About a year after they returned, they was married in a small ceremony on the wooded banks of the river a few k’ downstream. Iggy’s mother had flown over for the occasion as the family representative, and the owner of the backpacker’s hostel acted as his groomsman and witness. In the interest of fairness and not to draw attention to Iggy’s small attaché, Olive only had immediate family and two close friends present. The ceremony and reception were both simple affairs, more akin to a family dinner party than the weddings everyone was used to. There was love, and that was all that mattered.
Iggy was a quiet fellow, introspective, and sometimes came across as rude or arrogant for being so, but it could more be explained more by the language barrier and his inherent shyness than anything else. Still, the first impression of an aloof stranger often rang louder than Olive’s assurances and explanations. Still, they were happy together, and that carries more weight than any other factor.
They stayed in the old Monroe house for a couple of years while they scrimped and saved and slowly started to put the frame of a two-story wooden house up in a quiet corner of the farm on the backside of the hill behind a clump of jarrah and
By now my brother, co-conspirator and sharer of secrets was most certainly entering his twilight years. His tight focus and intense thought were giving way to confused answers and unknowingly asking the same question repeatedly throughout conversations. It was quite clear that the light illuminating his brain had started to dim. As his descent continued he started muddling names, faces, generations and dates, despite the best explanations and doting encouragements of his wife. Throughout this time Sarah stayed tight and strong. She scampered about the place just as she had done for her whole life, organising meals, company, visits into town, white hair streaming behind like wisps of high cloud on a summers day.
In the end, Albert’s condition got so bad that Sarah, despite even her best efforts, could afford him the care that he so obviously needed. However she was dead-set against being separated from him, and despite being urged by her family to move with him into town, she wouldn’t have her steadfast sensibilities upset. She preferred the idea and the practicality of staying on the farm and having a nurse come by every few days to check up on her husbands progress.
And so she was there, in bed by his side, when his lungs finally forgot how to breathe. She lay there a while, just the two of them, cradling him as if rocking him to sleep. She closed her eyes and anointed him with her tears.
Once more the funeral blacks were pulled out of the wardrobes and a pall descended. They followed the hearse to the Anglican church in town, where the bulk of the district had descended to pay their last respects to my brother, this man who had not only led the transformation of the agriculture industry in the region, but been a friend and champion to everybody he met, a great man. People were crammed into the old wooden pews, stood lining the walls, spilling into the foyer and even out the door. The windows were opened despite the cold so that everybody could hear what was going on inside.
Eulogies were read, and then the microphone was opened up to anybody who wanted to pay their respects. Creased and leathery faces lined up, and one by one they recounted fond anecdotes of times spent together. Old and grown men wept openly and publicly.
Once officialities had concluded, everyone processed to the town hall, where as a mark of respect the Farmer’s Federation and RSL had set up and organised the wake to honour their fallen comrade. There, the tributes continued to flow well into the night and morning, while the family returned to their houses and Sarah to her own cold bed.
A couple of days later the remnants of the family returned to town to collect the ashes of my brother. Sarah held the small clay lump to her chest the whole car ride home. They sat down to a humble lunch of cold cuts and remnants of roast vegetables salvaged from the wake, before walking together down to the edge of the lake where, according to his wishes, he was scattered into the wind and water, his spirit returned to the earth he loved.
An open invitation stood for Sarah to move in with Phillip and Beth, and after repeat invites and badgering she finally did a few months after Albert’s death. She was tired of being alone, tired of cooking for one, and while there was no replacing her husband she finally realised that there was no sense in trying to do so. She would simply have to adjust to this new life, single yet not free.
She moved all her necessary furniture, bedding, mementos, photographs and trophies around the lake to Philip and Beth’s and set up camp in the back corner bedroom out of the way. She did her best not to intrude or make a nuisance of herself, and with time settled into a new routine of cooking, cleaning and scrapbooking. She also made sure she kept up to speed with all the local news, and continually harassed the editor of the local paper with stern letters regarding the local politics. She also took it upon herself to take charge of the local gardeners association, organising seminars and workshops and visits from prominent horticulturalists. She found a multitude of ways to distract herself from her sorrow, but the ghost of her husband travelled with her wherever she went, always there, always beloved.
Sarah lived in this manner for another 10 or so years before she too finally succumbed to the inevitability of life. Right until the end she was the matriarch, the arbiter of order and justice. And on the day they scattered her remains amongst the reeds where Albert had been freed they stood together and cried. I bowed my head and agreed that yes, she was loved.
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