When the man with the cone-shaped head said that Helen was like a modern Florence Nightingale, Liz and her brother Pete wondered who he was -- and whether he was just being ironic. When a woman with a nose ring said that Helen played the cello like an angel, they wondered who Helen was.

Pete leaned over Liz's lap and whispered, with hot breath reeking of rum, 'Are we at the right funeral?'

'Stop it,' she said, pushing him back. 'They must have known her when she was younger.'

Pete leaned in again. 'Dad knew Mum when she was younger. He'd have said she was more like Thomas the Tank Engine's Fat Controller.' Pete laughed at this.

'You're evil,' she said.

'Hey, sis?' his voice reminded her of a five year old trying to whisper in a movie theatre.

'Rack off, Pete.'

He slid closer to her, his scrawny thighs now flush with hers. Above the stink of the rum, she could smell his cologne. Paco Pour Homme. It was the fragrance he'd worn since he was seventeen, the one she'd bought for his birthday every year since. It was the smell of brother, of Pete. Better, it was a smell that Helen hated.

Pete looked over each shoulder. 'Have you counted how many people there are in here?'

'Too many, now go away.'

'Where did they all come from? Mum never had this many friends. Did she?'

'You'll get a chance to find out after the funeral. Shut up and listen to the nice people say wonderful things about your mother.'

'Tsk tsk,' Pete said.

Liz covered her mouth to hide a smile. 'Be quiet,' she pleaded.

Aunty Rose, who was sitting in the fourth row with sisters Dolly, May and Rita, turned. Her chignon, wound like a serpent above her neck, moved in synchronous orbit with her head. Her scowl was the same as the one Helen used to give them when they acted up in church: a look that would have had most children rigid with fear. That same look was usually followed by a lightning quick slap across the knees. Four kneecaps with one strike. Helen was all about economising. The slap was never hard, just enough to let them know there was more coming later if they didn't button-up. As they got older they learned to dodge the thrifty hand. Helen had to devise new and devious ways of retribution. Until aged sixteen, when they both left home, Pete and Liz became obedience personified. Soon after, their father ran away too. Helen replaced them all with Brigit, a Border collie, who was naturally spineless.

'Don't make eye contact,' Pete said, feigning contrition.

Liz averted her eyes. To make eye contact with any of the sisters was to provoke the whole coven.

Happy that her scowl had been effective and that she didn't need to call on her sisters for reinforcement, Rose returned her gaze to the front.

A new mourner took to the lectern. This one was a much older gentleman. With a nose that ended in a sharp point and crop of rowdy grey hair, Liz felt he was better suited for a children's television show than a funeral for her mother.

The old man grasped the lectern with both hands and leaned forward to rest on his elbows. His suit, a vintage of the early 1980s, was like a crumpled sack hanging on a skeleton. The old man stood at the lectern for a long time without speaking. His gaze fell on the left side of the room. 'It's wonderful to see some familiar faces.'

The row of sisters, heads snapping to the left like a synchronised Michael Jackson dance move, glared at the nonfamily members of the congregation. The lefties. It was creepy the way the sisters' faces distorted to look like carbon copies of Helen.

Pete held Liz's hand. If they didn't mimic their aunties, if they pretended they were normal, maybe the lefties wouldn't notice them.

The old man shifted his gaze to the right side. Fifteen sets of eyes returned his gaze. Liz slipped further down in her seat.

If he was moved, the old man showed no sign of it. 'I'd like to extend my condolences to Helen's family. She was a good friend to many. She will be missed.'

At another funeral, where mourners were shedding genuine tears, another row of sisters might have nodded with agreement or at least gratitude at such a simple but eloquent statement. But here, beneath the vaulted ceilings of St Augustine's, the devil snarled and the grid shuddered. Liz could not tell if the sound came from one sister or all four.

'I met Helen in Nimbin,' the old man said, beginning his eulogy unaware of the agitation in the fourth row. 'It was 1979. People were coming from all over to protest the logging.'

Memories moved like caged animals. Dangerous memories: A Maltese Terrier covered with blue eye-shadow. Helen's musical laughter. Liz and Pete giggling.

'Helen joined the protest, but it was her concern for safety that drew her to us. We were an unruly bunch, so it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt.'

More dangerous memories stalked the recesses of Liz's mind: Long stands of She-oaks. Hanging on to Helen's yellow and white sundress. A man with a pointed nose. Helen smiling, just for her babies.

'This is too much,' Pete said rising. He side-stepped along the bench, at one point finding himself in the lap of cousin Nick. The big man woke from his sleep and slapped Pete. The two rose together and staggered out of the church.

As the outer doors opened, the hall was split in two by a jet of light, illuminating Helen's casket like a museum exhibit. All that was needed now was a tune from Mozart's Requiem or the tubular bells from the Exorcist.

If she didn't know better she'd think her mother was orchestrating the whole thing for the benefit of her children. That'll teach you for not being suitably upset by my passing.

Rose turned in her seat and hissed. Two more gazes from the fourth row fixed on Liz.

'Go and get your brother,' Rose said, eyes bulging. May shook her head. The shame! Dolly made angry lips and dropped her brow as far as the furry creature would go. Only Rita kept her gaze forward. Someone had to watch the old man.

Welcoming the chance to flee, Liz rose quickly and made her way out of the airless church, walking on her toes so her heels wouldn't kiss the floor and further upset the fourth row.

Once outside, Liz turned and flipped the whole congregation off. Just as the doors closed.

'Very brave, sis,' Pete said.

She felt her whole self soften. Her father, Eddie, stood with Nick and Pete, a cigarette in one hand, the other deep in his pocket.

She embraced her father, hanging off his fat neck the way she'd always done. He squeezed her waist and laughed in her ear.

'Hey kid,' he said, pulling away and giving his daughter the once over. Looking good, his expression said.

Liz rubbed the silky ball that was the top of his head. 'I've missed you. Why didn't you come in?'

'And face the devil's chaperones? No thanks. I just wanted to see my spawn and make sure you're both ok.'

'It hasn't been fun, but we're ok.'

Eddie lit another cigarette and gave it to her.

'I thought you'd given up,' she said.

Eddie shrugged. 'I looked ridiculous sucking on lollipops.' Yellow fingers pressed against his lips as he drew hard on the Winfield Red.

'Rita's having a wake after the funeral,' she said.

Father and son shuddered simultaneously. 'The other crowd is too. Why don't you come with Pete and me?'

'We have to go to the graveside service first.' She sucked on the cigarette and immediately regretted it. She hadn't smoked in two years.

'Dad, did we ever have a Maltese Terrier?' Liz asked.

Eddie flicked his cigarette into the gutter and relieved Liz of hers. 'Nope.' He drew hard.

The door to the church opened, Rose emerging ahead of the priest, her chunky-heeled silver pumps clip-clopping on the cement. Three sisters followed in line.

Eddie pecked her on the cheek. 'I'll see you at the wake. Pete knows where it is.' He headed for his car, in a hurry to escape.

'Elizabeth! Was that your father?' Rose's face was red and huge.

'He sends his regards.'

'He could at least have done me the courtesy of saying hello to my face. It's disrespectful. I don't know what your mother saw in him.'

Pete took Liz's hand in his. 'Rose, this is not the time. We're burying our mother today.'

Rose worked her lips until they were white. 'Nickolas will drive us to cemetery. We expect to see the two of you there in fifteen minutes.'

Eight heels smacked the pavement as the sisters shuffled off.

'What's with the question about the dog?' Pete asked once they were alone.

'Mind your own business. How far is the cemetery?'

'About twenty minutes.'

'We'd better move.'

A clutch of people had gathered on the footpath beside Liz's car. None of them were family, but one face stood out from the crowd: the old man.

Assisted by a wooden walking stick, the old man approached the siblings and shook the hands of each. He said his name was Roy. It was a pleasure to see them again.

'I don't think we've met before,' Liz told him.

'Your mother brought you to Nimbin for a few weeks in '79. You stayed with my wife and me.' He watched her expectantly.

'I don't remember,' she said trying the car door on her Corolla. Locked.

Roy persisted without as much as a stammer. 'You were nearly five. Pete was three.'

Liz dug for her keys in her handbag. She never locked the door.

Pete played with his lower lip the way he always did when he was about to do something he shouldn't. While Liz's head was half-buried in her handbag, he rolled it out like a red carpet: 'Roy, did you have a Maltese Terrier?'

'I did! You kids dumped your mother's blue eye shadow all over her. It took weeks to wash out. I'm amazed you remember.'

'I don't. Liz does though.'

Finding her keys, Liz threw them at Pete. 'Open the passenger door and unlock mine from the inside.'

Pete lowered himself into the car.

'It was nice to meet you, Roy,' Liz said, trying the door handle. Still locked. 'Thanks for coming to Helen's funeral.' She bent down and glared at Pete through the window. Open the bloody door.

'I'd like to come to the graveside service,' Roy said just as Pete unlocked the door.

Liz stood upright. A breeze danced across her bare arms. Her skin responded with goose-bumps.

Roy showed her his palms. 'I understand that it's only family at the cemetery, but it would mean so much to me to be there.'

'Um,' Liz said, hoping her reluctance would inspire a withdrawal of the request. She watched him blink back at her. With each blink, a memory was unlocked. Tiny memories with soft edges. Breaking with his gaze, she slid carefully into the driver's seat.

'Jump in the back,' she said to Pete.

Roy folded himself into the Toyota. Liz thought he looked like a bent tree.

He grinned at the dashboard. Pete and Liz watched. The engine idled.

'This was your father's car, wasn't it?' He didn't wait for the answer. 'Helen told me he gave it to you. She said you drive like a villain.'

'Only when she was in the car with me,' she said.

'She said you'd say that.'

Liz shifted the car into gear, annoyed at her mother again. Helen was the knower of all Liz's remarks.

'How well did you know Helen anyway?' Pete asked.

'It's not what you think.' He raised his left arm and pointed to the gold wedding band. 'I was married throughout our friendship. My wife only died last year.' He looked at his hands now, chipped and gnarled like old wood. 'Helen was a good friend to both of us.'

They drove on in silence.

Like a little army of white-lipped old ladies waiting in ambush, the sisterhood stood at the gate of the cemetery. Even the wind dared not shift a single hair on their heads.

Getting out of the car, Roy lifted a long bony hand to them. The gesture went unnoticed.

Rose's silver heels sparkled as she marched towards the graveside with Dolly and May close behind her. Only Rita hesitated. A sharp bark from Rose and she quickly fell in line.

'Could I have your arm, dear,' Roy asked. 'I'm not as steady on my feet as I used to be.'

Liz offered her arm and guided the old man to the graveside. When they arrived the coffin was resting over the grave.

Liz closed her eyes. The final phase of the funeral had begun. How quickly they had come to this point. Only days before she'd been anticipating this moment, pre-marking it as the end of the 'Helen chapter'. In her mind she'd seen herself walk way from the grave, knowing she would not return to it.

A cooling breeze danced across her face; a stand of she-oaks nearby shuddered and whistled with the wind, giving her a sense of nostalgia. Roy's grip tightened around her arm and she felt him shudder too. She opened her eyes and felt a hole open up inside her. A Helen-shaped hole. If it wasn't for the unsteady old man at her side she would have stepped away from the grave.

Roy trembled as tears ran unrepressed through the gullies in his face. She sensed in him a grief that was greater than this moment. Grief made larger by the fact that his wife had died only twelve months ago.

Her stomach ached now and she shook her head. Disbelief. Just for a moment she could not comprehend what they were doing here. A confusion of images flashed through her mind: of balled fists and red-faced anger, disapproval and bitterness. Then, laughter and romps through the back yard. Unpleasant memories superimposed over nice ones.

As she watched Helen's casket descend into the grave, she surrendered to grief. She would allow herself this moment to cry. On the other side of the grave, four sisters watched too. No one spoke, no one moved. They had buried their parents, a brother, babies, husbands and friends in graveyards just like this, with the same pokerfaced expressions. Comfort was a luxury for the delicate. Not so long ago Helen stood with them, the fifth line of defence in a fortification against vulnerability, where conformity was rewarded by lenience and humanity was pitied.

By the time the coffin was in the ground, Pete was headed for the gate with a lit cigarette. Roy and Liz left the four sisters by the grave.

'Elizabeth,' Rose called. Soft now. Uneasy.

Liz stopped. She did not turn. The voice was an anchor with a limitless cable. This was where certainty met the unknown. If she shook the cable, would it simply sway or slough off? Once cast adrift, could she steer alone?

'I have to drive Roy home, Aunty Rose. I'll see you at Aunty Rita's.'

'Will you come to our wake, Liz?' Roy asked once in the car. 'I have photos that I'd like you to see. And I'd like you to meet some of the others. It might change the way you feel about your mother. It might help you understand.'

Could it be as simple as all that? Could photos and a few anecdotes replace years of memories that wouldn't sleep? Could they relieve anxieties shaped in childhood, like they were just bad habits? Could it change the imprint Helen left on her children or erase the bitterness that she cultivated?

'With each step you fall forward a little,' Roy said thoughtfully, 'but unless you only have one leg, you usually catch yourself before you fall flat on your face,' Roy said.

'What?' Liz said. She laughed in spite of herself.

'Put one foot in front of the other and trust that it will catch you before you fall.'

They watched Roy descend the stairs and disappear into the open door of the first floor unit. Pete leaned over the passenger seat. The stink and effects of the rum had worn off now.

'Wow,' he said voice low. 'Helen's really dead.'

'Yeah,' Liz said. 'What do you think about this Florence Nightingale crap?'

'I don't know. But I think that no one grows up aspiring to be malicious. Even Genghis Khan was a nice guy once.'

'When he was five and no one was watching.'

'Well, there are people in there who claim they knew her. I'd like to know what they think. I want to know what changed her.'

Liz thought back to the graveyard and the four sisters. The change in Helen was not a sudden thing; it grew in her over time, spurred on by the seductive forces of kinship. Inclusion. It was no catalytic moment that embittered her, but a number of events. It happened to each of her sisters too. Misfortune gatecrashed every happy moment. Every misfortune brought unconscious depreciation of self.

'Coming?' Pete's voice broke through her thoughts.

She pretended to stare at the road. 'I just need a minute.'

Without needing to see him she knew his face was contorting into a frown.

The click of the car door. 'I'll see you later.'

She adjusted the rear-view mirror so she could see her reflection. The face of Helen stared back -- Helen's eyes as dark as coal, Helen's high cheek bones, her pouting lips. Lines had begun to form on her forehead, just like they had on Helen's at her age. That face could fit easily into the foursome. It might even be comfortable there; at the very least familiar. It could spend its days pouting and scowling and complaining with Rose, Dolly, May and Rita; following their mandate of unpleasantness and indulging in contempt.

Throwing the car in park, she pulled the keys out of the ignition and stepped out of the grid.

~:RATE THIS:~ Did you enjoy reading this?
Amazing! Enjoyable Ok		Ho-hum Very ordinary Disappointing