for
a bit.
Talia's voice was still in me.
You saw her.
Yeah.
That was the problem.
I had.
Not enough to fix anything.
Enough to rot on it.
I heard the side door open again.
I turned, expecting Jonah.
It wasn't Jonah.